Selected Sinners MC (Boxed Set) - Scott Hildreth

THE SELECTED SINNERS SEVEN BOOK SERIES: Making the Cut Taking the Heat Otis HUNG EX-CON Money Shot Hard Corps and, HARD (Book One of the Filthy Fuckers MC)

MAKING THE CUT S. D. Hildreth



DEDICATION When I was a child of roughly eight years old and living in San Diego, I saw my first motorcycle gang (back then they were called gangs). We were entering the freeway, and as we merged, a thunderous roar from behind the car caught my attention. I spun around and looked. Motorcycle after motorcycle passed us as we sped up to get on the freeway. After literally dozens of bikers blew past us, I sat in awe; staring at what would later become my first love…. “What was that?” I asked. “Hell’s Angels,” my father responded. “What? Hell’s what?” “Hell’s Angels. It’s a biker gang,” he said over his shoulder. And, at that moment, I knew one day I would have to find out what it was all about. This book is dedicated to the one percent. The Outlaw.



AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.



COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. MAKING THE CUT 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Covert art by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth



AVERY I turned to the side and peered over my shoulder. No two mirrors ever gave the same reflection. Some provided an accurate likeness; like the really expensive ones in the mall or the one in my doctor’s office. Others, including the ones in college bathrooms, didn’t. I ran my hand along my stomach until it came in contact with the bottom of my bra. I have no tits. I twisted my hips as I bent at my waist a little, pointing my butt slightly toward the mirror. My ass looked flat and similar to the hipster boys who wore the neon colored pants in my Psych class. I looked like a sixteen-year-old boy; one who was almost six feet tall. The only problem was the fact I was a twenty-two-year-old woman. Yeah, she’s got no tits and no ass, but she’s got a really cool personality, I think you should meet her… “These mirrors suck. Hurry up,” I said. Sloan’s voice echoed through the empty bathroom. “I know, they make me look fat.” I glanced at my reflection, wondering if they truly were the mirrors which added five pounds. If so, what did I really look like? I stood and stared blankly into the mirror wishing I could see myself through the eyes of an honest person. Well, an honest person with perfect eyesight. Frustrated, I pulled a section of paper from the towel dispenser and wadded it into a ball. I glanced at the trash can on the opposite end of the row of sinks. It was easily fifteen feet away. I bit my lower lip slightly and tossed the ball of paper toward the opening. It landed against the leading edge of the can and fell inside. Yes! I pulled another foot-long piece of paper from the dispenser and wadded it up in my hands. As I lifted my right hand to my shoulder, the door opened. A girl wearing sweats, sneakers, and a loose fitting Henley smiled as she made eye contact with me. As she tossed her book bag beside the sink, I forced a smile and clenched the paper in my hand as if embarrassed. “Hey,” she said as she turned toward the stall. Holy shit, I wish I had your boobs. I tilted my head her direction. “Hey.” As she stepped into the stall, I studied her body. Her butt was small but perfectly rounded. She looked like a hippie version of a Victoria’s Secret model. She was further proof God had a sense of humor, and I was the joke of this century.

Butterbody. She’s got a really pretty face, butterbody looks like a fucking boy. “I’m never eating at that gross Thai place again,” Sloan huffed as she emerged from the stall. My fist still clenched, I stood and stared blankly at the floor as she washed her hands. As I considered the cost of butt implants and what I may receive for my first real tax return, I grabbed my book bag and followed her to the door. While she opened the door and held it for me to pass through, I turned around, pressed my non-existent butt against the door, and raised my right hand into the air. “Come on, we’re going to be late,” she complained. The trash can was at least twenty-five feet away. “For the championship,” I said. “No freaking way,” she muttered. I tossed the ball of paper into the air and immediately swung my hips to the right, opening the door for Sloan to witness the feat of accomplishment. A masterpiece of a toss, I watched as the brown blur reached its apex and began to fall toward the receptacle. Magically, the paper disappeared into the center of the can. Satisfied, I released the door and followed Sloan into the hall. “I can’t freaking wait to see the Fifty Shades movie,” she said as we hurried down the hallway. As I adjusted the book bag on my shoulders and attempted to catch up to her, I rolled my eyes. I didn’t care about some ridiculous movie about billionaires and airplanes. Red rooms of pain and laters baby weren’t for me. I dreamed of a real bad-boy. One I couldn’t introduce to my parents. I wanted the type of man they couldn’t make a movie about. Not unless it was rated X. Finding one who liked smart-assed skinny girls would be the trick.



AXTON Otis looked over his shoulder as he reached into the refrigerator. “A hundred is a hell of a lot to get gathered up in the next three weeks, Slice.” I glanced up from my notes and pressed my hands into the edge of the table as I flexed my forearms. I knew I didn’t need to flex on Otis, but it had become habit when someone questioned me. Throwing my size around was second nature, and I was a rather intimidating son-of-a-bitch to most people, Otis included. As he twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and tossed it into the trash, I began to stand from my seat. “Well, that’s what they asked for and I sure as fuck can’t change it. So, what’s your recommendation, Otis? Give ‘em fifty? Seventy? Fuck that. We’ll look like a bunch of incompetent twats. Get a hundred of ‘em found. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you have to run an ad on Craigslist that says AK-47’s wanted: will pay top dollar, find a hundred of ‘em and get ‘em in here,” I said as I tapped my finger on the notepad sharply. “In three weeks?” he asked as he sat down across from me. I nodded my head and lowered myself into my chair. “Yep.” “God damn, Slice, that’s a huge order. We ain’t got any AK’s right now. Jesus. I’ll get Hollywood on it, we’ll see how it goes.” He paused as he raised the bottle to his lips. I shook my head from side-to-side. “No, we won’t see. Not on this deal, you’ll make it happen. Corndog gets out in six weeks. And these guys are serious players. They’re Sureños. More specifically, if I even need to say it, a bunch of ‘em are from Calle 18, mostly from Los Angeles. These motherfuckers are all about respect. They’re not an MC, but they operate under the same principles and they even have fucking bylaws. If you’re in the gang and fuck something up, they don’t shun your ass, they kill you. If we do this deal and it goes as planned, we’ll be set with these bastards for good. If we don’t, Corndog loses his credibility in the joint. Hell, they’ll probably kill him. These sons of bitches don’t fuck around. They’ll cut a motherfucker’s head off just for principal. Hell, I’ll do about anything to some prick if I don’t like him, but cut off a head? Yeah, I’m thinkin’ not.” He pressed his beer bottle onto the table, lowered his head, and peered over the top in my direction. “You mean those MS-13 motherfuckers? This is who you’re talking about?” I nodded my head, shrugged, and grinned. “That’s them. The notorious MS-13. You know those poor motherfuckers started down in Salvador or somewhere. The fucking cops don’t even fuck with ‘em, they just let ‘em run dope. Poor sons of bitches don’t have any money down there, so they turned to dope. Now, they’re the entire reason we can’t go to Mexico and drink coconut flavored drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em on the fucking beach. Well, not if you’re white anyway. They’re cutting off heads of their own people in the street. Fuck that, I’ll stick around in the good old US of A.” He stood from the table and faced the door. After a short pause, he turned to face me and pressed

the web of his hands into his hips. “For fuck’s sake, Axton. I hate this shit. We make a good damned sum of money selling guns to everyone else who buys ‘em from us. And those MS-13 fuckers are some crazy assed Mexicans. They’ll kill an entire family just to prove a point. Do we really need to do this?” I stood, cleared my throat, and spoke with a tone of authority. “We may not need to for money, and we sure as fuck don’t need to for credibility, but we’re gonna do this for Corndog. Did you forget what he’s done for us? For the fucking club? Huh Otis? And since when was it your fucking place to question me?” He stood silently, narrowed his gaze, and slowly raised his hands to his face. It was a habit he’d had since he was in his early teens when we first became friends. If he was getting ready to agree to something he didn’t naturally agree with, or when he was preparing to make a move, he always raised his hands to his face first. As he encompassed his temples in his palms I smiled, knowing if I had him on board mentally, this deal was in the bag. Otis was a rather large man by anyone’s standards, and outside of a one-on-one meeting with me, he didn’t take shit from anyone. Our club was large enough that we had small cliques within it of fella’s that ran together, but Otis sided with no one except me. He stood alone and he stood tall. At 6’-7” and 275 pounds of muscle, he wasn’t someone to argue with. If Otis said to do something, the men never questioned him, they simply moved in the direction he pointed. His size alone was one reason he was the club’s Sergeant at Arms. Well, that and the fact he was as mean as a fucking snake. Keeping order in the club and protecting or defending the members was as easy as breathing for Otis. “I didn’t forget, and I wasn’t questioning you, Slice. I was thinking. Fuckin’ Mexicans? And MS13? Son-of-a-bitch. Yeah, I’ll get Hollywood on it. I’ll have a hundred AK’s in two weeks, and that’ll give you some wiggling room. Hell, even if we’ve got to steal ‘em, I’ll have ‘em in time,” he said as he lowered his hands and pulled his chair from the table. As I heard the door hinge creaking, I immediately stood from my chair and faced the doorway. As it slowly swung open, I saw Cash standing in the narrow opening between the door and the frame. “Hey Otis, I got a question,” he said. “Does that fucking door have a sign on it that says come on in?” I growled. Cash shifted his gaze from Otis to me. “Sorry, Slice. I needed to ask…” You stupid little cocksucker. Before he finished speaking, I interrupted him, “I asked you a fucking question, Prospect. Does that God damned door have a sign on it that says come on in?” Cash slowly shook his head from side to side. “God damn it, Prospect,” Otis said as he began to stand. I extended my arm and raised my hand in Otis’ direction to silence him from continuing. A

Prospect needed to understand we had rules in place for a reason, and they need to be followed at all times. If he couldn’t follow orders during a simple twelve-month initiation, he damned sure couldn’t be trusted to stand up for the club and its brethren under any and all circumstances afterward. “Hold up, Otis. I asked this simple minded little prick a question. Now answer me,” I barked. “No, it doesn’t have a come on in sign, Slice,” Cash responded. I shrugged my shoulders and continued to stare in his direction. “But it does have a sign on it, doesn’t it?” He closed the door momentarily and slowly pushed it open again. As he opened the door, he peered around the wooden frame toward where I stood. “Yes, Slice. It sure does.” I inhaled a long breath and raised one eyebrow. “Tell me what it says.” “Knock before entering,” Cash said softly. “Big red and white motherfucker, gets your fucking attention kinda like a God damned stop sign, huh? Being big and red with huge white letters and all?” I asked in a sarcastic tone. He nodded his head. “It’s pretty fucking hard to miss, unless you’re a stupid fucker or blind. And you know what? I ain’t lookin’ to add any dumb asses or cripples to this club. You’re never gonna make it, kid. Now fucking knock,” I growled. The door closed. Three sharp taps immediately echoed into the room. “Go the fuck away, we’re in a closed door meeting,” I shouted as I sat down. As his steps faded down the hallway, I turned toward Otis and shrugged. He had vouched for Cash, who grew up with a bike between his legs, and was a friend of Otis’ family. I called him a kid, but he wasn’t young. He was thirty years old and an auto mechanic, having him around would bring some benefit to the club, but everyone had to pay their respects and prove themselves through twelve months of being a Prospect. Cash certainly had his shortcomings, and not knowing when to keep his fucking mouth shut was one of them. I was often able to see what others couldn’t, and although everyone seemed to warm up to him quickly, to me he seemed weak. Maybe that’s why I was in charge. “I know you vouched for that little prick, but the kid’s got diarrhea of the jaw. I don’t trust his little ass any further than I can toss him,” I said as I turned around to face Otis. “I know you don’t. He’s got six more months, though. He’s still learning the ropes,” Otis explained as he lifted his beer bottle.

I shrugged my shoulders. “He’s thirty fucking years old, Otis. He acts like an immature kid.” “And another thing about something you said a minute ago, right before shit-for-brains interrupted us. Joking or not, I need to make this clear, you’re not stealing any guns, we straight on this?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Yep.” Six-years prior, Corndog had purchased fifty Beretta 9mm pistols. Unbeknownst to him at the time, they were stolen. After selling a few of them, a customer decided to use one in a murder. Local law enforcement traced the firearm back to Corndog, and questioned him on the sale of the weapon and the location of the remaining stolen weapons. He didn’t budge. He lied, stating he found them on the side of the road. Had he provided the information to law enforcement regarding where he obtained them, he could have walked away without so much as a slap on the hand. The club’s exposure on the crime was nil. The asshole who sold him the weapons was the one who stole them, and he was the person the cops wanted. Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have given the thief up and walked free. Not Corndog. In fact, he refused to tell anyone in the club who sold them to him. He looked at it as something he needed to take care of himself. I always believed after he was prosecuted and sent to prison, he’d say something to one of the members, but after four and a half years, he stood firm on his promise to resolve it himself. Corndog was an old school biker, with old school biker values. In his opinion, he made a mistake by buying the weapons and not knowing they were stolen. He felt as if he had jeopardized the safety and integrity of the club by being under investigation. In his mind, this was something he needed to resolve on his own, and after settling it, he’d without a doubt walk back into the clubhouse as if nothing ever happened. Many of the newer members could learn a lot from him in matters of protecting the club. Now in prison and almost done with his five-year sentence, he had made a deal with a Mexican prison gang to supply guns to their outsiders on the street. Small groups of Mexican gangs had cropped up in the Midwest since the latter 1990’s, and most originated from southern California. Drugs were the primary focus of these gangs, and they didn’t interfere with our ability to do what we needed to do, so we allowed the drug traffic to proceed without any issues. Most MC’s in this day and age made the decision not to mess with drugs; as the risk is far too great. If caught and convicted, a kilo of cocaine under the RICO act would provide every member of the MC a thirty-year sentence. This was damned sure a chance the Selected Sinners Motorcycle Club wasn’t willing to take. Not on my watch. Our club chose the Midwest due to the soft state gun laws. Our first chapter developed just south of Wichita, Kansas. The second chapter formed in Oklahoma City five years later. Three years after that, a chapter in Austin, Texas followed. We were of the opinion as long as our focus was legal firearms, prosecution would be by state officials, and not federal. Federal crimes and MC’s didn’t mesh well, and typically a member of a MC would have the RICO act punishment tacked onto his sentence if he committed a federal crime. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, or RICO as the Feds called it, was developed to thwart organized crime. A criminal didn’t have to do anything extra to get the

additional time on his prison sentence, all he had to do was be in a gang and commit a federal crime. The Feds considered an MC a gang. We knew as long as the crime committed wasn’t a federal offence, we’d never have to worry about the Feds knocking on our door. A state crime for firearms was typically a twenty-four to sixty-month sentence in prison. A federal crime with the RICO act attached was typically ten times that amount. So, in the Midwest we had become an extremely powerful presence. Semi-automatic assault weapons, high capacity pistols, and riot shotguns were our focus. Machineguns, silencers, short barreled weapons, and sawed off shotguns were federally governed, so we stayed away from them. Keeping up on the federal and state gun laws was my job. Having the local cops on our side didn’t hurt matters, and we strived to keep the club out of legal trouble with our gun business. Staying out of jail in general was next to impossible, but outlaw motorcycle clubs weren’t known for abiding by the law. The Selected Sinners were no exception. “If I’m going to get this order filled in two weeks, I better find Hollywood. Got anything else?” Otis asked as he tossed his bottle in the trash. I pointed toward the trash can and pulled against the rubber band wrapped around my left wrist. As I released it, snapping it into my wrist, I spoke. “Take that stinkin’ motherfucker to the shop. I don’t want to smell it. And that’s all I got, Otis.” He shook his head and leaned over the trash can. As he pulled the empty bottle from the trash he turned to face me and rolled his eyes. Slowly he began to saunter toward the door. Otis did everything slow and easy until it was time to throw down in a fight, and then everything turned to lightning speed. I always imagined him saving his energy for such occasions. To watch him leisurely make his way through the day was almost exhausting. “Better yet, smack that Prospect upside the head with it first. Maybe you’ll knock some sense into his stupid ass,” I said with a laugh. “Cut him some slack, Slice. He’s a good kid,” Otis said as he reached for the door handle with his free hand “He may be a good kid, but I have my doubts that he’ll make a good Sinner,” I responded as I looked up at our motto posted on the wall. The Devil Looks After His Own. “We’ll see,” Otis said as he walked through the door. “Damned sure will,” I huffed. Damned sure will.



AXTON Our club was located in a town twenty miles south of Wichita. We’d chosen the particular town because it was close to the action of the larger city, and easier for us to conduct business without constant scrutiny from local law enforcement. Winfield was small at 13,000 people, but a fifteen-minute ride from the largest city in the state, boasting 375,000 people. We did our best to toe the line in the city, and the local law enforcement looked upon us as a blessing instead of a curse. Frank Downtain was the city’s Chief of Police, and he had two underlings to assist him in watching over the city. Winfield wasn’t as adventurous as other large cities, but having the club operate from there was easy. Truly a step back in time, living in Winfield was almost as if we were in the 1950’s. Frank was in his mid-forties, overweight, and underpaid. As with most small town cops, lining his pockets with a little money went a long way. As soon as we arrived in the city, filtering money Frank’s way began, and it hadn’t stopped. Having been in the city almost ten years, we’d developed a relationship allowing him to do his job, and us to do ours. We made every effort to keep our actions civil in the small town, and he looked the other direction if we ever needed him to. To keep matters palatable to both parties, we attempted to minimize our exposure to criminal activity under Frank’s watch. For ten years, everything worked well. From time-to-time, Frank had the club resolve issues he couldn’t iron out under the limit of the law. It came as no surprise, and provided support of my belief that laws are meant to be broken every time we were asked to assist him in something he wasn’t able to do under the watchful eye of the City Attorney or the State Court. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Frank and I shared a booth in the local Mexican restaurant. The only two patrons in the restaurant, we had the luxury of speaking freely. We often chose the establishment for mid-afternoon meetings for the privacy alone. I shoved another forkful of Chile Pork Verde into my mouth, chewed it slowly while I stared at Frank, and as soon as I swallowed, began to speak. “Fuck, Frank. Child pornography is a federal crime. Why not call in the Feds?” I asked. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and waited for him to respond. After looking over both shoulders, he leaned into the table as much as his beer belly would allow him to. After shuffling his elbows into place and raising his hands to his chin, he looked up. Still somewhat concerned about his little issue with a local photo collector, I fished in my bowl for another piece of elusive pork.

“Alright. I’ll tell you the whole story,” he whispered. I lifted the empty fork from my bowl, rolled my eyes at the lack of pork, and grinned. “Wouldn’t expect otherwise, Frank. Hell, you and I been doin’ this for a bit, haven’t we?” He nodded his head. “I know, but it’s embarrassing. It makes me look incompetent and inexperienced. It’s fucking paperwork. This was going to be a good bust. Someone turned scumbag in, and we investigated it in-house. I could have called the Feds, but I don’t like those guys any more than you do. The Feds are a bunch of arrogant pricks. You know they always stick their badges in your face and tell you they’re on the scene and head back to the station like you’re some dip-shit and don’t know anything. Personally, I have no use for them. I just wish this would have gone smoother,” he paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. As he rubbed his face, I nodded my head once in agreement. “Let’s hear it.” He closed his eyes, and after a moment’s thought, opened them and began to speak softly. “A middle school kid told his mother he’d been going to this guy’s house for a few years posing for pictures. He said the guy told him if he ever spoke of it, he’d cut his dick off and supposedly he gave this kid a schedule to follow to return to his place for...well…you know, blowjobs. And the other kids supported these statements. So this poor kid is scared to death. You know how little kids want to please adults and they look up to them? Well, that part makes my skin crawl. That this son-of-a-bitch used the fact he was an adult to manipulate the kid. So, scared to death and wanting to make the man happy that he was doing what the sick fucker wanted him to, the kid did it for years under the fear of being dismembered. Finally, he reached an age that he began to wonder and feel guilty. The shame and guilt as he got older made him come to his mother for help.” He hesitated and swallowed heavily. I dropped my fork onto my plate and pushed my bowl to the center of the table. I felt my blood begin to boil. I reached under the table and stretched the rubber band until it almost snapped. As he began to speak again, I released it; snapping it into my wrist. Snap! “So, she came to us and we investigated. We held an awareness class at the school. Kids came forth and gave this guy up. Hell, it was almost a perfect investigation. Too damned good to be true is what it was. We typed up the search warrant, and raided his place. On his computer, we uhhm. On his computer, we found. We uhhm.” As he struggled to find the words to finish his sentence, his voice began to falter. I raised my hand and turned my palm toward him. “I’ve heard enough.” “Axton, you asked. Let me finish the story. I need to say it and you need to hear it anyway. So…” He paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. As he sat quietly, he reached toward his eyes with his pinkie fingers and attempted to wipe tears from his cheeks. Being a cop in a city the size of Winfield, Frank would probably see a case like this one

only once. But that was one time too many. After he regained his composure he wiped his eyes again and inhaled a deep breath. “Fuck, this is tougher than I thought; saying it and all. He uhhm. He had videos and pictures, Axton. A lot of them, hell they dated back for years and years. What looked like seven and eight-year-old kids sucking on his, you know…sucking on his dick while he told them how they were doing such a good job. He would ejaculate on their faces and make some of them swallow it. Sharpe puked when he saw it. I tried to hold myself together, being the Chief and all, but I just lost it. Broke down and started crying right as we watched it. I fucked this deal up, Axton, and I need some help.” It was all I could do to keep from standing up and knocking all the shit off the table. Generally a reasonable man when it came to keeping my anger at bay, this was far more than I was able to contain. I wanted the address of the pedophile, and I wanted to skin the son-of-a-bitch alive. I sat up straight in my seat and raised my hand. As Frank stared at my hand, his lip quivered. I reached into my cut and pulled out the small notepad I carried with me. I scribbled a note onto the page. I slid the open note pad to Frank’s side of the table as I held it in my hand. Get me the information on where the fuck this motherfucker is. And I mean it this time, Frank. I’ve heard enough. I’m about to snap. As he read the note, I began to speak, in complete contrast to what I had written. “Well, you know the club could help you find this guy, but we damned sure can’t do anything beyond that.” I trusted Frank as much as a biker could trust a cop, but I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t dumb enough to get caught up in some conspiracy to commit murder charge, and if I spoke of the things he was asking of me, it would be all too easy for him - or someone else - to record the conversation and use it against me or the club later. To provide me a little false comfort, I always used my notepad to discuss matters which were contrary to the law. Frank inhaled a deep breath and exhaled loudly as he lowered his hands to the table. “We made a mistake on the search warrant, Axton. And now the computer, everything – all the fruits of the search warrant – they’re gone. Basically we can’t use any of it. Everything else on this guy is clean. All we really had was the computer and three kids who were willing to testify. Now all we have is the testimony, and the parents are second guessing having the children testify now.” The thought of someone doing such shit to a helpless kid made me feel sick. The pedophile probably selected Winfield for his home because it was small and lacked competent law enforcement, under the belief the small town kids would never say a word to anyone, and he could continue to take advantage of them for as long as he wanted. I turned my head and stared out the window. “That’s a damned shame, Frank. Sounds like a hell of a mess. I feel for those parents and kids.” I stared outside for a long moment. As I turned from the window to face Frank, I scribbled onto the

notepad and held it under his nose. Consider it done. I’ll take care of it myself. Son-of-a-bitch, Frank. Fucking hell, and in this town, what the fuck, huh? Frank reached into his shirt pocket and removed a pen. As he spoke, he scribbled onto the pad. “I know. It makes me sick. Hell, I have kids,” he said as he continued to write. After he finished scribbling, I slid the notepad to my side of the table and looked down at what he had written. If this guy disappears, no one will give a shit. And hell, anyone could have done it. I’ll write it up as a missing person, and leave it at that. He doesn’t have any family, so who cares, right? Growing angrier by the second, I clenched my jaw, reached toward my wrist and pulled the rubber band back. After I released it, snapping it into my wrist sharply, I stretched it tight again and released it. Snap! I looked down at the red welt growing on the inside of my wrist. “Well, I don’t have kids, but I’m a compassionate man. That’s a damn shame, Frank. Maybe a parent will get to him and make him pay, hell who knows.” I picked my pen up from the table and wrote under the note Frank had written. I turned the pad to face Frank. Get me the information. I’ll need a day or so to figure it out, and we’ll get it taken care of. I’ll make it clean and as simple as I can. As he nodded his head, I slipped the pen and notepad into my cut. “Now I have a story for you,” I said. “What is it?” he asked. “It’s not a big deal, really shouldn’t matter. I’m just trying to be respectful to ya, Frank.” He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and lowered them onto the top of his stomach. “Okay, what have you got?” “We’re making a deal with a Mexican gang. They’re not an MC, but a gang. I have no idea if it’ll take place here or in Wichita, but it’ll be in about a week or so. If they come here, we’ll have ‘em at the clubhouse for a night. Shouldn’t be any problem, and they ought to be respectful, coming to our town and all.” I paused and considered what might realistically happen. My experience with Mexican gangs was nil, and I had no idea what they planned to do regarding

the delivery of the weapons. We preferred they come to us to pick them up, saving transportation and potential confiscation if stopped by the police. They may have planned on simply sending a man to pick up the weapons. Or, they might plan on coming to Winfield and having a celebration, a fucking fiesta of some sort. As Frank narrowed his gaze and leaned forward, I waited for his response. “That’s it?” he asked. I nodded my head. “I’ll keep you posted. Should be an in and out deal, and it’ll be legitimate. But you know, if a town local sees a gang of cholos rolling into town, they might give you a call.” He leaned into his seat and cleared his throat. “Yeah, you do that. Keep me posted.” “Will do,” I said as I reached for my wallet. Frank shook his head. “I’ll get the tip.” “You sure?” I asked. He nodded his head. I chuckled as I stood from my seat. “Well, I’ve got an ongoing criminal enterprise I need to look after.” He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table and looked up. “And I’ve got to go set up a speed trap.” I looked over my shoulder and grinned. “Utter hell, ain’t it?” “Sometimes,” he responded. As I began to think of the piece of child molesting shit I was going to rid the city of, I realized nowhere or no one was immune from what the bowels of society had to offer. Society sees a man like me, wearing my cut covered in miscellaneous patches I’ve earned over the years, and they typically categorize me as scum. I had no doubt whenever the local child molester went to get groceries he was met by the girl at the checkout counter with a smile. As I threw my leg over the rear fender and dropped down onto the seat of my bike, I grinned. I couldn’t recall the last time someone smiled at me. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.



AVERY The tattooed asshole behind me had reminded me no less than half a dozen times he wanted a Rum and Coke. As empty as the bar was, he could easily see I was taking the order of two nice gentlemen who sat at the end of the bar and ordered bottles of beer. I reached into the cooler for the beers and simultaneously pulled the opener from the back pocket of my jeans. “Rum and Coke. Coming right up,” I hollered over my shoulder. I opened two Budweiser’s, slid them along the side of the bar, and nodded my head toward the two gentlemen who had ordered them. They appeared to be brothers at minimum; potentially twins. Magically, the two bottles slid to a stop directly in front of them. I clenched my fist, pumped it forward slightly and pulled it toward my hip sharply. Yes! Doing my job and doing it well satisfied me to no end. I loved sliding shit along the bar and having it land where I planned. Dumb little things seemed to provide me the satisfaction I needed to convince myself I was doing a good job. My competitive nature probably fueled the need for measuring my success, but I desperately needed to know I was succeeding at whatever it was I decided to attempt. Without having a goal and reaching it, I’d go completely insane. Rum and Coke, behind me. I reached for the rum with one hand and a glass with the other. After scooping the glass through the ice bin, I poured a long shot into the glass and shot a splash of coke on top. “There you go, Rum and Coke,” I said as I handed the man standing at the bar behind me his drink. Blonde haired guy at the end of the bar. He had a… Gin and Tonic. I turned toward the opposite end of the bar, pointed toward the blonde man, and grinned. “You alright on that Gin and Tonic?” He mouthed the words, I’m good as he nodded his head, raised his half-full glass, and smiled. I smiled in return, reached for the bar towel, and began wiping down the end of the bar. I scanned the bar. A typical Tuesday night, slow as fuck. Six people certainly weren’t many to try and keep happy. “You didn’t measure the shot,” a voice from behind me said flatly.

I turned around. Mr. Rum and Coke stood at the bar with his glass held at chest height. It appeared he hadn’t so much as tasted the drink. I made note of a faint tattoo on his neck I hadn’t seen before. It looked like some serious garage work or maybe something he got in prison. It looked like someone had taken a ballpoint pen and scribbled over a word they didn’t want anyone to read. Nice tattoo, douchebag. “Nope, sure didn’t. You know why?” I snapped. He shrugged. I smiled and began to wipe down the bar which separated us. “If I’d have measured it, you’d have about half the Rum I gave you. Taste it. And I’ll be sure to measure your next one, how’s that?” He raised the glass and tipped it to his mouth. After a small sip, his eyes closed and he shook his head. “Damn, that’s a Rum and Coke,” he said as he raised his glass. I smiled, winked, and lifted the towel from the bar. “I’ll measure the next one.” Working at a bar as a college senior was far more entertaining than anything else I had ever done for work. I had grown up in the small town of Marietta, Ohio, and a volleyball scholarship brought me to Kansas to attend college at Southwestern College in Winfield. Winfield was a shitty little town which reminded me too much of Marietta, so I opted to find a job twenty-five miles north, in the city of Wichita. Roughly half a million people provided a reasonably diverse group of patrons for the bar, and while I worked there I was learning a lot about dealing with people. The bar was small, and seated fifty-two people according to the card the Fire Marshall required we post above the door. A long bar with a return on each end seated twelve total; five high tops, and five booths at four apiece provided the seating. I controlled the music selection, and generally listened to indie rock on Pandora. No juke box, and no dancing, just great drinks and salty bar food. A cook and a dishwasher got off work at midnight, and I worked until two am. Weekends added a second employee, who worked as a waitress and bartender. My guess was that some small town girls would naturally be drawn to other small towns, but having grown up in a town of 14,000 people caused me to yearn for more. Living in a small town, to me, seemed counterproductive. I needed significant change in my surroundings to feel as if I had succeeded. A big city was drastically different from what I was used to growing up, and change was something I saw as an improvement. My overly religious Baptist parents would rather have me living in a cave, but given the ability to make my own decisions, I’d probably move to Wichita when I graduated. A few more weeks, and I would be on my own. I couldn’t wait. My best friend and roommate Sloan was on the volleyball team, a senior, and would graduate with me. We’d talked about being roommates after college, and if things went the way we had planned we would both move to Wichita and live together; easing the financial burden of trying to live alone. She worked with me at the bar mostly on the weekends, and we were a force to reckon with. She at a little more than six feet tall and me at 5’-11”, together we looked like two Amazon women. Men either had a love for tall women, or seemed to hate them. I always thought men were intimidated by my height, but none would ever admit it. Sloan was a

little more conservative than I was, but she provided me balance and acted as the angel on the opposite shoulder of my naturally active devil. My strict parents attempted to raise me as a conservative girl who abided by the rules and regulations they shoved down my throat. It obviously backfired, because I was a little more adventurous than any of the other girls I met in college. Taking risks and having fun was part of my nature. Having Sloan keep me in check was something I probably needed. Without her, I’d make far shittier decisions without a doubt. “I’m headed home, Avery. Thanks. What did I have, I can’t remember?” Ryan asked. I turned toward the register and pressed my finger against the screen. After jockeying through the various screens and finding his order, I pressed the total button. After the receipt belched out the bottom, I looked down at the total. “Let’s see, you had two Jack and Coke’s and a grilled chicken with fries, Ryan. Looks like twentythree bucks with tax,” I said as I printed the ticket and handed it to him. “Well, here’s thirty. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he tossed the money on the counter. I nodded my head, smiled, and waved as I scooped up the money and receipt. Ryan was a regular at the bar, and always ordered Jack and Coke. He was overly nice, but had never hit on me or even said anything alluding to the fact he was interested in me. I always respected him for that, because he was married and had children. Although he had indicated his dissatisfaction with his marriage, he made clear he had no intention of cheating on her. He did, however, come into the bar almost nightly to unwind before he went home. To me, men were a strange guilty pleasure, and never a necessity. I wanted a man, but my desire, as far as men went, was different than almost anyone I had ever met. If a man asked me out on a date, I wasn’t interested. I wanted a challenge, and if someone was willing to take me on a date without any work on my end, I wasn’t interested. I wanted what I couldn’t have. I desired a man who wouldn’t give me the time of day naturally; or at least at first, and I wanted to earn my way into his mind, heart, and life. If a man appeared to be a challenge, I wanted to try my luck at impossibility; and through my cunning ways, good looks, and competitive nature win him over. For my first three years at Southwestern, a professor was on my to-do list. He was in his late thirties, single, and handsome as fuck. He had no idea I was even alive. I dressed provocatively, ditched the bra, and bent over a thousand times in front of him. I tried the naïve schoolgirl act, the innocent religious girl, the I’m an old soul routine, and even sat popping my gum as I twisted my hair in my index finger for countless hours as I batted my eyelashes at him. I got absolutely nothing in return. After my third year of beating my head against the wall, I learned he was gay. Overall, I considered it a win, because he wasn’t technically available. It continued to bother me, as not having him wasn’t an easy loss for me. I even considered trying to make him go straight, but Sloan

talked some sense into me. She was right, there was no way I could win that battle. “Hey, motherfucker, watch where you’re walking…” I turned to face the voice I heard behind me. Mr. Rum and Coke. At the end of the bar a hallway led to the restrooms. Two men stood at the opening of the hallway. Apparently Rum and Coke had collided with one of the Budweiser twins, and was challenging him on his ability to find the way to his barstool without bumping into him. One thing I didn’t stand for on my shift was fighting. My parents worried about me being a bartender at a bar in a city the size of Wichita, and especially working alone. I didn’t really worry about it at all. I wasn’t big enough to fight men, but I certainly wasn’t afraid to break up a fight. Additionally, I had a false sense of security. Immediately after taking the job as a bartender, I applied for a concealed weapons permit, took the course, and obtained one. Now, I carried a 9mm Glock in my purse, and I wasn’t afraid to use it if I needed to. Using it to settle a dispute in the bar was out of the question, but I made me feel more secure. Ultimately, if I ever needed it, I had it as an option. “You bumped into me,” the Budweiser twin responded. Rum and Coke arched his back and clenched his fist. As he blinked his eyes and stared, probably attempting to clear his mind enough to speak legibly, the second twin slipped off the edge of the stool and stepped beside his double. “Oh, you gonna get your buddy to jump in, huh? Well, I tell you what,” Rum and Coke howled. He unclenched his fist and reached for his back pocket. You motherfucker, don’t you dare. As I stepped toward the end of the bar, and my purse, he pulled a knife from his pocket and began swinging it toward the two men. “What the fuck!” the first twin screeched. The second twin began stepping backward, away from Rum and Coke. As he slowly stepped rearward, his brother followed, and the knife wielding tattooed idiot was right behind them. I reached for my purse, and rested my hand on the Glock. “Put the knife up, sir,” I hollered over the bar. Rum and Coke glanced my direction and immediately turned back to face the two men.

“You fucking bumped me on purpose, you big dumb fuck. Do you know who I am? I’ll fuck you up,” he growled. I’m sure you were a bad ass in county jail, but seriously? You’re a douche. “Sir, put the knife up, come on. Drinks are on the house. Just put up the knife,” I said calmly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gin and Tonic and my Hamburger and water come up to the side of the bar to watch the fight. Fucking people. “Listen. I’m going to guess, and this is just a wild assed guess, that you’re on parole or probation. Put the knife in your pocket and leave, your drink is on me. If you don’t, I’m going to call the cops. They’ll be here in about sixty seconds; the sub-station is all of half a mile from here. You don’t want the cops in here questioning you, do you?” He gazed in my direction and alternated glances between me and the Budweiser twins. To be honest, I had grown to have minimal respect for cops. Every time I turned around, there was one on the television who had shot someone or choked someone to death for no real reason. Because I’m a cop and it’s within my rights, in my opinion didn’t make it right. Protect and Serve wasn’t necessarily the motto anymore. Although he didn’t need to know it, the last thing I wanted was a bar full of cops. “Fucking bitch,” he grunted as he folded the knife and pushed it into his pocket. Fucking bitch who makes a bad-ass Rum and Coke, thank you. “Pussies,” he hissed as he walked past the twins. Yes! Another win for Avery. As he grumbled to himself and stepped toward the rear exit, I sighed and released my pistol. I wouldn’t have shot him for being in a bar fight, but the gun gave me a little more courage than normal. I smiled at the twins, and shrugged my shoulders. As I raised my hand in the air in my own little imaginary victory pose, I swung the bar towel in a circle and shouted a celebration of sorts for having ended the little disagreement without any bloodshed. “This round, gentlemen, is on the house!” Okay, that’s two Budweiser’s, a Gin and Tonic, and a glass of water. Wichita was a far cry from the quiet town of Marietta, Ohio, but overall I loved it. The wilder the better I have always said.

And, for the most part, I meant it.



AXTON I slammed the gavel onto the sound block three times. After dozen or so meetings during the club’s inception which had gotten out of hand, the block had been screwed to the table at the end where my seat was positioned. “I’m calling this meeting to order. Mr. Secretary, have you got anything noteworthy?” I asked. Fancy flipped through his notepad and traced his finger along the page. “In the last meeting, Kelp made a motion to allow the trade of the old Sporty abandoned years ago in the back lot to the hardware store for Christmas trees, and provide the Christmas trees to the Toys for Tots kids at the ride this fall. It was left that we were unsure as to the value, and whether or not we had legal right to the little Sporty. I checked with the Treasurer, and we had already filed the paperwork for the mechanic’s lien against the Sporty, and it is legally ours to sell or trade. We have the title in the safe. The Treasurer further informed me the value of the bike is roughly $2,200.00. I have my doubts it’ll be worth that much, but $2,200.00 was his response.” “Second thing, I can’t read my fuckin’ meeting minutes, and my memory is shit, so who stood opposed to making the Fayetteville ride mandatory?” Jeb raised his hand. “I did.” “Gotcha. Just needed to make note of it. Hell, I couldn’t read my own writing. That’s all I got,” Fancy said. “Treasurer, where do we stand?” I asked. “About the same as last time, Slice. $7,402.20 in the club checking, $5,405.00 in the club savings, and $112,500.00 give or take in the safe. We have nothing due out at this point in time,” Mike responded. “Give or take? What the fuck does that mean? How much is in the fucking safe, Mike?” I asked. “Close as I can tell Slice, we got a hundred and twelve grand. It’s all banded in $1,000.00 bundles. Then there’s five hundred loose. So, $112,500.00. But I didn’t take time to count all the money in the bands, but there’s a hundred and twelve of ‘em,” Mike said. I nodded my head. “Good enough.” During Church, when I spoke, everyone was attentive. Not once could I recall being interrupted or disrespected in any manner. Our meetings were conducted in as professional of a manner as a Motorcycle Club could expect, and how I was personally treated in the meetings was second to none. I had my doubts, however, as to my being able to maintain order while the particular subject up for discussion was being brought to light. I decided to talk fast and pause for comments or remarks after I was finished speaking. “Alright, listen up fellas. We got us a little situation. I know I don’t normally get involved in

matters like this, but for this one, I’m going to. I had a meeting with Frank, and he’s got a little deal that needs taken care of. I ain’t lookin’ to go into a bunch of detail on this, because the whole thing makes me sick, but here we go.” I paused and stood from my seat. “There’s a child molester in town and he’s been making little kids suck his cock; little grade school kids. He made videos of this shit. Cops raided his place on a fucked up search warrant. Bottom line? He’s free and they can’t charge him. They got all the proof, but they can’t use it in court. Frank’s asked us to take care of this guy. I need probably three volunteers. So, it’ll be me and three others. Who will it be?” I hesitated and reached for the rubber band without thinking. Snap! The entire room erupted. Every swingin’ dick in the meeting was screaming and hollering me, me, me. I shook my head and reached toward the table. Before I got the hammer in my hand, Otis screamed. “Order, God damn it,” he hollered. The room fell close to silent. “Order!” Otis screamed. Silence. I turned to face Otis and shook my head. “Jesus. I need to get a bike repossessed and I can’t get one motherfucker to volunteer. Got us a ChoMo to kill and every cocksucker here raises his hand and screams like a fucking kindergartner. Now fuck, there are thirty-two of you fuckers. I need four total, and one of them is gonna be me. Now how we gonna decide this?” “I think we ought to draw straws, Slice. Cut twenty-seven of them the same, and five shorties. The shorties win,” Tater responded. I raised my hands in the air in frustration. “Well?” “I make a motion we draw straws,” Tater growled. “Second,” someone screamed. “Who seconded it?” Fancy asked. “Toad,” Toad screamed from the back of the room. “All in favor?” “Aye,” echoed from around the room. “Opposed?”

Silence. I pressed my hands into my hips and raised my eyebrows. “Only problem I see is this. We ain’t got any fucking straws.” Following a reasonable amount of groaning and grumbling, Fancy spoke. “I can cut up a few sheets of paper.” “Well, get to cuttin’ it,” I said. After a few minutes of dicking around, Fancy produced a hat with wads of paper in it. I looked at him and shook my head in disbelief. As I accepted the hat, I raised it to shoulder height and inhaled a slow breath. “Listen up. Everyone take one of Fancy’s wads of fucking paper from the hat. The three short,” I said. I paused and turned to face Fancy. He nodded his head. I turned to face the fellas. “The three short pieces get to go. Everyone else, I appreciate your willingness, but this is how we’re doing it,” I explained. As soon as Fancy passed the hat around the room, everyone began to compare paper strips. It would stand to reason Fancy would have made the short lengths of paper significantly shorter than the rest, but he didn’t. Leave it up to the Secretary to cut a half inch off of an eleven-inch strip of paper. After ten minutes of comparison, Otis, Tater, and Toad were the winners. I couldn’t have picked a better crew if I had selected them myself. “Alright, Otis, Toad, and Tater are the winners of this fiasco. You three stay after Church, and we’ll discuss details. Now, rides. Saturday’s ride is mandatory just in case any of you forgot. We’ll meet here at seven in the morning, and head out to Wichita at eight. First bike out is at nine. That’ll give us plenty of time. After the ride, maybe we’ll hit a few bars. Any new business need discussed?” Otis looked around the room, and turned to face me. “I got one thing, Slice.” “Well, let’s hear it,” I grumbled. Otis widened his eyes and began to speak. “Pete’s Ol’ Lady came in here the other day, and was turned away. He didn’t say anything to me, but I’ve heard some shit talking floating around about how I treated her when I escorted her off the lot. Seems Pete ain’t lookin’ to take it up with me, so maybe a refresher of the bylaws are in order. What do ya think?” After placing emphasis on Pete’s Ol’ Lady, Otis’ voice quieted to a normal gravely tone. It was apparent he wanted to call Pete out in front of the fellas, but it wasn’t necessary for him to do so. It was my job. I scanned the room and crossed my arms in front of my chest as I made eye contact with Pete. Forty years old and an ex-con, Pete looked the part of a white supremacist. Tall and muscular, his head

was clean shaven and littered with tattoos. Although his head was shaved, he had twelve inches of beard that hung from his chin, making him appear to be more at home on the yard in prison than in the free world. As our eyes locked, I clenched my jaw and flexed my biceps. “God damn, fellas. We’ve got the bylaws posted up here on the wall for a fucking reason. I know there ain’t one of you motherfuckers able to remember them all, so I posted ‘em up here for you to make reference to. Now Pete, you see the bylaws up on the wall?” “Yep,” he grunted. “See the part at the very bottom of the board on the right marked Ol’ Ladies?” I asked as I turned around to face the bylaws. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Read it to me if you will,” I said. “All of it, Slice?” he grumbled. “All of it,” I nodded as I turned to face him. My position on Ol’ Ladies wasn’t shared by the rest of the club. I believed if the club wanted members to have Ol’ Ladies, they’d have one sewn onto the front of their cut when they became patched in. In my opinion, Ol’ Ladies were a pain in the ass and a risk to the welfare of club. I hadn’t had an Ol’ Lady since high school, and the chance of that ever changing was absolutely impossible. Every problem man has on this earth begins and ends with women. Pete stared up at the bylaws and drew a slow breath. After a momentary study of the board, he pulled against his beard and began to read. “Ol' Ladies. One, don't fuck around with another member’s Ol' Lady. Two, Ol’ Lady Property Of patches will be voted on by all eligible members of the club. One hundred percent vote or she doesn’t wear it. Sidenote: as Property Of patches are optional, be sure before you touch some chick who isn’t wearing a patch. Three, members are responsible for their Ol' Lady. Four, members may have more than one Ol ' Lady. Five, member must state who his Ol' Lady is. Six, no, your Ol’ Lady isn’t allowed in the meetings. Seven, club business is club business. Do not discuss club business with Ol’ Ladies. Eight.” He paused and exhaled. After inhaling a short breath, he ran his fingers though the twelve inches of scruffy beard dangling over his chest and read the last rule. “Eight, Ol' Ladies are allowed unescorted at the clubhouse only by prior arrangement by their Ol’ Man. Arrangement can only be made by placing an “X” beside your name on the board. No exceptions.” “Damn fine job, Pete. Now, let me ask you something. You see your name on the membership board behind me?” I asked. “Yep,” Pete grunted.

I didn’t bother to turn around and look. I knew we wouldn’t be having this conversation if he had an “X” by his name. “Is there an “X” by your name, Pete?” I asked sarcastically. Seeming somewhat aggravated, Pete rubbed his bald head with the palms of his hands. “No, Slice, there sure as fuck ain’t.” “So, was Otis out of line when he escorted your Ol’ Lady off the premises?” I asked as I flexed my biceps again. “Slice, it wasn’t that he escorted her off, it was how he did it. He took her by the arm to the gate, and when she bitched, he told her to get the fuck off the property or he’d kick her ass,” Pete complained. I uncrossed my arms and raised my right hand to my chin. “Well, Pete. If you didn’t put a fucking “X” by your name, Otis was of the opinion you didn’t want your Ol’ Lady in here. Otis’ job is to protect the members of this here club, and protect us he damned sure does. Keepin’ some nosy assed Ol’ Lady out of this clubhouse is the Sergeant at Arm’s fucking job, and Otis is the Sergeant at Arm’s. If you don’t want her here, Otis doesn’t want her here. And, if Otis doesn’t want her here, and she won’t leave, I’d expect Otis to knock her fucking teeth out if he needed to; to protect the club and all. Now, let me have a look up on the board, and see if you want your Ol’ Lady here.” I turned slowly toward the board behind me which listed all of the officers and full patched members. Pete’s name, as he had stated, did not have an “X” beside it in the Ol’ Lady Allowed column. I stared at the board and shrugged. “Nope, Pete. It says up on the board you don’t want her in here.” I turned toward Otis and smiled. “Good lookin’ out, Otis. Next time she gets mouthy, if Pete hasn’t put an “X” on the board by his name, bust out a tooth or two. Maybe she’ll get the hint.” I leaned over and placed my hands on the edge of the table. “Any old business?” Silence. “Otis, Tater, and Toad stick around. Other than that, meeting adjourned,” I barked as I tapped the gavel on the sound block. After the room cleared out, the four of us sat down at the table. The remaining members either went into the shop, hung around drinking beer in the parking lot, or rode off to who knows where. As the three members sat and stared at the walls, I interrupted the silence with the morbid truth about what we were facing. “Alright, listen up. This fucker, from what I could gather, weighs about three-fifty. And this ain’t some random assed guess, he actually weighs three fifty. So it ain’t gonna be easy to toss this motherfucker around once he’s dead. My problem is this. Frank said he had videos of this ChoMo son-ofa-bitch making those poor kids swallow his load. Hell, he was shootin’ cum on their faces and videoing the shit.” I paused and clenched my jaw.

“That motherfucker, I can take care of this on my own, Slice. Seriously, tell me where this motherfucker is,” Otis growled. “No, God damn it. I know you don’t like this shit any more than I do, but that’s what I’m trying to get at, Otis. This prick is a tub of shit, and we’re gonna have to move his fat ass around after he’s dead. The point I was gonna make is this,” I said. “I want to torture this prick. I want him to know why we got him, and realize what a fucking nuisance he was before we kill his big fat ass. The only place I can think of where we can do it is where the highway south of town turns and goes up toward Wichita. You know, where Highway 77 meets K-15. There’s a river west of 77, by the railroad tracks.” “Where we go shooting?” Otis asked. “You got it. Now, here’s the deal. I want to make this fat piece of shit pay for what he did to these kids first then we’ll get rid of his ass. But to haul him off, we’re gonna have to cut him in pieces He’s too God damned fat to move in one chunk. And, just to be safe, we’ll need to cut the fat prick’s head and hands off. If we get rid of his head and hands, they won’t be able to prove who he is. I figure we’ll bring ‘em back to town and pour ‘em into some concrete. We’ll toss his head and hands in the Winfield Lake. That place ain’t dried up in fifty years. And if we don’t weigh ‘em down, they’ll eventually float. We can toss his body, arms, and legs to Stacey’s hogs. They’ll eat the bones and all,” I said. Otis shrugged his shoulders. “Why cut off his head and hands? Seems like we’re takin’ risks we don’t need to take, Slice.” I realized chopping up a person made the crime of murder a little more personal, but it was an evil necessity. Eliminating the hands and teeth left little means of identifying a body, short of DNA. With no family, DNA matching would be difficult. Dental records and fingerprints were still the only methods of identifying a body, especially in a city Winfield’s size. “Well Otis, if we get rid of his fingerprints and teeth, they won’t be able to identify this fat fucker. As much as I want to get rid of this prick, I ain’t really lookin’ to get caught, if you know what I mean. So, we cut off his head and hands, sneak ‘em back here, and put ‘em in a five-gallon bucket. We fill the bucket with concrete, and it’ll sink to the bottom of the lake. That’ll end that.” “Yeah, makes sense. I wasn’t following ya at first. Sounds good, Slice,” Otis said with a nod. To me, this was something I simply needed to take care of. I had no ill feelings about ridding the earth of a child molester. It didn’t necessarily mean the other members would immediately sign on to cut a man into pieces and haul his body parts around the county to three or four respective places. Although I knew Otis wouldn’t mind, I needed to see the reaction of the other men. As I gazed across the table toward Tater and Toad, I was pleased by their reaction. “I got an old shitty old chain saw we can use to cut him up. We can toss it in the lake with his head and hands. And we can use my truck to haul his ass in,” Tater said. “What color is the truck?” I asked. “Brown, why?” Tater responded.

“Well, I wasn’t looking to try and sneak around in the dark if it was fucking white, Tater,” I said. He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s dark brown. It’d pass for black in the dark.” Tater had been with the club five or so years, and was a man who had spent a lifetime riding a motorcycle. As a younger man, he had done two short bits in prison for robbery and arson. Never quite conforming to what society expected of him, he had spent his life feeling like an outcast. After losing his wife to cancer at forty-five years old, he decided the only family he needed was the brotherhood of the MC. He was as devoted to the club as any man would ever be to his family, and often volunteered to do things others wouldn’t dream of. Toad also had roughly five years with the club. The only thing that kept him from joining earlier was his commitment to the Marine Corps, and the completion of his final tour. He had been around for years as a Hang Around, and we all believed as soon as he completed his military commitments, he’d become a Prospect. Having spent almost a decade in Iraq and Afghanistan, he was not new to killing or death. A younger man of roughly thirty years old, he was quiet and mostly kept to himself until asked to participate. Once asked, he was always committed; probably much more than most. Toad was as good of a man as would ever grace this earth. As he sat with his chin slightly resting against his clenched fist and staring at the table, I began to become slightly concerned about what his thoughts might be. “You good, Toad?” I asked. He slowly looked up from the table and raised his hands to the head of closely cropped Marine hair he kept maintained in a military perfect manner. “When I joined the Marines I took an oath, Slice. Against all enemies, foreign and domestic and it didn’t have an expiration date. So, killing this fat fucker?” He stood from his chair and rubbed his hands against the thighs of his worn baggy jeans. “Little kids, Slice. The dude fucked with helpless little kids. He forced helpless seven year old’s or however old they were to suck his dick while he made movies of it. Those kids? Yeah, they’ll be fucked up for life. They didn’t have a choice; this prick intervened with their path, he fucked with their life; he altered it. They say God works in mysterious ways? I suppose it all depends on how you wanna perceive it or whatever, but check this out; God didn’t fuck with those kids, the devil did. That fat prick is Lucifer himself. God is getting ready to administer his justice. The judgment day is now.” He pressed his index finger into the top of the table. As he stared into my eyes, he continued, “He’ll pay for his fuckin’ sins when we show up. I got paid by Uncle Sam himself to kill Hajis. You know, I never stopped any of ‘em to ask ‘em what they believed in or if they’d actually done anything wrong. I just shot ‘em. This dude? I know what he did. So yeah, to answer your question, I’ll be fine, but I’ll say this…” With his finger pounding into the top of the table as if he hoped to crush through it, Toad clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. “Killing him isn’t punishment enough.” He lifted his hand from the table and shook his head. As he began to pace back and forth, I decided to end the meeting. There was no real value in continuing to hash out details. Toad seemed to be

more than ready, and I had no doubts about the other two men. “Well, no sense in spending all night going over this. Tater, make sure the lights and turn signals work on the truck. Brake lights, running lights, everything. Make sure all the belts and hoses are in good shape, and it’s full of gas. I don’t want to break down five miles south of town with three hundred pounds of ChoMo in the bed. I figure we’ll go in the middle of the night, just bust into his place and Tase him. Then we’ll just carry his fat ass out and load him up in Tater’s truck. We’ll go over the rest of the details tomorrow. Is everyone good with doing this tomorrow night?” I asked. The three men nodded their heads. “I’m sayin’ it for the sake of sayin’, but you know the rules. No colors in cages, so leave your cuts at home, fellas.” As Otis and Tater stood from their seats and walked toward Toad, I felt proud to call the three men my brothers. It wasn’t common to find men who would volunteer to do such things, but in a 1%er Motorcycle Club it was basically second nature for the men to support the club at any cost. The brotherhood of the members was much more like having a family than having an actual family. It’s always tough for an outsider to understand, but these fellas were my family, my life, and my brothers. They were all I had, and damned sure all I needed. I’d give my life to save any one of my brothers, and I know they’d do the same for me. That’s why an Outlaw Motorcycle Club doesn’t let men walk in, sign a sheet of paper, and join. The Prospect initiation period separates the men from the boys, and requires a one hundred percent vote. If the entire club doesn’t agree the Prospect is an acceptable member, he’s turned away. My life is in the hands of my brothers, and theirs is in mine. I wouldn’t have it any other way. As the three men spoke amongst themselves and filtered toward the door, I looked up at the membership board. Beside Pete’s name, a big black “X” was plastered under the Ol’ Lady Allowed slot. I smiled to myself, knowing my name would never have an “X” beside it, to do so would be to admit I was weak and incapable of surviving on my own. I damned sure didn’t nor would I ever need a woman to help me get through life. To me, being in a relationship with a woman was similar to having a rattlesnake for a pet. At first it may be entertaining and something cool to show off to your friends, but in the end you realize the danger associated with ownership. Eventually you must get rid of it, because if you play the odds, sooner or later you’ll be bit. I flipped the light switch and pulled the door closed. Tomorrow night would be here soon enough, and I still needed to decide exactly what it was I wanted to do with this fat prick. As I sauntered toward my bike, I chuckled at the thought of going home and watching American Psycho or a few episodes of Dexter to get ideas. I flipped the ignition on and pushed the start button and the V-Twin spun into a mellow roar. As the bike warmed up, I decided I didn’t need Cable T.V. shows or a movie to give me ideas. It was an eighty-degree spring night, a nice relaxing ride home should clear my mind.

And, as I’ve always said, if you free the mind, your ass will follow. Worrying about the welfare of their children was the last thing I wanted a parent to be concerned about. Not under the watch of the Selected Sinners. Not where my club was present. The children are our future, and protecting them from harm was something I felt obligated to do. A parent shouldn’t have to worry about their kid being safe from harm in small town USA, hell in any town for that matter. I had all the desire I needed to help make our city a safer place for the children to play, and I intended to do so. Ridding this town of a child molester wouldn’t require a plan; it would be fueled by passion. If I was nothing else, I was a passionate man about what it was I believed in.



AVERY “Did you try any of these while we were in there?” Sloan asked as she shifted her body so she was standing sideways in front of the mirror. She turned her head and glanced at the reflection of her perfectly curvaceous body. Her small waist, flat stomach, round butt, and overly large boobs made her look like a big black haired Barbie doll. I, on the other hand, looked like a boy with a nice ass and a pretty face. “No, they’re stupid. Skinny sweats. What the fuck is a skinny sweat?” I laughed. “Does my ass look fat in them?” she asked as she twisted her body back and forth. “In those? Your ass looks like your ass. It’s like you painted it grey and put some little black speckeldy shit in the paint,” I said as I sat up on the bed. “Does it look fat?” she asked as she slapped her hand against it and raised one eyebrow. I stared at her ass as she looked at herself in the mirror. I wanted to look more like her. Her body was bangin’ ass hot. I glanced up at her face. Well, I’d take some parts of her body, but not those ratty assed eyebrows. She really needed to do something with those things. They looked like caterpillars. “Sloan, you’re not fat. But those sweats look like shit. They’re too tight. You know how I like my sweats, I like ‘em loose, it makes me feel skinny. I can’t believe Victoria’s Secret is selling shit like that.” I shook my head at the sight of the sweats glued to her skin like tights. She turned to face me, pressed her hands to her hips, and scowled. “So my ass looks fat in them?” I chuckled a light laugh. “Your ass isn’t fat. Ever. It looks like you’re naked. And grey. But if it’ll make you take those nasty fuckers off, yeah, your ass looks fat.” ”What about this bra? Does it really lift my boobs? Do they look big? Is it worth $60.00?” she asked as she pressed her arms against the sides of her boobs. “Look big?” I shook my head and coughed as I began to laugh. I was a little more than cheated while standing in line for boobs, but Sloan looked like she got whatever they failed to give me and a little more just because. She was not big or even thick as the guys liked to call girls. She was just tall. Tall with very large boobs and a nice round butt I secretly wished I had. Well, maybe not all of her butt, but half of it. If there was one area she had a little extra, it would be the perfectly rounded butt of hers. “Well?” she asked as she continued to squeeze her boobs together with her upper arms.

God I wish I had boobs like those. As they burst out the top of her new Bombshell Add 2 Cups bra, I couldn’t help myself. “You know, you really didn’t need to add two cup sizes, Sloan, I mean seriously. Your boobs were huge already. Now they’re ridiculous. Are you seriously going to wear that thing?” She turned her head my direction and gave me the stink eye. “Yeah, I was going to wear it Saturday night.” Perfect. I sat up in the bed and tossed my legs over the side, “Perfect, another night of me waiting in the car while you bang some dude in the parking lot.” “I don’t bang dudes in the parking lot. I wish you’d quit freaking saying that,” she said as she twisted her hips in front of the mirror. “Well, whatever. Come on, get dressed. Let’s go out and do something,” I said. “What do you want to do?” she asked as she lowered her arms and released her boobs. Sloan and I, although best friends, differed in our desires for leisure activities. When we were out of school or off work, she liked to do nothing. I, on the other hand, preferred to stay busy doing anything. Anything but nothing. Winfield wasn’t much of a town, but there was always something we could do. “Well, it’s not that late, let’s go to Hot Shotz,” I said. “That bar is stupid. You know I hate going there. It’s Wednesday, we should just hang out, we’ve got school tomorrow,” she complained. The thought of staying home wasn’t very appealing. It was five o’clock and early spring. The weather was a gorgeous 75 degrees, and I didn’t want to be confined in my 600 square foot apartment any more than I had to be. When I stayed home, I felt as if I was invisible. Other than Sloan, there was really no form of human contact for me. In the last year, since I expressed my intent of staying in Kansas and moving to Wichita, my parents had all but stopped talking to me. My mother was nothing short of impossible at times. It was as if she felt a useful means of punishment was telling me she was disappointed in me. As a young girl, her disappointments caused me to strive to improve. After a lifetime of her expressed disappointments, I learned she would always be disappointed in me. Or at least she indicated she was, whether it was true or not I would never know. No differently than the boy who cried wolf, her complaints began to have less and less validity each time I heard them. I learned to roll my eyes each time she sent me a text message stating she was disappointed. I often wondered if her continued expression of disappointment was what provoked me to be as competitive as I was. If possibly it caused me to be the way I was about men. In recent years, I had begun to believe my mother’s hatred toward every decision I made which didn’t include coming back to Ohio and being an active participant in her Baptist church formed me into the challenge seeking woman I had

become. My major in Criminal Justice was another thing she seemed to always take exception to. When I chose the career path, she said maybe I would grow up and change my mind. For my first year in college, she often asked what credits were transferrable to other majors. The same eye roll and I don’t know mother followed each time. Now almost complete with my major, she took time to tell me each time we spoke that she was disappointed in my choice, and asked what I expected to do for a career. I really had no idea what I wanted to do for a career, but my original belief of being a law enforcement officer soon vanished. After a few years of studies, I realized I wasn’t as interested in the law enforcement side of things as I was the criminal or the criminal activity. Criminals fascinated me. Attempting to figure out the intricacies of their thoughts and how or why they did the things they did was beyond any other form of entertainment I could find. I walked behind Sloan and looked into the mirror. “Let’s go to the park and just relax before it gets dark. We can get some sun.” “Bum park? Yeah, you don’t want sun. You’ll want to talk to the bums hanging out there. I think that’s gross the way you’re always asking them questions. They’re gross. No, not interested,” she hissed. “They’re fun to talk to, I feel sorry for them,” I responded. She turned to face me and wrinkled her nose. “They’re gross. One day one of them is going to knock you down and rob you or something. I swear, the way you talk to those people, it’s nasty.” “She twisted sideways and stared into the mirror as she raised her hand to her stomach. “Let’s go eat pizza.” “Sounds good. It’s better than sitting here.” “I’m going to wear this and see if anyone notices,” she said as she reached down to pick up her flats. I rolled my eyes at the thought of her boobs being bigger than normal. As I glanced in the mirror at my B-cup, I silently wondered if my lack of boobs was one of the reasons I wasn’t more successful at picking up Mr. Nelson. “You ready?” she asked. No, I need a boob job. I glanced in her direction and turned to face the mirror. After inhaling a deep breath and exhaling a very audible sigh, I responded. “I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”





AXTON I’ve had a few occasions in my life where I ended up in a situation I wasn’t sure I would ever get myself out of. I’ve had yet other situations where I participated in something willfully I later wished I had the common sense to walk away from. Sometimes promising to do something and actually doing it when the time came were two very different things altogether. But, as any good man would agree, if I gave my word on something, you could count on me to follow through. Committing to place myself in a situation that later turned out to be a terrible idea made me feel as if sometimes I was all too eager to volunteer in the first place. Carefully selecting the events I wanted to participate in seemed to be at least a little more common now that I had a few years under my belt. As an old timer in the club, my participation in criminal acts was carefully chosen, and this particular event was proving to provide me great satisfaction. “What did I do? I don’t understand what’s going on,” the fat fucker blubbered. “You sick piece of shit. Shut the fuck up. Say one more God damned word, and I’ll cut off your fucking cock and feed it to you,” Toad shouted as he wedged himself between us. Duct taped to the tree and exhausted from being Tased repeatedly during the ten-mile trip to the river, the fat child molester cried and blubbered, but he didn’t speak. A second meeting with Frank provided me enough information to allow me to assure myself what we were doing was all for the right reasons. I stepped between Toad and the molester. “Listen up. I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer me. You need to think really hard before you lie to me, tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about, or deny any involvement whatsoever. If you do any of those things, this is going to get really bloody really quick. If you understand me, a simple yes or no will be fucking fine. Do you understand me?” He continued to cry and slobber, and finally blubbered an almost inaudible yes. It was all I could do to make eye contact with him. The more I looked at him, the more I wanted to just get this over with and just kill him. But, I needed him to admit it first. I got about two feet from him and stared into his eyes. Tears ran down his face as I inhaled a slow breath. “Alright. I need you to tell me the name of the little boy you molested who had bright red hair. It was pretty recent. All I need is the first name.” “Why, was he related or something?” he cried. “I’m…” “I’m sorry…” I pulled my knife, flicked it open, and shoved it into his stomach as far as I could. As I pulled it out, his eyes widened and he began to scream. I’d seen enough of my fat biker buddies stabbed that I knew

a fat fucker like him wouldn’t see any real damage from a 3” deep puncture wound to his stomach. It was more to let him know I didn’t want to have a conversation with his fat ass. I simply wanted a name. “I told you. I want a name, you fat bastard. The red-headed kid. What was his name? The next one will be in your eye,” I growled as I raised the knife to his face. “Stick his fat ass again,” Toad hollered. I raised my hand in the air. “Let him speak, Toad. Now, tell me the name.” “Timmy, his name was.” He inhaled and attempted to look down at his bleeding stomach. “Timmy.” After some thought, I decided I needed a little more information from Frank, and he provided enough for me to confirm the man we were going to kill was who they believed him to be. Timothy was the name Frank reluctantly provided me. The ChoMo providing me confirmation was all I needed to hear. As much as I wanted to make him pay for his crimes, killing him would end my suffering of looking at him. The more I thought about what he had done to the little boys, the more I wanted to rid the earth of his existence. “It’s him, ain’t it Slice? Fat fucker’s the one, ain’t he?” Toad asked as he stepped between us. “I didn’t …” fatty began. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll stick you again,” I bellowed. I wiped my knife on the fat man’s pants and folded it. I swallowed hard and nodded my head. “Yep, it’s him.” “Let me do him, Slice. I need my patch. Come on. Killin’ this fat whale ain’t shit. Let me do it,” Toad begged. “But…” fatty blubbered. I flicked my knife open and stared at the fat bastard. As he began to cry and spit, I closed my eyes and shook my head, “Hand me the tape, Otis.” Otis handed me the roll of duct tape we had used to secure him to the tree. I ripped off a twelveinch strip and pressed it over his mouth and stretched it to the sides of his fat face. After three more strips, he was muffled and as quiet as he was going to get. A skull and crossbones patch on the lower right hand side of a member’s cut indicated he had killed for the club. Otis and I had patches to confirm our participation in such situations. Tater didn’t, and at his age, asking him to do something like kill a man wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I turned toward Otis and Tater. Otis shrugged as Tater quietly stood holding the lantern. Otis swallowed hard and raised his hands to his face. “Let him get his patch, Slice. Hell, killin’

fuckers is all he’s done for the last ten years. But I’m done looking at this fucker, really.” Otis rubbed his temples with the palms of his hands. He was as ready for this to end as I was. I turned toward Toad and nodded my head. As I folded my knife closed, Toad pulled a long straight bladed knife from a sheath on his belt. “God damn, Toad,” I said as he raised the large blade in front of his chest. “Gunshot would be too risky out here in the dark. Someone might hear it,” he nodded. As the fat man began to cry and grunt through the tape, Toad stepped between the blubbering molester and me. “Shut the fuck up and listen to me,” Toad demanded. The fat prick attempted to stop crying. Between the molester’s sobbing and blowing snot out his nose, Toad spoke clearly and as if he’d actually prepared a speech for the occasion. “Now listen. This world is full of all types of men. Good ones, not so good ones, and bad ones. I believe, and I may be wrong, that I’m one of the good ones. I ain’t never hurt a man without having a damned good reason. Never. I killed some fuckers in the war, and I’d do it all over if they’d let me. So, my opinion’s this, and you ain’t gonna agree for damned sure, but I’ll tell you anyway.” Toad paused and calmly glanced at each of us before turning to face the fat man again. “God controls the good on this earth, and Satan controls the bad. In men, sometimes there’s a fight between God and the Devil to see who gets control. Sometimes good men do bad things. And sometimes bad men do good things. But what you did? That’s not Satan stepping into a man’s life and causing him to do something wrong. No sir, it’s not. You can’t be fixed. That’s my justification for what I plan to do to you. You can’t be healed. I Googled the shit, and I know. You’re four times more likely to hurt a kid again than any other criminal is to recommit any other crime. So, what I’m gonna do to you, it’ll make sure you don’t do what you did to those little boys to anyone else. And I’m gonna guess if I gave Timmy’s mom this knife, she’d do a lot more to you than I’m goin’ to.” Toad reached down, grabbed the man’s hand in his, and as he held it, sliced his wrist. After releasing his hand, he sliced the man’s other wrist the same way. After dropping his hand, he reached between the man’s legs with the knife. With a deep grunt and a tug of the blade, he sliced through the man’s pants and deeply into each of his thighs. Quickly, his pant legs began to discolor from the blood he lost. “Damn, Toad. I thought you’d cut his throat,” Otis said. “Read it on the internet. The article said it’d take up to thirty minutes from cuttin’ the wrists alone. Said maybe he’d last 5 minutes if I cut the femoral in the thighs. I’ve seen Marines die from having a femoral artery cut, even with a tourniquet. Thought this would give him a few minutes to think about what he’d done,” Toad said as he leaned over and wiped the blade on the man’s shirt. Toad was right. If a parent had seen the videos the man had taken while he abused their children, and later been handed the knife, the killing would have been far more brutal. As difficult as it was to

allow myself to believe what I watched was real, it was not something I would ever wish a parent to participate in. Without speaking, we stood and watched the man slowly die. I’d seen several stabbings, and been involved in several shootings where men had died. I had never, however, calmly stood and watched a man die. I’m thoroughly convinced each time I see a man die it takes a little piece of my own soul, bringing me that much closer to death. It must be the price we are required to pay for witnessing the final deterioration of one of God’s greatest creations; mankind. As I crossed my arms and blankly stared until he finally went completely limp, I thought of all the children and what he’d done to them. I silently wondered if God was watching as we kidnapped the man, or as Toad cut him. And, as the man bled until his last breath escaped him, I wondered if God witnessed the entire event; and if so, why he didn’t intervene. As he peacefully drew his last shallow breath, I came to a conclusion. God did witness it. And he, not unlike me, had no place in his heart for a man who sexually molested helpless children. And, God was using the Selected Sinners to do what he wasn’t able to do. Because God is forgiving. And the Sinners were not.

AVERY Saturday nights at the bar were a pain in the ass. Although I made more in tips during the night than I made the entire rest of the work week combined, at the time I’m working the shift, I always felt like I wanted to quit my job and become a librarian. Today had been a little busier than usual. A local poker run ended, and bikers filtered in and out all afternoon starting about four o’clock. As Sloan and her 2 added cups worked the dining area, I tried to keep everyone happy from behind the bar. “I’ll take another Budweiser,” the man at the end of the bar said as he raised his hand. I reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of Bud. I grabbed my opener, popped off the lid, and held it in my hand as I handed him the bottle. After he grinned and accepted the beer, I turned toward the trash can, which was roughly fifteen feet away, and tossed the lid in the air. As the lid hit the back side of the can and fell inside, I pumped my fist in victory. “Nice shot,” Budweiser bottle said from behind me.

“I know, right?” I said over my shoulder. I grabbed my bar rag and began to wipe the bar as I scanned the dining area for Sloan. She stood talking to a table of three college aged guys who were all focused on her tits as she spoke. One of them had ears the size of the palm of my hand. I rolled my eyes and grinned at the three guys as they slobbered on themselves. Add the Bud to his tab, Avery. I shook my head and turned to the register. As I added the Budweiser bottle to the man at the end of the bar’s tab, I wondered how many drinks I forgot over the course of a busy night. I’d like to think I remembered them all, but it seemed I always wondered how many I just might forget, totally. It wasn’t my liquor, and it wasn’t any money out of my pocket, but I wanted to do my job and do it well. Still staring at the register in deep thought, Sloan’s heavy whispering brought me back to reality. “Did you see the three guys sitting at number eight?” I turned around and faced Sloan, who was leaning over between two men who were sitting at the bar. Her boobs were smashed all over the place. “Yeah, I saw ‘em. I’m gonna guess they didn’t see you, though.” I said as I stepped toward the bar. She was bent over completely, now resting her chin on the bar. Although I couldn’t see them, I was sure her boobs were spread all over the bar. Surprised the men on either side of her weren’t staring at the sides of her tits, I rolled my eyes and leaned closer to her. She glanced over her shoulder toward the high top where they were seated. After a long pause of filling her eyes with their disgusting stares, she turned my direction. “Huh? What are you talking about? I talked to them for like ten minutes. The one with the blue tee shirt is hot.” “No, actually he’s not. He looks like he’s getting ready to fly somewhere with those huge assed ears. And when I looked over there, you were talking and they were staring at your tits; all three of them,” I said quietly. “Whatever. I like this shirt though,” she said as she stood up. She was wearing a Southwestern College tee shirt, and she had cut a slice in the front of it about ten inches long; from the center of the neck opening to the center of her boobs. Her new bra was working overtime to shove her boobs out the top of the oversized opening she had created. “Yeah, looks great. Looks like your new BF liked it too,” I said as I tossed my head toward the big eared weirdo. After a single finger salute, she rolled her eyes, and turned away. I loved Sloan, but I envied her a little nonetheless. And, within all of the envy, I despised her at times. She was all too eager to allow a guy to hit on her, pick her up, use her, and break another small piece of her heart. She acted like it was all a part of her plan each time a guy used her, but I knew better. No one wants to feel as if they’re being used,

and Sloan was no exception. Her frequent excuse of I just wanted some dick, I got what I wanted was sheer bullshit. As she walked into the dining area and made her rounds, I stared at her butt and wished it was mine. I turned toward the register and checked to make sure I added the Budweiser before Sloan walked up. As I swiped the screens and got to his tab, I smiled at the fact I had added it. Maybe I never forgot anything. Hell, who knows. “So, you ever date the customers?” a voice from behind me asked. I turned around to face Heineken bottle. I smiled as I pushed the bar rag into the corner of my jeans pocket. “No, I’m taken. And I’m gay. She’s my girlfriend.” I said as I nodded into the open dining area. “The girl with the uhhm.” He turned and looked over his shoulder. “The uhhm black hair?” he said as he turned around. “Yeah, the black hair and the huge tits. We’re lesbians,” is said. “That’s hot,” he said. “Uh yeah, not so much really. She’s got herpes, she’s dyslexic, and she’s a fucking vegan. Her huge tits make for some interesting times, but we’re always eating really weird shit, she never pronounces my name right, and can’t balance a checkbook for shit,” I said. “Oh fuck, seriously?” he gasped. I scrunched my nose, looked down at him, and whispered. “Yeah, and we’re roommates. I remember once the checkbook said we had $2,102.00. I went shopping. They denied my card after the second pair of jeans. Ends up we had a $122.00. It’s kind of a pain in the ass sometimes.” “Oh, yeah. I meant the herpes, that sucks,” he whispered. I shrugged my shoulders. “Not so much. Hell now that I’ve got ‘em too, at least I don’t have to worry about catching it anymore. But the itching is a motherfucker.” I bent down slightly and started rubbing my inner thigh with my left hand as I waited for him to respond. He looked like he was going to barf. As he pushed himself away from the bar, I smiled and pulled my hand from between my thighs. “I was joking. She doesn’t have herpes,” I said. “She don’t?” he said as he leaned toward the bar.

“Nope,” I responded as I shook my head lightly. “Dyslexic vegan?” he asked. I shook my head. “Nope. Actually she’s a stripper. She dances at Jezebel’s on Sunday nights. You should go see her tomorrow. Her stage name is The Portuguese Princess.” “She’s Portuguese?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Yeah, half.” As much as I tried to hold it together, I began to laugh. He sat and stared at me as if my head was on fire. Giggling at the thought of Sloan stripping, and the guys tossing dollar bills at her, I attempted to stop and apologize for bullshitting him. At least he was a pretty good sport about listening to it all. As I started to tell him I was joking about everything, I heard a thunderous roar from the parking lot, and it seemed as if the walls were vibrating. At the same time as everyone else in the bar, I turned to face the door. Immediately after the noise and vibration stopped, I turned toward Heineken bottle and blinked my eyes. “What the fuck was that, a tornado?” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Sounded like a bunch of bikes; a whole hell of a lot of ‘em.” As I noticed the front door open out of my peripheral vision, I turned toward the end of the bar. A guy who appeared to be no less than seven feet tall stood in the opening. Tanned from what I suspected was a lifetime of riding, he stood in the opening and quickly scanned the bar. As he turned and looked over his shoulder, I swallowed heavily at the sight of what appeared to be the three dozen bikes in the parking lot. Something about seeing that many bikes and bikers together was oddly exciting. The panty scorching kind of exciting. Bikers are fucking hot. “There ain’t anywhere to sit, but there’s plenty of places to stand,” he shouted into the parking lot. “I’ll take my check,” Heineken bottle said. “Ditto,” the guy beside him said. “Yeah, time to get,” Budweiser bottle whispered as he tossed a bill onto the bar. My eyes widened as the men started walking into the bar. They kept coming, and kept coming, and kept coming. All of them were wearing biker vests with patches all over them. Some had patches on the front the others didn’t. The backs of the vests all had the same logo; Selected Sinners on the top, Kansas on the bottom, with a skull and two crossed guns in the middle. The bar was beginning to look like a scene from a movie. One where the bikers walk in and everyone else stands up and leaves.

As the huge biker stood beside the door with his arms crossed, another man walked in and stepped beside him. He was tall, but not as tall as the giant. There was a certain presence about him as he stood and talked, as if he was the one everyone should be paying attention to. He had a few day’s growth of beard, and short wavy hair with slight specks of grey. Under his vest was a black sleeveless tee shirt with some writing on the front of it which was mostly obstructed by his vest. As he turned and quietly talked to the taller man, I squinted and walked to the end of the bar closest to them. Although a steady stream of bikers continued to stroll into the bar, I couldn’t shift my focus from the shorter man who was doing the talking. Now standing amongst a sea of other bikers, I had to get a closer look at him. Something about him commanded my attention. Everything about him commanded my attention. The muscles on his biceps flared as he raised his left hand to his face and spoke to the tall man. With his head turned and his mouth partially covered by his cupped hand, I looked down at his boots, and slowly up his body until I focused on his leather vest. He was the type of man a girl fantasized about but was afraid to ever admit it to anyone. A small black rectangular patch with red embroidery was over the chest of his vest. I narrowed my gaze and stared. When I finally reached the end of the bar, the writing on it was clear. President. Well, Mr. President, you’re hot as fuck. This could be one wild assed night.



AXTON Although being in a bar was part of being a biker, it wasn’t one of the things sitting high on my priority list. Being raised at the hand of an alcoholic father and never knowing my mother, I formed an opinion about alcohol early in life. I’ve heard the children of alcoholics grow up with either an affinity for alcoholic beverages or a hatred for them. As an adult, I was clearly on the side of hatred. I stood beside Otis and studied the bar, the customers, and the staff. Without much thought, I reached down and snapped the rubber band against my wrist. I pulled it tight, released it again for good measure, and turned to Otis. As we spoke, I noticed the bartender staring in our direction. You must be the firecracker. “Well, looks like they were right. Nice little joint. And Jesus H. Christ, the tall chick has the biggest titties I’ve seen in a bit,” I said as I nodded my head toward the top-heavy waitress. “How many of ‘em you think will actually show up, Axton?” Otis asked. After the poker run, a local group of riders had expressed interest in our club. They explained about a small local bar with great service, a good atmosphere, and as far as they were concerned, the joint was biker friendly. To top it off, the men described the two typical weekend waitresses as a tall thin firecracker and her even taller friend with tits the size of basketballs. The description of the women, in itself, was enough to gain the interest of everyone within earshot; and we voted to try the place out. Contrary to television shows and modern myth, 1%er motorcycle clubs don’t walk into a bar and start fighting the patrons and raping the women. The Selected Sinners, at least on my watch, made every effort to conduct themselves in a manner which would generally be perceived as respectful and within the limit of most laws. We were, however, a group of outlaw bikers; and when alcohol was added things generally got very interesting real quick. “Hard sayin’. Don’t suppose it matters, does it? Guys seemed to me to be a couple of wannabes. Hell, we needed to go somewhere anyway.” I paused and looked around the bar. I cupped my hand and raised it to my face. “It looks like the place is going to clear out anyway. Imagine that.” “Barmaid is coming to the end of the bar, Axe. Little bitch is burnin’ holes through your cut. She must be the firecracker, huh?” Otis said as he nodded toward the bar. “Being the other girl over there has tits the size of Pete’s head, I’d guess she’s the firecracker, yeah. I’ll order the first round,” I chuckled as I nodded toward the tall thin bartender. Her face was thin like a long distance runner who had spent a lifetime eating raw vegetables and tofu sandwiches. Her features were chiseled and she was an attractive young woman. Her hair was a little longer than shoulder length and light brown; about the color of a glass of tea. She sure wasn’t too scared

to stare, that was for God damned sure. As she stood with her eyes fixed in my direction, I began to walk toward her. As I approached, she leaned onto the edge of the bar, looked up, and smiled. “I’m Avery. The other girl is Sloan. I only have one rule, no fighting in my bar. What can I get you?” she said without taking a breath or blinking an eye. “Avery, huh? Damn the luck, we were just getting ready to start an all-out biker brawl. I’ll notify my Sergeant at Arm’s to try and keep the fellas limited to some light pushing and shoving, maybe a little grab-ass, how’s that?” I said jokingly as I tilted my head in Otis’ direction. For a young girl she wasn’t easily rattled. As she rested her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands, she stared into my eyes and waited for what I guessed was my drink order. I smiled lightly, inhaled a short breath and arched my back. As I exhaled, I leaned closer to her and began to speak. “I’m Axton. For drinks, I’d say to start, I’ll just keep it simple. The fellas will start ordering their own here pretty quick, just put it all on one tab. I’ll pay it when we’re done. So, why don’t you get me about thirty-five Budweiser’s? That’ll leave a couple extras, but some of these fellas are likely to drink theirs in one gulp. It’s been a long hot day.” “Thirty-five, huh? Alright. I’ll get on that. As far as the fighting goes, we clear?” she asked without expression. As I stood and thought of something smart-assed to say in response, she raised one eyebrow. Something about a girl who was respectful but not afraid to stand her ground was appealing. Different. As much as I tried not to, I smiled slightly as I nodded my head. “You made yourself clear, yeah. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll say this. The men are all respectful, as long as they’re treated with respect. They won’t fight each other, that’s for damned sure. So, as long as the few people left in here treat ‘em with respect, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. If someone says somethin’ slick or decides they want to try their luck at fighting one of ‘em, I’ll say there’s not much I can do to stop it. The big man behind me is Otis. It’s his job to keep everyone in order. So, if you need anything, don’t be afraid to holler at Otis. Now how about those beers?” I slowly raised my eyebrow to match the one she still hadn’t lowered. She lowered her eyebrow and grinned. “Let me get started on those beers, Axton. Hold on for just a second, I’ve got two questions.” She turned toward the other side of the bar, walked out the end of it, and disappeared around the corner. As I stood and waited for her to return, I wondered what it was about her that made me want to stay. Typically, I’d tell any other waitress or barmaid to go fuck herself. Something about this one was different. Maybe it was the fact that she appeared to have not one ounce of fear in her. I turned toward Otis, shrugged, and winked. As the men all found places to either stand or sit, she returned to behind the bar with a case of beer. A thin kid followed directly behind her and placed another case on the bar. As he turned and walked away, she dropped the case of beer on the bar between us. “I’ll open all of these and just leave ‘em here on the bar in the box, it’ll keep ‘em colder. How’s that sound?” she asked as she opened the cardboard box.

“Sounds good,” I said with a nod. As she pulled an opener from her rear pocket and began popping the lids from the bottles, she looked up and smiled. Without shifting her focus to the bottles, she opened them as she studied me. “So, the two questions, you ready?” she asked as she continued to open the bottles effortlessly. Without thinking, I nodded my head. “Yep.” “First question. It says Slice on your vest. Is that your name?” she asked. “Nope. Name’s Axton, next question.” She bit her lower lip, stopped opening bottles and stared. “I want to be on the back of your bike before the summer is over. What are the chances of that?” she asked. God damn, this girl’s got guts. They were right, she is a little firecracker. As she bit her lower lip again and waited for an answer, I gave my response. As I heard myself speak, I realized what I was saying and what I was thinking were in clear contrast of each other. Something about this girl was getting to me, and I didn’t like it at all. “Well, I’d say your chances are two-fold.” I said. “Pretty God damned slim…” “And not at all.” I said with a nod. Strangely, I stood and waited for her to respond. What little I’d seen of her I suspected she’d have something smart-assed to say; something immediate, but well thought out. She talked about as fast as Otis swung his fists, which was quicker than most human minds had the ability to comprehend. She didn’t disappoint me. “Well, I’ll take the pretty God damned slim option for five hundred, Axton.” she paused and began to open the remaining bottles in the case. “There’s something about you…I’m going to guess you haven’t got much use for a woman, other than letting her suck your cock or give you a little pussy whenever you want it. You probably don’t trust ‘em, don’t like ‘em, or maybe a little of both. I want on the back of that bike of yours. And although I may suck your cock or give you a little pussy, I won’t do it until after that ride’s over. Think about that. Guess that’s all I’ve got to say; for now anyway. Here’s your first twenty-four Bud’s,” she said as she shoved the case of beer across the bar. You’re a gutsy little bitch, aren’t ya?

“I’ll do that,” I said. I turned and slowly walked toward Otis, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the grin on my face. As I stepped in front of him, I literally tried to wipe the smile from my face with the back of my hand. “God damn, boss. What was all that about?” he asked as he nodded his head toward the bar. “She’s a talkative little bitch,” I responded as I gazed her direction. I watched as she stood there and stared our direction as she opened the remaining beers. I shifted my gaze to the open bar, which was now close to empty; short of Sinners. I took a deep breath, held it, and turned to face Otis. After I exhaled, I tilted my head Otis’ direction and spoke sternly as I focused on Avery. “Bartender’s off limits. Spread the word to all the fellas. I don’t give a shit about the girl with the tits, but the skinny bitch is hands-off.” After a short pause with no response, I turned and looked at Otis. “We clear?” “Crystal, Slice.” he said. “I’ll let ‘em know.” “One more thing,” I said. Otis turned toward me and raised one eyebrow comically. I coughed a light laugh. “Get two of the fellas to get in a fight.” Otis shifted his stance and faced me directly. “Get in a fight?” I nodded my head. “Yep. I want to see how she reacts. She said her one rule was no fighting in her bar. Hell, get Toad and Hollywood to fight. Or Toad and Pete. Shit, Toad’ll fight anyone. But get two of ‘em to fight, and tell ‘em to be prepared to stop as soon as you tell ‘em to. I’m going to the pisser.” Otis shook his head, chuckled, and grinned. “You got it, Slice. One fight, comin’ right up.” As I slowly walked toward the bathroom, I smiled to myself. Well, I guess we’ll see how little Miss. Avery handles herself when things go to shit.



AVERY Axton, after having stepped close enough for me to actually look at him, was as handsome of a man as I had ever seen. He was attractive in an although I don’t know you, I’d let you pin me against the wall, get a fist full of my hair and fuck me kind of way, not a pretty man with a two-hundred-dollar haircut and clothes that looked like he was trying just a little too hard. His good looks set aside, who he appeared to be made him even more appealing. The outlaw biker garb he was wearing added to his good looks. His jeans were far from new, but not trashy looking. His boots were worn, but not old and shitty. The leather vest over what was left of his tee shirt fit as good as I supposed a leather vest could, but it added to his don’t fuck with me demeanor, which was a large part of what made him so damned attractive. At least to me. One thing I really liked about talking to him was how his mouth curled up into a shitty little smile. More of a smirk really, but it would be my guess it was about as much of a smile as a person could coax from him. Hell, he probably didn’t even know he was doing it. As the various bikers walked up and took bottles from the two cases of beers I had opened, most nodded their heads or said hello in some fashion, but none stood at the bar or spoke to me. Two customers remained at the bar, but not for much longer; they were in the process of paying their bills so they could leave. The two groups who sat at the high tops, as well as the two more sitting in booths looked like they were in for the long haul. I quickly looked around the bar, did the math, and realized there were just about enough spots for all of the bikers to sit, but almost none of them were, at least not at the bar. As the two men who remained at the bar left their payment for their tabs at the same time, I collected their money and walked to the register in hopes their absence would cause the bikers to feel more comfortable about sitting at the bar. As I closed the register, I noticed Axton leaning on the end of the bar. As I studied him out of the corner of my eye, I quickly remembered I had no tits whatsoever, and probably no chance of ever convincing him to take me for that ride. Bikers love big tits. Hell, everybody loves big tits. I glanced into the dining area and couldn’t help but notice half a dozen bikers gathered around Sloan. I crossed my arms over my chest and slowly walked toward Axton. As I got closer to where he stood, he clasped his hands together and leaned into the edge of the bar. I attempted to form my sparse, skinny lips into a duck face and gave up right about the time I was directly in front of him. ‘What was with the face?” he asked as I pulled the bar towel out of my pocket. “What face?” I asked, half embarrassed that he’d noticed. “Whatever you were doing with your lips while you were walking up,” he said. I shrugged and began wiping the bar. Jesus, Avery, you probably looked like an idiot. Stick to the overly aggressive ‘I wanna fuck you’ attitude.

“Huh. Looked like you were kissing the air,” he said. I continued to wipe the bar where the two men were sitting. As I swirled the bar towel in a circular motion, I attempted to change the subject without looking up. “Define slim,” I said. “Excuse me?” I looked up from wiping the bar. “You said pretty God damned slim and not at all were my two options. I said I’d take the pretty God damned slim option. I want you to define it. What’s slim?” He stood up slightly. “You ever give up?” I pursed my lips and twisted my mouth to the side. “No, not really.” He pressed his forearms into the edge of the bar and leaned forward. “Huh. Well, my pop was a drunken prick but I never figured it was much of an excuse for my mother to walk out like she did. That was my first exposure to a woman. Second would have been the girl I was seeing all through high school. I was a year ahead of her, so after I graduated she was a senior. Well, I stopped by her house to see her one afternoon. Back then although most everyone else did, I didn’t have a cell phone, so I didn’t call first. Hell I didn’t think I needed to. Quarterback on the football team’s truck was in the driveway, so I just went on in. He was balls deep when I kicked in the door.” He paused and chuckled as he raised his head a little. “That one got me a trip to jail for a bit. So, let’s see…” “Next, I suppose woulda been just before my pop went to the joint. His girlfriend at the time was considerably younger than he was. I don’t know, maybe fifteen years younger. She was closer to my age than she was to his. He passed out drunk, and I’m guessing it was before she got what it was she was after. So I was in the garage working on my bike, and she came out through the garage, bitchin’ about him passing out.” He hesitated and shook his head lightly. He raised both eyebrows as his mouth formed into what appeared to be his signature smirk. “She stopped half way through the garage and offered to suck my cock.” “So, this list goes on and on. I’m not so dumb that I believe all women are evil or can’t be trusted, but I do believe women who are attracted to men like me are a different breed. Finding a woman who can be trusted one hundred percent is like finding a wolf that won’t eat the chickens. It’s not that they don’t exist, but the odds of finding one are slim.” He stood, crossed his arms, and stared for a short moment. As he uncrossed his arms, he pulled against a rubber band on his left wrist. He now stood erect, still focused on me, and snapped the rubber band into his wrist. He acted like he didn’t even notice he did it. Ouch!

I tilted my head to the side and grinned. “So your definition of slim is compared to the odds of finding a wolf that won’t eat the chickens?” He nodded his head once. “Mmhhm.” “I’m a vegan. Chicken is meat, and I don’t eat meat,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t surprise me.” He hesitated for a long moment, gazed past me, and blinked a few times. With him standing there, I had become all but immune to the other men around, the music, and the noise of the overly loud drunken bikers. Hoping he would continue, I stood and admired his handsome features. As I realized for the first time that he had pierced ears, he began to speak again. “I’m the President of this club. I damned sure don’t need a woman to get in the way of me doing what it is I’m supposed to do. And, the long and short of it is this. She’d sure as fuck get in the way,” he said flatly. Somewhat frustrated with his answer, I shrugged my shoulders. “So, it’s not about a chicken eating wolf or even the fact that you really don’t trust women. It’s more that you think a woman would get in the way of you being a biker. Right?” “Suppose that’s pretty close.” I stood, aggravated at his ridiculous beliefs, wondering how much of it was a show and how much of it was the truth. Maybe he liked women, and he simply didn’t like me. Maybe he was being as nice as the President of a bike club could be, and just not telling me the absolute truth. The problem, for me, was the fact he didn’t want me. His complete lack of interest fueled every competitive bone in my body. While I inventoried all of the patches on his vest and wondered what they all meant, I also pondered what the real reason was behind his denial of my offer. Avery, you’re skinny, you have a flat ass, no tits, and your lips are skinny. You have one redeeming feature, and it’s not even a feature, it’s more of a mannerism. You’re a ‘courageous smartass’. That’s’ all you’ve got going for you. And to be honest, I’m not interested in fucking courage. I’d prefer fucking someone with meat on their bones. Well, that and a set of nice tits. Now wallowing in self-imposed guilt driven by my lack of confidence in boyish body being attractive, I realized something. I tossed the towel into the towel bin under the bar. “Answer a question.” “Ask it.” “You came over here to the bar.” I hesitated and motioned along the bar. “And it’s empty. I’m back here alone. And for some reason, no one is sitting here. So, why’d you stop to talk to me if you weren’t interested?”

Ha, motherfucker. Answer that. He gave me his half-assed grin and crossed his arms. “I like talking to you. Hell, what else am I going to do? I talk to these motherfuckers every God damned day. But just because I’m talking to you doesn’t mean I want your ass on the back of my fucking bike or stopping by my house wanting to know if I’m interested in a new tofu recipe you wanna try out.” “Why not talk to the girl with the tits?” I asked as I motioned toward Sloan. “Never been a tit man,” he shrugged. Bullshit. He turned toward Sloan who was surrounded by bikers. As she stood and giggled, she pressed her upper arms into her boobs, forcing them to burst out of her tee shirt even more. Seriously? He turned to face me and shrugged. “Bullshit,” I snapped. He tossed his head toward Sloan. “Tell me this. When she’s thirty-five, what are her tits going to look like? I’ll fucking tell ya. Take off the knee-high school girl gym socks I’m sure she’s wearing, and stuff an orange in each one of ‘em. That’s what. Now, when you’re thirty-five, what’ll you look like? I’ll fucking tell ya that too, just like you do now. Unless she moves to the moon, she’s gonna have to deal with the laws of gravity at some point in time. And, it’s working against her while we’re sitting here bullshittin’.” He no more than finished speaking, and over the music, noise, laughing, and constant hollering, I heard someone scream. “You cockfucking sucker!” I twisted my body toward the scream. A tall muscular man with a military buzz cut stood arguing with a bald headed man with a long beard. The bald man was covered in tattoos, including his head, and looked like he shouldn’t be fucked with. Not even a little bit. His response to Buzz cut calling him a cocksucker was to take a wild swing, which was immediately blocked and countered. The punch by Buzz cut landed on the side of Baldie’s face, knocking him sideways. As he stumbled, Buzz cut bent his knees slightly and took a defensive fighting stance. It was pretty obvious it wasn’t his first time in a fight. Actually, he looked pretty experienced at what he was doing. I noticed as he stood with his fists raised that he clearly had a Marine tattoo on his very muscular right bicep. Well, that explains it. Baldy shook off the punch and growled.

You’re growling? What the fuck? “Toad, I’m gonna kill you,” he grunted. As much as I really wanted to see the outcome of the fight, I realized I was at work. I needed to stop this from going any further. Without a doubt, before long it would turn into a barroom brawl and someone would be hurt terribly or killed. At best, the bar would be thrashed. As Baldy threw another punch, Buzz cut blocked it and swung his open right hand toward Baldie’s nose. The sound of the impact was sickening. Well, sickening in a kind of sexy way. Immediately blood began to drain from Baldie’s nose like it was a faucet. I turned to face Axton, who was standing and intently watching the fight as if it were something that happened every night. Hell, maybe it was. “I said no fighting in my bar,” I snapped. “And I told you if there was a fight, it’d be from someone being disrespectful,” he said. “Looks like Pete disrespected Toad. Toad’s kind of a hot-head. And he was a Marine. It’s a bad combo.” I shook my head. “You said they wouldn’t fight each other. You said that. And, they’re both wearing your vests, so they’re each other. So what, your word’s shit?” He tilted his head and gave me a look. A look as if I had hit a nerve. Actually not a nerve, but the nerve. The big one. After a few second death stare which had me frozen, he turned toward Otis and whistled a shrill whistle. Immediately, Otis uncrossed his arms, rubbed his face, and took a few steps toward the men who were fighting. “Pete, Toad, that’s it. It’s over. Whatever the fuck started this, squash it,” Otis barked. The two men relaxed slightly. “Squash it,” he growled again. They both lowered their hands and stood up straight. As if nothing had happened, they shook hands, pulled each other into a bro hug and patted each other on the back. Baldy was still bleeding profusely from his nose. Instinctively, I reached under the bar, grabbed a clean towel, and yelled at Otis. “Here!” As he turned my direction, I threw him the folded towel. He nodded his head sharply, and handed the towel to Baldy. Shocked at the immediate and effortless ending of the fight, I turned toward Axton. “So, if I’d have told you to fuck off and let them go at it, what would you have done? This is your bar after all,” he asked in a sarcastic tone. “Well, when people fight in here, I have three options, let ‘em fight, call the cops, or.” I paused and reached under the bar and pulled my Glock from my purse.

“This,” I twisted my wrist for him to admire the pistol, and slipped it back under the bar. “Letting them fight isn’t a real good option, there’s still regular customers in here. It would make me look incompetent and someone might get hurt or killed. And, if someone got killed the cops would come. For what it’s worth, I hate cops. So, that brings me to option two, calling the cops. That’s an option, but not one I want to use. Generally, I tell people to pick, call the cops or stop fucking fighting. Realistically, I’m not pulling the pistol. Not ever. Well, unless someone’s trying to rob me or someone else in here.” I paused and waited for him to respond. “Model 17?” he asked. I scrunched my brow and stared, “Huh?” “Your pistol. Glock model 17. It’s a nine millimeter, 4th generation. Must be pretty new,” he said. “Oh yeah, it’s a Model 17. I got it about eighteen months ago when I got my concealed carry permit,” I bragged. “Nice. Well…” He paused, reached for the rubber band, and snapped it against his wrist. What the fuck with the rubber band? “Avery, what night’s do you grace the world with your presence here?” he asked. Shocked at the fact he asked the question, I considered my unpredictable schedule while I mentally formed my response. I wondered why he would ask if he wasn’t interested? He wouldn’t. “Tuesday’s, Thursday’s and Saturday’s, almost always. It’s hard to say, he changes our schedules all the time. And I’ve got finals coming up, so it’s anybody’s guess here real quick.” I said. “Finals, huh? College girl? I would have guessed you a little older.” “Nope, senior. Criminal Justice, go figure,” I said with a grin. “Wichita State?” he asked. “Nope. Southwestern College, down in Winfield.” “Winfield, huh?” he grinned. “Yeah, Winfield. You know where it is?” “Never heard of the place,” he shook his head, “I tell ya what, I’ll come in next week. If you’re here, I’ll see ya,” he said.

I considered giving him my phone number and decided against it. There’s a fine line between acting interested and being a stalker. I definitely had stalker tendencies, and had every intention of stalking Axton, but I didn’t want him to realize it. “Sounds good,” I said. So, I guess this is where you leave, and I spend all of next week sick to my stomach trying to decide what to wear to work, taking water pills by the dozen so I can shed weight, and feeling like I’m fat no matter what, right? He glanced toward Otis. “Otis, have ‘em saddle up,” he hollered. Yep. Women’s intuition. As much as I wanted to stay and get a few more sentences in, I knew it was time I changed up my game. I hadn’t been successful at picking up a man in several years. Not a meaningful one, anyway. I reached under the bar, picked up another clean towel, and walked toward the other end of the bar without saying a word. It was far too late for me to try the hard to get routine, but I could act less interested than I truly was. Sometimes, less is more. I watched the men walk outside in small groups and a few individually. In many respects, it felt as if they had been in the bar for the entire night, if not more. In reality, they had been in the bar roughly thirty minutes. After almost all of the men were gone, Axton and Otis walked toward the bar. It seemed strange, because I would have sworn Otis had already left. “I appreciate you not calling the cops when the fellas were fighting,” Otis said as he reached over the bar. As I shook his hand, he smiled. “Call me Otis.” “Avery,” I said. “What do I owe you for the beers?” Axton asked. “Well, they drank both cases entirely. So, that’s forty-eight times $4.25, let me check,” I responded. “$204.00 even,” Axton said. I turned to face him. “Excuse me?” “It’s $204.00 even. Forty-eight times $4.25,” he nodded as he pulled three hundred dollar bills from his wallet. “And you know that because?” I asked.

He turned toward Otis, shrugged, and shifted his gaze to meet mine. “I know it because I know how to multiply. Here.” He handed me three one-hundred-dollar bills. “Keep this one, two hundred’s fine, it’s easier.” “Keep it. It’s your tip,” Axton said. “And one other thing,” Otis said. I widened my eyes and smiled as I tilted my head toward Otis. “Yeah?” “Your friend, Sloan? She says the only way she can leave here is if you say it’s alright. She’s out in the parking lot, afraid to come ask. She wanted me to ask you if you’ll let her off work?” he asked. That fucking bitch. I can’t get a fucking ride, and she’s going to leave? Like now? Fucking slut. “She wanted you to ask?” He nodded his head once. Axton shrugged. That whore. I stepped from behind the bar, shoved my way past Axton and Otis, and walked briskly to the door. As I opened it, I saw Sloan in the parking lot, laughing with one of the guys beside what I guessed was his motorcycle. His back was to me, and the vest he wore was different than the rest of them. It said Selected Sinners on the top and Prospect on the bottom. There was no skull or guns in the center, and no Kansas banner on the vest. I’d seen the shows on T.V. He was a Prospect; a soon to be member. He looked young, and was probably much closer to Sloan’s age than any of the others. She forced a smile, narrowed her eyes, and waved. I shook my head and stomped back into the bar. As I stepped inside, Otis and Axton were on the other side of the door. “So?” Otis’ voice trailed along as he waited for an answer. I looked around the bar. The guy with the ears and his two friends sat at number eight. Another group of four sat at number six, by the back door. The bar, with the exception of them, was empty.

“Fine with me. She’s a big girl,” I huffed. “She sure as fuck is,” Axton said as he walked past me. I wonder what he means by that…



AXTON My opinion on women hadn’t changed. Not at all. I never believed a woman had a place in the club, nor would I ever consider it. Therefore, having a woman become an active part of my life wasn’t an option. Women become mentally attached to men through simple exposure and much more so when sex is added to the equation. For me to think for one moment I could have a relationship with a woman, even a friendly one, without her developing some sort of feelings or expectations would be foolish on my part. I’ve never considered myself to be a foolish man. My experience with women and sex in the last ten years had been a mountain of one night stands. I’d made every effort to be certain that each and every woman I had been with understood what we were agreeing to. I fuck you, I leave, and there’s no chance of seeing me again. Growing up the son of a Hell’s Angel father, I quickly learned the value of making rules and following them. It takes a true outlaw; a person who refuses to be governed by the established rules or practices of any group, a rebel, a nonconformist. Being a member of a motorcycle club requires that all members adhere strictly to bylaws and rules, yet the men place minimal value on the law. A club filled with and based on contradiction. The absolute adherence to the rules allows each and every member to immediately develop an understanding of one’s ability to be trusted. To be dishonest on the side of the law, but brutally honest on the side of being a member of the club takes a different type of man. Most of the men who rode with the Sinners, or any club for that matter, had their own rules and regulations. Things they hold sacred. At any cost, they’ll adhere to the rules they’ve developed or put in place. Their doing so allows the members of the club to see their strong will, and slowly a trust develops unlike any other. In the last decade, I had not seen any woman more than once. It was one of my rules. I had not received the phone numbers of any of the women I had sex with. It was another rule of mine. Having the ability to call a woman and have her come suck my cock or fuck me would create temptation to do just that. I’m tempted enough by simply living life, and I wasn’t interested in making my life any more difficult than it already was. Going to see Avery a second time wasn’t breaking a rule of mine, but it was certainly out of character for me. As long as I wasn’t fucking her, I was convinced I had no rule in place to prevent me from seeing her. I, not unlike other men, tend to try and find a way to manipulate rules to allow a loophole big enough to slide through without being able to be criticized for having broken it. In being honest with myself, I found Avery to be an extremely interesting person. If she were a man, I could see us developing a solid friendship. The fact she had a pussy between her legs made things fractionally more difficult. A man having a friend with a pussy is like a wolf being friends with a chicken. Not impossible, but highly fucking unlikely.

“No, she said it was like riding an eight-hundred-pound vibrator. She said she was soaked when she got to town. And never heard of Winfield, huh? You lying fucker,” Avery said. I shook my head lightly. “I was joking. Yeah, we’re based out of Winfield. I prefer the small town atmosphere; it makes life simple.” “Well, now you know. Or if you don’t, I’ll guess I’ll tell ya. Sloan and I both live there. We’re roommates. I drive back and forth to this shit-hole to work, but I’m going to move here when school’s out, and she’s coming with me. I like the excitement of a large city.” “Grow up in a small town?” I asked. “Yep, Marietta, Ohio,” she responded. “Hell, never heard of it. Marietta, Georgia, I’ve heard of that one, but not Marietta, Ohio. How big is it?” “About the size of Winfield, 13,000 people maybe,” she said. I felt a little relief knowing she would be moving in a matter of weeks. Having her in Winfield, and knowing it, would make not seeing her more difficult. Having her live in a city of 400,000, and being twenty-five miles away would be better for us both. I chuckled. “Big city life will be an exciting change, I’m sure. And an eight-hundred-pound vibrator, huh?” She nodded her head and laughed. “That’s what she said. I’d really need to tell you what else she said, but…” I leaned into the bar and lightly pressed my right fist into my left palm. As I rested my chin on top of my clenched fist, I cocked one eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.” She looked around the bar. “Give me a minute, I might.” As she held her index finger in the air, she turned and walked away. After mixing a drink, she carried it to the other end of the bar and handed it to a man who was nursing his last sip from the glass on the bar in front of him. Completely the opposite of most every other biker I had ever met, I’d never been a man who preferred a little meat on the bones of my women. Given an opportunity to decide on my own, my preference was a thin attractive woman with small tits. Watching Avery walk to the other end of the bar was nothing short of painful. Yet more proof I had almost no business continuing with this little friendship we were developing. As she turned around from her short visit with the man, she wadded up a napkin, stood firm, and shot it like a basketball at the trashcan which was almost twenty feet away. As the ball of paper fell directly into the center of the can, she pumped her fist alongside her hip. Early spring in Kansas can bring snow, ninety degree days, or a tornado. It’s anyone’s guess and

changes from day to day. Today, thankfully, was clear skies, sunshine, and almost eighty degrees. Avery was dressed in shorts, a baseball tee, and canvas sneakers. As she quickly walked back to the end of the bar where I was seated, I found myself admiring her. Get your shit and go, Slice. This girls gonna cause nothing but trouble for you, and for the club. As she stepped in front of me, she pushed her hands into her rear pockets and twisted her hips playfully. “So, wanna hear it?” No, truthfully, I want to leave. If I stay here much longer I’m going to make a mistake. “Huh?” I stammered as I snapped the rubber band against my wrist twice. “You want me to tell you what else she said?” she asked as she twisted back and forth. You cute little bitch. “Sure,” I said as I continued to stare at her tanned legs and smooth skin. She s=coughed a laugh. “Your boy Cash has a choad.” “A what?” I laughed as I sat up straight. “A choad. It’s a short fat cock. I guess it was about as big around as her wrist, and from what she said, it might have been an inch long. Maybe. Basically, she said it’s this huge head, and no shaft at all,” she giggled as she clamped her thumb and forefinger around her wrist and made a fist. “Choad?” I chuckled. “Yep, a choad. Short fatty. Look it up,” she said. “Hell, I believe you. Just haven’t heard that one,” I responded. She closed her eyes momentarily and started laughing. As she got the laugh down to a light chuckle, she continued. “So I guess she’s all wet from the ride, and thinking she wants this Cash guy to fuck her. So they go to his house, and he’s all acting like he’s going to fuck her brains out. He’d been telling her that as they rode slowly through town to his house. I’m going to fuck you ragged, he told her. She said he ripped off his pants like he had no idea he had this fat little mushroom head thing going on. She said she looked down at it, thinking it was soft, and when it got hard she’d be in for a hell of a ride, because it’s so fucking fat you know?” She paused, shrugged, and started laughing uncontrollably. Her continued laughing and my thinking of the situation caused me to begin to laugh. As I chuckled at the thought of Cash’s choad, she finally continued her story.

“So, she said she got down on her knees and started sucking, and realized that was it. She said deep throating him would be taking the head in her mouth, because there was nothing else. No shaft. Seriously, when she told me the story we were at Taco Bell. I spit out my fucking burrito. No lie, right on the table. I almost pissed my pants. Sloan’s my best friend, don’t get me wrong. But she really, really, really likes cock; the bigger the better. And this dude pulls out the head, and it’s the size of a fucking apple, but that’s all he’s got.” “So what happened?” I asked as I wiped the tears from my eyes. “That’s the funny part. Sloan’s kinda like me. She doesn’t really pull any punches. Maybe that’s why we’re friends. But she’s not like mean. She said when she realized it was hard, and all of an inch long, she spit it out and got like grossed out. She said she stood up and pointed at it, and just started laughing. Like uncontrollably.” She paused and began giggling again. “And your boy Cash acts like he had no idea. So she left; like walked home. That kind of left. The I’m walking home kind,” she said. “Holy shit,” I said as I shook my head. “Yeah, that’s kinda what I said. Holy shit. So, anyway. That was her first ride. She’d never been on the back of a bike. And now? She’s hooked. It’s all she can talk about. And, just so you know, she’ll probably start stalking your man Otis. She’s guessing there’s no way he’s got a choad.” “Stalking, huh? That’s probably not a healthy thing to do. And good luck finding him, he kind of keeps to himself,” I said flatly as I looked around the bar. “Oh, Cash showed her where your clubhouse is,” she responded. That dumb little cocksucker. I tightened my jaw, and leaned into the bar. “Well, it’s no fucking secret. We ride in and out of there all damned day, but the clubhouse is off limits to outsiders. Without an invitation, no one’s allowed but members. If anyone comes there without prior approval, they’ll be escorted off the premises.” “Sore subject?” she said. I shook my head. “Club business is the club’s business, not public business. It’s a private club. If she finds Otis and fucks him, I don’t give a shit. Hell they can run off and get married for all I care, but she can’t come to the clubhouse without an invitation.” “Okay, I’ll tell her. I didn’t know it was like a secret,” she said apologetically. To explain to Avery my disappointments in Cash’s big mouth would make the club seem to be a little too eager, almost desperate, in the selection of Cash as a Prospect. To me, any club business was the club’s business. It wasn’t a huge thing that Cash had told Sloan where the clubhouse was, and we didn’t keep the location a secret from the public. It didn’t change the fact that I thought Cash was an immature waste of the club’s time. He had until August to show his ability to be an asset to the club. In my opinion,

he’d need to change quickly. I took a deep breath through my nose and exhaled. I studied her for a short moment and then responded. “It’s not. There are rules and we have bylaws in place. One is admittance into the premises of the club. It’s prohibited. The rules are a requirement, not a recommendation. Nothing against Cash, but it probably wasn’t very wise of him to show her where the clubhouse was and not tell her the rule regarding visitation.” “Okay. Well, that doesn’t sound as bad. I’m not trying to get him in trouble, but I just thought if maybe you had some kind of new members must have an actual cock requirement; he’d like be out of the picture,” she said. “We don’t. But don’t worry, you’ve done a good job of burning a mental image into my mind of his choad,” I said. More than likely my entire problem with Cash was his immature behavior. Typically, with age comes maturity. Although he was thirty years old, he was extremely immature. As I sat and became angry at his childish decisions and behavior, I realized Avery was a senior in college. She, too, would be immature by mere design. Her lack of exposure in life would cause her to lack the maturity I’d need to even allow me to expose myself to her without placing the club at risk. As much as I enjoyed looking at her, and truly enjoyed talking to her, I knew what was in the club’s best interest. I stood from the stool, stretched reached into the pocket of my jeans. “How much for the burger?” I asked. Her eyes widened. “You leaving?” “Yeah, I need to get back. I’ve got a business deal to finish putting together. Hell, I’ve been here for two hours. Time got away from me,” I said as I looked at my watch. “Wasn’t anything I said?” she asked. I shook my head. “Nope.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house,” she said. I pulled a twenty from my wallet and slid it below the cardboard coaster underneath my glass of water. “Well, this is your tip. Thanks.” “I suppose I’ll see ya the next time I see ya,” she said as she pushed her hands into the back pockets of her shorts. If you only knew… As she started twisting her hips again, I almost sat back down. Avery was attractive, and would be so to any man. Her personality and her actions, however, made her almost irresistible. As she rocked from side-to-side and smiled, I started to lose myself in thoughts of my childhood, and my girlfriend at the

time, Shellie. She was a cheerleader in school, and until she fucked the quarterback, and I ended up in jail for beating his ass, our time together was all memorable. She was probably my only real love. The only recollections I had of actually enjoying time with a woman involved her solely. I stared at Avery, pulled against the rubber band, and released it into my wrist. Snap! I pulled against it again, held it, and stared down at her sneakers. Snap! “I appreciate it,” I said. She grinned and nodded her head, unaware of what I truly meant. I scanned her body from head to toe, and back up again slowly. I pulled the rubber band again, tightened my jaw in anticipation, and released it into my wrist. With a mental image of her still burned into my brain, I turned and walked to the door. As I pulled the door open, I chuckled at my increased vocabulary. Choad. As I walked to my bike I wondered if there was a name for one as big as your wrist and nine inches long. I threw my leg over the bike knowing I’d never know if there was; at least not from Avery. There was no way in hell I could ever fuck her once and walk away. None whatsoever.



AVERY In my observation, I realized Axton snapped the rubber band against his wrist when he was uncomfortable or troubled. Initially I was going to ask why, but later decided there was probably more value in my keeping my mouth shut and seeing if there was some type of pattern to his behavior. After watching for some time, I believed he did it even more when he was tempted to do something he felt would be better left undone. When he came to the bar the second time, I noticed he did it when I did my innocent little naïve school girl pose. There was no other reason, no awkward discussions, and nothing I said had pissed him off. But each time I put my hands in the pockets of my shorts and swiveled my hips, he snapped his rubber band repeatedly. Probably out of nervous habit more than anything. I attempted to do as much research on the club as I could, but found very little to read. There was a website for the Selected Sinners Motorcycle Club, listing Slice as President, Stacey as Vice President, Mike as Treasurer, Fancy as the Secretary, Hollywood as the Road Captain, and Otis as the Sergeant at Arm’s. The website listed the bylaws, and Axton wasn’t joking about the clubhouse. The rules regarding Ol’ Ladies were pretty clear in that respect. I desperately wanted to know about the club, but even more, I wanted to know as much as I could about Axton. “I can’t believe they’ve been here all along, and we never knew,” I shouted over my shoulder as I closed the window on the computer. “I know. God, I want another ride. Not with that weirdo Cash, but with one of ‘em. I bet that Otis dude is freaking hung,” Sloan hollered from the bathroom. I rolled my eyes in agreement, knowing she didn’t necessarily expect a response. “You know,” she said. “They say you can tell about a guy’s cock from his hands, feet, and confidence. Otis’ hands are huge, and his feet are huge. But Axton? God he’s hot. And it freaking creeps me out that he’s so confident. The way he walks, he acts like he could just beat anyone’s ass that’s dumb enough to get in his way. I bet his cock’s a freaking foot long,” she yelled. I leaned back into the stool and smiled at what she said. I felt the same way, but hadn’t expressed it. Axton’s confidence was apparent in his walk alone. The look on his face, his stride, and his demeanor screamed do not fuck with me. He looked like a wind-up toy when he walked, there was a certain rhythm to the steps he took, and the process repeated itself roughly every six or so steps. As I watched him walk I wondered if it was a conscious thing, or something that simply happened. I decided it was just Axton. I liked thinking of him that way. “What in the fuck is on your nose?” I asked as Sloan walked out of the bathroom.

Although she had attempted to wrap herself in a towel, it was painfully obvious there was far too much of her to try and cover with the shitty little towels we had in the apartment. With all of her ass and a good part of her pussy peeking out the bottom, her boobs were bulging out of the top. She could cover one of the areas, but definitely not both. She stopped and touched the side of her nose with the tip of her finger delicately. “It’s freaking sore.” She winced as she pressed her fingertip into the edge of her nose. “You pierced it?” I squealed as I bounced from the chair. “Uh huh,” she responded. “When? Why?” I asked as I moved my face closer to her nose. “I went to Tracy’s.” I leaned away from her nose and stared at her. “The jewelry shop?” “Uh huh,” she said. “You dumb ass. They pierced it with a gun, didn’t they?” I asked. “Uh huh.” “You dumb ass.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head lightly. We had discussed getting our noses pierced when we moved to Wichita, because they had actual piercing shops which pierced with needles the proper way, and not with guns. From what we had read on the internet, and learned from asking around, having your nose pierced with a gun intended to pierce ears with was a no-no, and could possibly cause infection and trauma. “Why didn’t you wait?” I said. “I dunno. I wanted those guys to like me. I thought if I had it now, maybe they’d see me differently,” she whined. I raised my clenched fist to my mouth, coughed, and rolled my eyes. “You want ‘em to like you? Seriously? Wear your new sixty dollar bra, they’ll love you. Jesus, go get dressed before something falls out of that towel.” I watched as she stumbled to the bedroom, touching her nose with her finger the entire way. I sat down at the desk and peered through the door as she got dressed, knowing if I had her huge titties, everyone would love me. No doubt.

God, if I just had half those tits, I’d have Axton begging me… I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror. I turned to the side and tried to imagine myself with boobs. As I sucked in my nonexistent stomach and tried to force my flat ass to look round, she stepped into the doorway. “What are you freaking doing?” she giggled. I turned my head and smiled. “Trying to imagine myself with tits and a little ass.” “Your tits are perfect, and you have a cute little ass.” “I look like a boy,” I said. “A hot fucking boy,” she said as she reached over my shoulder for the blow dryer. “So I do. I look like a boy, don’t I?” “No,” she said as she started drying her hair. “Why’d you say it?” I asked as I stared into the mirror and twisted my body so my ass faced the mirror. It’s helpless. I have no ass. She shrugged and continued to dry her hair. I sighed and walked out of the bathroom and back to the desk. Frustrated, I lowered myself into the chair and stared at the black computer screen. Convinced I’d graduate from college, move to Wichita, and remain a flat assed and titless single woman for the rest of my life, I silently pouted at the thought of it all. “What was that?” Sloan hollered over the sound of the hair dryer. I blinked my eyes and looked around the room. “What was what?” “Sounded like someone knocked on the door,” she shouted over the sound of the hairdryer. “I didn’t hear anything,” I responded as I swiveled the chair toward the door. Knock, knock, knock. “Holy shit, someone’s here,” I said as I jumped from the chair and ran to the door. Having someone come over probably wasn’t a big deal to the majority of the population of the free world, but to Sloan and me, it was a huge deal. In the two years we lived together, we’d had a total of two visitors that I could recall. One knocked on the wrong apartment door, and the other was pushing bibles and religion.

I bounced to the door and looked through the peephole. Holy shit!



AXTON After finding out my point of contact could speak English not very well, I learned every member of the club spoke Spanish not at all. A quick inventory of the Ol’ Ladies produced not one single Spanish speaking person. Having the ability to effectively communicate while trying to sell 100 AK-47’s to a first time customer was instrumental to the success of the sale. Frustrated, and not willing to lose a deal due to the incompetence of the club, I opted to find someone who did speak Spanish; someone who would be willing to go to a simple drop-off site and watch Otis and me sell a few guns to a Mexican street gang. The only drawback was it had to be someone I could trust, and I didn’t trust anyone outside the club. Knowing if this deal fell apart, I was risking the life of one of the strongest members of the club, I decided to go beyond the boundaries of what I would normally do, and consider the help of an outsider. After all, the deal we were doing was legal and legitimate. Including an outsider in the transaction didn’t expose the club to any real risk. The Sureños may not have legal intentions with the weapons after they receive them from the club, but that was none of my or anyone else’s business. A Google search confirmed a degree in Criminal Justice required a foreign language class, and my guess was Avery’s choice would have been Spanish. Contrary to my typical beliefs and behaviors, the club was asked, and they voted in favor of her being my Spanish speaking assistant. It was further agreed Otis and I would be the two members to do the deal with the Sureños. Otis’ size alone would be intimidating to a bunch of short Mexicans, which should minimize the potential for anyone trying anything stupid. If she agreed, Avery could simply stand on the side, look pretty, and tell me what the little fuckers were really saying. In my opinion, with Otis and Avery participating in the transaction, there was little risk to the club that anything could go wrong with the deal. We would have brains, brawn, and the ability to communicate clearly. After much thought and a long mental battle with myself about the inclusion of an outsider in what I believed to be club business, I fully accepted the decision the club had already made, and began my journey to find Avery. Frank provided me with Avery’s apartment number, and I rode there to discuss matters with her. Even though it was settled with the club, in my mind it was still rather undecided. As she opened the door, the expression on her face made her level of surprise quite clear. “Got a minute?” I asked. She stood wide eyed with her mouth agape. “Yeah, come in.” Still standing in the center of the doorway, she stared. I motioned for her to move so I could step into the house, “You’re going to need to step aside if you want me to come in.” “Uhhm. How’d you find me?” she stammered. “I’m resourceful. I told you that,” I responded jokingly. “So, you come by to give me that ride?” she asked as she flopped down on the couch.

The apartment was much smaller than small. Although I hadn’t been in the bedrooms, I could see in the doorway of each room. The apartment was approximately six hundred square feet from what I could tell, roughly twenty feet wide and thirty feet deep. Two people living in it was one person too many. A small desk at one side, a bathroom on the opposite wall, a couch, and two chairs were the extent of the furnishings. I sat in the chair beside the couch and turned to face Avery. “Not exactly,” I said as the bathroom door opened. “Hey,” Sloan said as she walked by. “How’s it going, Sloan?” I responded over my shoulder, somewhat shocked she was at the apartment. She was dressed in sweats that were too small and a tee shirt that did a half-assed job of covering her torso. Her stomach was exposed, and it was apparent she couldn’t pull the shirt down any further. I’d seen a lot of women in my days around the fellas who had big tits, but sitting this close to Sloan and actually seeing her, I would have to admit her tits were the biggest I had ever seen. Half embarrassed by her appearance, I quickly turned toward Avery. “So, what the fuck?” Avery shrugged. I sat silently and looked around the room. I hadn’t planned on Sloan being at Avery’s house and she certainly wasn’t part of the equation. I’ve never been a paranoid man, and I wouldn’t consider myself a nervous person, but I was always safe; erring on the side of caution. I reached down, pulled the rubber band to the point of breaking it, and released it. Snap! I stared blankly at my wrist as I snapped it three more times equally as hard. Now feeling as if I could sense my heart beating in my inflamed wrist, I looked up at Avery. “You got any glasses? Like sunglasses?” I asked. God damn it Axton. She looked confused. “Yeah, why?” “Grab ‘em. We’re going for a ride,” I said as I stood. It’s just a ride Axton, nothing more. You’re using her for a mouthpiece on a gun deal, that’s it. “Seriously?” she squealed as she bounced up from the couch. I looked around the apartment. Sloan stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking in the mirror. She was all of ten feet away.

I tilted my head toward the door. “Yeah, grab ‘em. Let’s get out of here.” “Sloan, I’m going with Axton on his bike,” Avery hollered across the tiny apartment. Sloan responded, stretching the word along for a good five seconds. “Okay,” Sloan peered around the frame of the door and gave a half-assed grin. As Avery grabbed her purse, she pulled out her glasses and put them on. She was wearing jean shorts that barely cupped the bottom of her ass cheeks and a tight tee shirt. I glanced down at her feet. Sneakers. I smiled and reached for the door handle. “Ready?” “Uh huh,” she smiled. “Alright, listen up. There’s a few rules you’ll have to follow,” I said as I opened the door. As she stepped into the doorway, she stopped, pulled off the sunglasses, and stared into my eyes. Now sharing the space in the opening of the door, she stood mere inches from me. For the first time, I realized just how tall she was. Our noses not more than an inch apart, we stood in the doorway, our eyes locked. As a light breeze blew, I caught the faint smell of her perfume; a very light floral scent. God damn she smells good. “You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. It’s that simple,” she said without expression. I pursed my lips and narrowed my gaze. “That’s a bold statement, you better be careful, little girl.” She stood with her sunglasses dangling from her fingertips, still shoehorned into the small opening of the doorway. I stood with my back against the frame of the door, refusing to be the one who moved out of the way first. She blinked her eyes and tilted her head slightly. She smiled a shitty little flirtatious smile. “Think about that. Whatever you say, I’ll do it. Use your imagination, Axton. I sure am.” I stood and continued to stare at her. Thoughts of shoving her against the wall, pulling her shorts down around her ankles, and fucking her long-legged little ass while she still wore her sneakers began to fill my mind. I sensed my cock beginning to swell at the thought of her doing whatever I told her. The fellas from the poker run in Wichita were spot on. She was a little firecracker, and she seemed to know exactly what to do to push my buttons. I had no business with this cute little bitch on the back of my bike, but I had no other alternative. For the sake of the club, this gun deal had to happen. As I felt the fabric of my jeans beginning to stretch from my overly active imagination, I shook my head and stepped out of the doorway. As I turned and walked to the stairs, she immediately followed behind me. I pressed my hand against my jeans, attempting to force my cock to relax and become a little less noticeable before we got to

the motorcycle. As we reached the bottom landing, I turned toward the bike and pushed against my still rigid dick with the heel of my palm and kept my back to Avery. Generally speaking, I was able to keep my mind focused and prevent my cock from swelling without my approval. Actually, in the last fifteen years, I have had quite the opposite problem; focusing enough to get hard was proving to be difficult. Standing with my back to Avery and pressing down on my slowly rising cock was further proof I had very little control over my mind and what subconscious inner thoughts I had of fucking her. I had no business being in a relationship with a woman, and doing so was still the furthest thing from my mind, but bending her over and fucking her senseless was becoming more and more of a full-fledged desire than in inner thought. I felt like I was a pubescent teen again. “Is there a problem?” she asked. Fuck it, just hop on the bike Slice. She won’t notice. I turned, threw my leg over the bike, and looked down at my rigid but not quite as noticeable cock. I propped my feet up on the pegs and bend my knees a little to provide some relief. I turned slightly and pointed to the rear passenger pegs. “Nope. Get on, and put your feet on those pegs.” “Keep your bare legs away from the exhaust. It’ll burn you to the bone,” I said as I motioned toward the two exhaust pipes. “Just relax, and don’t flop around. Wrap your arms around my waist and hold on until you’re comfortable. And leave the glasses on, it’s a requirement and it’ll keep bugs out of your eyes. And when you get on, don’t drag your shoe over the fender. It ain’t scratched now, and I don’t want the motherfucker any different when we’re done,” I said over my shoulder. “Easy schmeezy,” she said as she stretched one of her long legs over the bike. As she wrapped her arms around me and pressed her inner thighs against the sides of my ass, the heart beat in my pants provided me a little reminder of the fact my outward intentions and my inner mind were worlds apart. Worlds apart.



AVERY I had no idea why Axton really came by and picked me up, and I didn’t care. Sloan was right; being on the bike was like riding a huge vibrator. I was in some strange state of ecstatic heaven, and we were flying down the road toward who knows where. Nothing I had done to date could compare to riding on the motorcycle. The fact I was on it with Axton made it immeasurably better. “You alright” he asked over his shoulder as we slowed down for a stop sign. I rested my chin on his shoulder and breathed into his ear. “Yeah, I’m perfect.” “So where’s your favorite place to relax” he asked. I wondered why he would ask such a thing. Maybe he wanted to talk or get to know me a little more. I really didn’t want him to stop riding the motorcycle. Not ever. I was feeling a strange sense of freedom as we rolled down the road; it was as if absolutely nothing else mattered. There were no worries of graduation, no inconsiderate parents, and no feelings of inadequacy about my boyish body. As the road rushed upon us, there was nothing between me and the entire earth except the wind which hadn’t hit my face yet. Since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of flying like a bird, and now I knew what it was like; because I was doing it. I wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream, but I didn’t dare. “The park where you come into town,” I responded. He nodded his head slightly and twisted the throttle. I pressed my thighs into his, holding on tighter as he accelerated. I would absolutely love being a biker bitch. I closed my eyes and smiled. What a rush. As he slowed down and turned into the park, I exhaled. I felt as if I’d been holding my breath for the entire ride, but I knew I hadn’t. Excited for what had happened, and disappointed we were stopping, I began to feel excited about sitting with Axton in my favorite place. Without a doubt, at minimum, he’d have to give me a ride home; so this wasn’t over yet. He pulled into a parking spot beside a picnic table, turned the bike to face outward, and stopped. He switched off the engine and told me to get off. I carefully lifted my leg over the rear fender, being careful not to drag my foot over it. I didn’t want to give him any reason not to want to do this again. As I stood beside motorcycle, I saw it and Axton in an entirely different light. Rightfully so or not, I felt as if I had become a part of it all. The experience. Being a biker. Ten minutes, and I was transformed. He kicked down the stand and got off the bike. He looked at me, and smiled his little smirk of a smile. “You enjoy it?”

It was difficult to explain. I fucking loved it. I never wanted to ride in a car again. I assumed he knew and would completely understand, but I didn’t want to babble like my normal self. I inhaled a shallow breath, exhaled half of it, and responded as best I could, considering my level of excitement. “Saying I enjoyed it doesn’t do the experience any justice,” I said as I admired the motorcycle. “Good, it’d be disappointing if you hated it.” I shifted my eyes toward Axton and smiled. “So what’s up?” His bicep flexed as he reached for his rubber band and stretched it tight. “We need to talk.” I took the few steps to the picnic table and sat down. Standing and staring at Axton was nice, but standing in front of me, he was a little intimidating. Sitting down was better. I wondered what he wanted to talk about, or what I might have done to cause him to be disappointed with me. Certainly if he was disappointed, he wouldn’t have picked me up and taken me for a ride. As he walked around the bike and to the table, I watched his sexy stride as if hypnotized. He stopped a few feet in front of the table and looked down at me as he removed his sunglasses. “I’m gonna cut right to it. We need to have a serious talk. I need something from you. I’ll explain what I need, and then you can give me your thoughts. Sound good?” he asked. I nodded my head eagerly. As a little girl, whenever my parents said we needed to have a talk, I knew it was something serious. Whether or not it was serious to me, they always believed it to be. Those types of talks, as a kid, always seemed to make me feel uneasy. Immediately prior to the talk, and during, I felt as if my stomach was full of butterflies. I spent the entire time as I waited for the talk wondering what the subject was going to be, or what mistake I had made in trying to live my life. Feeling uneasy and nervous until the talk was over, my mind would become an overflowing mess of ideas on what the topic might be. As he stood over me, I felt as if I was a little girl again. He crossed his arms and studied me. “Do you speak Spanish?” he asked blankly. That’s weird. I nodded my head. “Yeah.” “Fluently?” he asked. Okay, that’s still weird. I looked up at him and narrowed my eyes. “Very.” “Alright. I’m going to tell you something. You may or may not be comfortable with what I say or

what I ask of you, but no matter what, you can’t discuss this conversation with anyone. Ever. If you do…” He hesitated and reached toward my face. His hand gripped my jaw lightly. As he lifted my chin and turned my face to meet his, he continued. “Well, you just can’t. Is that understood?” Oh God, you just made me wet. I nodded my head and swallowed the lump which had risen in my throat. “Yes, I understand.” Having his hand on my face was exciting in itself. Hearing him tell me secrets made me immediately uncomfortable. The good kind of I’m excited uncomfortable. I crossed my legs, looked up, and smiled. For a short moment, he stared into my eyes. I mean it Axton, please believe me. He released my chin and began to pace back and forth. “Here’s what I’ve got. The club is selling a shipment of legal firearms to a group of Mexicans who can’t speak English very fucking good. Otis and I are doing the deal. I need you to be the interpreter. I may not need you to say anything at all, or I may. I have no way of knowing. But I’d rather have you there and not need you than be there, need you, and have nothing. And, nobody in the club speaks God damned Spanish. So, what do you say?” Holy shit. Seriously? A gun deal with a biker gang and a bunch of Mexicans who can’t speak English. Fuck yeah I want to do it. I stood from my seat. “Are they legal US citizens?” He narrowed his eyes. “How the fuck would I know? They’re fucking Mexicans, Avery. I doubt it”. I raised my hands to my cheeks and thought. I didn’t want to embarrass him or make him feel as if I was some smart-assed college girl. Quietly and calmly, I explained my understanding of the law. “Well, you put emphasis on the fact the firearms were legal. Selling legal firearms doesn’t make the transaction legal. If they’re not US citizens, it’s a Federal crime.” He wrinkled his brow and looked at me as if I were insane. “According to who?” I closed my eyes and thought. I had done a paper on gun laws my junior year when we were studying law. I had always been fascinated by firearms, and having recently received my concealed carry permit, my fascination with firearms was rekindled. I inhaled a deep breath, opened my eyes, and explained. “Well, according to the Federal Government. The Gun Control Act makes it unlawful for certain categories of persons to ship, transport, receive, or possess firearms. Transfers of firearms to any such

prohibited persons are also unlawful. Eighteen USC nine twenty-two ‘G’ is the law.” He stopped pacing. “Fucking Feds. You sure?” “Positive. I did a paper on it last year. But the law’s kind of thin in some respects. There’s case law to support a person’s knowledge and intent. If you sell the firearms knowing the recipient or recipients are illegal aliens, you’re fucked. If you sell them, and the recipient is an illegal alien, and you didn’t know it before hand, you’re fine. It’s stupid, but it’s the law,” I said. “So, as long as I don’t know, we’re alright?” he asked. “Yeah, it’s grey. But yeah,” I said. Holy shit, this is exciting. Illegal gun deals with Mexicans. If they’re the guys who wear the plaid shirts buttoned at the top, khaki pants, and have tattoos on their necks, that’d be even more exciting. He turned his palms up and shrugged his shoulders again. “Well, fuck. I didn’t know that. It’s good to know. I appreciate it. I guess I didn’t realize a Criminal Justice degree required you study law.” Pleased I could offer something, I simply stood and smiled. He pulled his knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade, and began picking at his fingernails. “Well, I don’t know shit about these fuckers. And I guess I don’t want to. Hell, they may all be US citizens, but I won’t ask. So, what do you think? You in or you out?” As he looked down at his hand and drug the blade of his knife under each fingernail, I studied him. Standing there with one knee slightly bent, wearing jeans, a white wife beater, boots, and his biker vest, he was hot as absolute fuck. The thought of him doing illicit gun deals only added to it, making him even more attractive to me. He was a true bad boy in all respects. Fuck yeah, I was in. I considered trying to make a deal with him; possibly negotiating a summer full of motorcycle rides, letting me suck his cock, or having him bend me over the park bench and giving me some biker cock in trade for my translation services. After a moment, I came back to reality. With Axton, doing this for him with no expectation or type of agreed upon payment would go much further. With him, it was about earning respect. I decided maybe I’d split the difference and play with the words I’d used earlier, at my apartment. After all, I did win the stand-off in the doorway after I said it. I pushed my hands into the back pockets of my shorts, and twisted my hips. “You tell me what you want, Axton. I’ll do it. I told you that. It’s pretty simple. You want this? You need me to do it?” He folded his knife, clipped it into his jeans pocket, and stared at me. Without looking down, he reached for the rubber band, and snapped it twice really hard. Fuck yes. I knew it. Stand there and think about fucking me, you gorgeous bad boy biker.

As he rubbed his thumb into his wrist, he responded. “Well, I wouldn’t have fucking asked ya if I didn’t.” “I’m in. Fuck yes, I am. Anything you need, Axton. And don’t think I’m saying that in a naïve schoolgirl kind of way. But if you need it, I’ll do it. I don’t know why, but I will. And what you said before about keeping this between us? Yeah, we don’t need to go over that again; I have your best interest at heart. So yeah, I’ll do it, and I’ll keep it quiet. When is this going to happen?” He smiled his shitty little smile. “Saturday. Nine o’clock at night, in the barrio in Wichita.” “Sounds good,” I said as I twisted my hips back and forth. He turned away from me, and began to walk away. After a few steps, he turned and looked over his shoulder. “You eat yet?” “Nope,” I lied. “You like Pho?’ he asked as he got on the bike. I had eaten Pho in Wichita with Sloan several times. According to her, it was the only cure for a hangover. There was nowhere to eat it in Winfield, however. “I Pho-king love it.” I chuckled. “But there’s nowhere in this town to get it.” “You got a curfew?” He laughed as he flipped the switch on the handlebar with his thumb. “Nope.” He pressed the button and started the bike. As the engine began to roar, he hollered over his shoulder. “Get on. Let’s go eat.” I twisted my hips again, curled up the corner of my mouth in a half-assed smile, and pulled my hands from my pockets. Whatever you say, Axton. Whatever you say.

AXTON We pulled the Ryder rental truck into to the poorly lit parking lot. A single street light illuminated the far corner of the parking lot which was approximately 200 feet square. The three other lights in the corners appeared to have been shot out at some point in time. The concrete bases for the parking lot lights remained, but the poles and the wiring were either removed or stolen at some point in time. Considering the neighborhood, my guess was they’d been stolen. “Looks like the place, huh Slice?” Otis said as he slowed the van to a five mile an hour roll. “Yeah, at least there’s only one truck. I wonder where they’re going to put these motherfuckers?” I asked as I attempted to focus on the truck positioned under the lamp post. Thankfully, they had parked under the light. Regardless of who they were, it made me feel more comfortable they had good intentions. Otis had a .45 caliber Colt 1911 in a holster under his left armpit, and I carried a Glock .45 caliber. Luckily, the weather had cooled almost twenty-five degrees from the previous week, and the jackets we wore to conceal the guns didn’t look out of place. I didn’t expect they would anticipate us doing a gun deal for sixty grand without being armed, but out of what little respect I had for these guys, concealing the firearms was a small show of faith. Avery sat quietly between Otis and me, and stared straight ahead. As we rolled alongside the truck, it was obvious two men in what appeared to be their late twenties or early thirties were seated inside. Both were clearly Mexicans. “Remember, stand on my left, so I can hear you alright. I can’t hear that well out of my right ear. Let me try and do this deal, and if they don’t speak as good as we need them to, I’ll just tell you what to tell them, and you tell me what they say in response. Understood?” I asked. She hadn’t said three words on the entire forty-minute trip from Winfield to the north side of Wichita. Now, truly in the middle of bean town, we were in a parking lot a mile from any other real civilization. Without a doubt, they had chosen this location due to the lack of vehicular traffic and the lack of law enforcement patrol. Cops really didn’t come to this part of town unless they were called. “Understood,” she responded. “You alright?” I asked. She clutched her purse with her right hand, and responded. “I’m good.” “Showtime,” Otis said as he put the van into park. As Otis opened the door and stepped out, I did the same. The two men stepped out of the truck, and the driver smiled, revealing a gold tooth. Both men appeared to be unarmed, dressed in wife beaters and what seemed to be freshly pressed khaki pants. The driver had a number thirteen tattooed on his left temple. The passenger had a large MS-13 tattooed on his neck, across his Adam’s apple. Incapable of

being able to deny any gang affiliation, they were both were covered in what seemed to be either prison tats or something one of their members did in the garage. “Jew must be Otis and Slice. They call me Chapas and theeese is Gato. Who’s the girl?” the driver asked in a thick accent. Well, fuck. Seems you speak English just fine. “She’s my interpreter. El Palõn said you didn’t speak English very well,” I nodded. “He don’t speak English for sheet. I work in this sheet-hole seety. I don’t have no choices,” he said as he tossed his head toward the passenger. The passenger stood stone faced and stared. Avery stepped to my left side and stood quietly. I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose, surveyed the lot for any movement, and opened my arms in a gesture toward the driver. “Well, we’ve got your inventory in the van. Ten crates of ten. They’re packaged for movement without any damage. It’s sixty grand even, best price you’ll find on the street. Let’s do this deal before anyone decides to come up here and see what we’re doing. So, we good?” I asked. The driver nodded his head once and whispered to the other man. The passenger turned and walked to the truck, opened the door, and removed a small Mexican blanket rolled into a rectangular bundle. I watched intently as he unfolded the blanket and pointed at bills which appeared to be wrapped in cellophane. I nodded my head. He folded the blanket over the money and handed it to Otis. “So, jew fuckers cold, or just wearing your coats to hide your pistolas?” The driver pointed to my waist and chuckled. “You want me to answer that?” I asked. “No, eets all good,” he said with a nod. “Pull jore truck around to my truck and we’ll unload these fuckers,” he said as he nodded toward the van. “Otis, back that fucker up to his tailgate, make it tight. We’ll slide those fuckers in there and get the fuck out of here,” I said. “Got it, Slice,” Otis responded. I gripped Avery’s upper arm and guided her to the side. Otis started the van and slowly

maneuvered it within a few feet of the rear of the truck. After the driver lowered the tailgate of the truck, I guided Otis back until the back of the van and the truck were almost touching. I unlocked the sliding door of the van and slid it upward. The driver slapped his hand against the bed of the truck. The passenger jumped inside like he’d been trained. I laughed to myself as I made a mental note that he must have been the Mexican equivalent to a Prospect. “You want to open one of these?” I asked as I motioned to the crates. “No eets all good. El Pelón says jore homie Corndog is good people. If El Pelón is good, I’m good. Jore not going to fuck us eenyway,” he said. “We’re in the gun business. I sold these fuckers cheap to build a relationship with your boss. Hopefully, we’ll do more business,” I said as I hoisted myself into the rear of the truck. I pointed beside the Mexican’s truck. “Just stand at the front of the truck and smile, Avery. We’ll be done in a minute.” She smiled and nodded her head without speaking. I was surprised at her demeanor. She didn’t appear to be nervous, nor was she overly talkative. The thought of having an outsider in the middle of this deal made me initially feel uncomfortable. The fact she was a woman made me even more uneasy as the day approached. But now that we were almost done with it, I was pleasantly surprised at her ability to remain quiet, not be annoying, and stay out of the way. “Otis get back here and help me,” I grunted as I slid a crate toward the rear of the van. As Otis peered inside, I explained. “I’ll slide ‘em to the back of the van, you slide ‘em to him. He can have his partner pull ‘em into the bed of the truck.” “Got it, Slice,” Otis said as he jumped into the van. We unloaded nine of the crates. Surprisingly, they all fit in the back of the truck. As I reached for the last wooden box and began to pull it to the rear of the van, I heard a vehicle. It was tough to tell from inside the van, but the exhaust was loud, and it was accelerating rapidly. For a moment I considered it may be on the adjacent road that led to the parking lot, but I didn’t need to speak Spanish to know the jabber from the two Mexicans in the back of the truck wasn’t one of joy. “Fuck!” Otis said as he reached the back of the van. Standing at the front of the dark van with my face covered in sweat, I couldn’t see shit. I hustled to the rear of the van to get a glimpse of what was going on, and my vision became perfectly clear. A completely different Mexican was pointing what appeared to be a Street Sweeper shotgun into the back of the van. He began screaming shit at us in Spanish.

“Don’t move, Otis. This beaner’s got a fucking Street Sweeper. That cocksucker will cut us in two if he starts shootin’,” I said sternly as I raised my hands slowly. This was a fucking set-up. Without responding, Otis took two steps toward the rear of the van and raised his hands to his sides. The Mexican continued to scream. Obviously you have no fucking idea who you’re fucking with, do you boy?



AVERY What seemed to be a very simple transaction had immediately turned into a huge mess. A truck with two Hispanic males came screaming into the lot, and while it was still rolling into place, one jumped out and held a gun on the two men in the back of the truck. The driver jumped out as soon as the truck stopped, and jumped out with a gun. Now he was screaming into the back of the van as he waved the gun into it. Otis and Axton were in the back of the van, and I was standing toward the front of the truck; alone and scared half to death. It was as if I didn’t even exist. No one was paying attention to me. My purse was draped over my right shoulder. In my purse, as always, was my loaded Glock 9 millimeter pistol. The instructor of the concealed carry course drilled the importance into my head of using the weapon as a last resort in a life or death scenario only. This was clearly one of those situations. It didn’t make things any easier. The two Hispanic males were focused on the men in the back of the truck the men in the back of the van. “El dinero. Dónde está el dinero?” the man screamed into the back of the van. He wanted to know where the money was. Maybe they’d take the money and leave. That was probably wishful thinking. “Dónde está el dinero?” he screamed again. Scared beyond comprehension, I quickly glanced at the van and then toward the truck. The robber at the truck stood quietly on the ground with the gun aimed at the two men who were standing in the bed of the truck on top of the crates of guns. The man standing at the van was shaking the gun and appeared to be extremely nervous. “El Pelón te matará, pendejo,” the English speaking Hispanic whispered to the man on the ground with the gun. The bald man is going to kill you. “Cállate!” the man with the gun shouted. Shut up! I couldn’t see into the van, but it was pretty obvious neither Otis nor Axton were able to pull their guns. “El dinero o la vida,” he screamed as he shook the gun toward the inside of the van. He was saying, your money or your life.

He’s going to kill Axton. The one advantage of the Glock pistol was the absence of a safety or any lever that would have to be messed with prior to pulling the trigger. The internal safety is part of the trigger mechanism, and simply required the gun be pointed and fired. No pulling levers or making distracting noises like on television or the movies. “Ahora!” the man screamed into the back of the van. Now! The man at the van with Otis and Axton was apparently done trying to negotiate. He wanted the money now. Someone must have tipped him off about the deal going down. I wished I could see Axton or Otis, but I could not. The man at the back of the truck stood quietly with the gun pointed at the two Hispanic men in back. It was obvious they were after the money, and nothing else. The man at the van raised the huge gun to his shoulder as if he was going to shoot. Even if Axton wanted to, he couldn’t give him the money; Otis put it in the front of the van. Hell, Axton had no idea what he was saying anyway. If I didn’t do something immediately, this was going to end, and end badly. If you are in fear for your life or for the life of a loved one, and you have no other alternative… I knew if I did anything, I had to do it quickly. I was all of fifteen feet from the back of the van, and I was the same distance from the truck. The man at the back of the truck had his back facing me, and the man at the van had no idea I even existed. The man at the back of the van lowered the shotgun a little and screamed. “Ahora!” The English speaking Hispanic made eye contact with me. He was able to see me, but the man with the gun was not, as his back was to me. As I pulled my pistol from my purse, he nodded his head slightly. God I hope this works. I took aim at the man behind the van, and fired one shot. As the bullet struck him in the side, his body twisted, and he fired the shotgun into the parking lot. As his body absorbed the shock from his gun firing, he fell to the ground. The English speaking Hispanic immediately grabbed the barrel of the gun the man was pointing at him and was attempting to twist it from his grasp. As I twisted and took aim at the man’s back, he screamed from the back of the truck as he fought for possession of the gun. He nodded his head toward me as he pushed the barrel of the gun upward and away, “Shoot theese motherfucker!” Scared and without much thought, I fired a shot into the back of the man standing at the truck. Immediately, he fell against the truck and then flopped onto the ground. I turned toward the van. The man I had shot was on the ground moaning. The entire thing took a few seconds. Axton jumped from the rear of the van and picked up the gun the man had dropped. He stepped on

the man’s neck, raised the gun slightly, and pressed the barrel into the man’s chest. The man on the ground began to groan. He’s still alive. They’re both still alive. Thank God. “Hijo de la chingada! Your chica saved our asses, homie,” the man at the truck said toward Axton. I stood and shook, still holding the pistol in my hand. My ears felt as if they were on fire. Although I had fired my gun several times during training and at the firing range, I had never fired it without hearing protection. Nothing could have prepared me for the sound of the gun being fired without protection. “Who are these two motherfuckers?” Axton demanded. “Putos ladrones!” the driver said as he spit on the man lying on the ground. “He said they’re thieves,” I whimpered. “They’re not your people?” Axton hollered. “Fuck no, homie. Someone must to told them we going to meeting. They come for the money,” he responded. He looked down and spit on the man lying on the ground. “Fucking puta!” “Jew can do whatever jew want to with heem. I’m going to execute theeese motherfucker,” the driver said as he tilted his head toward Axton. “Avery. Get in the van. You don’t need to see this,” Axton demanded. I noticed Otis was standing behind Axton with his pistol drawn. He was pointing at the man on the ground. I didn’t remember seeing him even jump out. I was clearly out of it, and probably in shock. I dropped my pistol into my purse and slowly walked toward the van. As I reached the door, and was out Axton’s view, I turned to face the Hispanic man. “If you’re going to do it, do it,” I heard Axton shout. “Prove to me he isn’t one of yours.” The Hispanic man pulled the trigger of the gun. The man on the ground went limp immediately. I heard another shot. Although I couldn’t see him, I assumed Axton killed the man on the ground. I stared at the Hispanic man. Without emotion, he raised the barrel and pointed it at the dead man’s head. Again, he pulled the trigger. As the gun fired, the man’s head disappeared. Holy fuck! “Grab that other crate of guns for him, Otis. And pick up Avery’s brass, there’s two on the ground somewhere. Find them,” I heard Axton yell.

“Got it, Slice,” Otis responded. Axton walked beside the van and into my view. I stood and stared. “I’m keeping this,” Axton said as he held the gun in the air. “I’ll gave theeese one to jore partner,” the Hispanic man said as he raised the other gun to his chest. Axton quietly walked up to me and leaned the gun against the van. He opened his arms and without much expression, began to speak. “I had no idea anything like this would happen. I’m sorry you were involved, but I’m God damned glad you were here. Just like the man said, you saved our asses, Avery.” I stood and stared, not knowing what to do or say. “Come here,” he said as he held his arms outstretched and curled his fingers into his palms. I quietly shuffled my way to him and laid my head against his shoulder. As his arms wrapped around me, I exhaled and bit my quivering lower lip. As he pulled me closer and held me tight, I began to feel safe. Although I had just shot two people, and witnessed their execution; something about being in Axton’s strong arms was beginning to make me feel as if nothing else mattered. As he held me, I realized as far as Axton was concerned this was just another day in the life of being an outlaw. For me, this would without a doubt be a life altering experience. As attracted as I was to Axton, we were two totally different people in so many respects. As Otis walked alongside the van toward us, I lifted my head from Axton’s shoulder. I watched as the Hispanic man drug the body of the man with no head toward the other truck. I blinked my eyes, turned toward Otis, and forced myself to smile. Otis extended his blood covered hand. I blinked again and stared. “Devil looks after his own, Slice. I’m tellin’ ya, he damned sure does. One in a million chance, but I got the brass and both slugs,” he said as he turned his palm upward. His hand was covered in blood and small pieces of fleshy material. In his palm were the two cartridge casings from my pistol, and the lead bullets. He had apparently dug them out of the dead bodies. He was right, finding them was probably a one in a million chance. Strangely, I wasn’t disgusted by it all; I was grateful. Without the bullets or brass casings, there would be no way the police could trace the killings to me. As Axton released me and held his hand out, I shook my head and nudged my way between him and Otis. “Give them to me, they’re mine,” I demanded. Otis shifted his gaze back and forth between Axton and me. “They’re covered in blood and those Mexican’s guts.”

“I don’t give a fuck, they’re mine. And I don’t trust either of you two with them,” I hissed as I opened my hand. Axton nodded his head and smiled his shitty little smile. Otis reached out and dropped the items into my hand. I looked down at my blood soaked palm and stared for a moment; as if I expected to wake up from some weird dream. After a few seconds, I realized this was as real as it gets, and I shoved everything into my pocket. As I wiped my hand on my jeans, it dawned on me; I may not ride a motorcycle or be in some club, but after what happened, the three of us weren’t that much different. Without a doubt, in the eyes of the law I had become an outlaw. And in my eyes… I had become a Sinner.



AXTON As soon as we become comfortable and relax in living life, something happens to remind us we aren’t nearly as in charge of the outcome as we once thought we were; we’re simply along for the ride. My life had been a full throttle all out run toward the sunset from day one, and it has never let up. From time to time I’d exhale; and when I did, life would slap my face and remind me I wasn’t in charge. Avery’s involvement in the killings wasn’t something I planned or expected, but I couldn’t do anything to change it. I did, however, have to try and find a way to make it taste good in my mouth. After taking Avery home, Otis and I were sitting in the clubhouse attempting to figure out what went wrong, and how we ended up in the situation we were in. Without a doubt, Avery had saved our lives, and we both felt indebted to her for doing so. Having someone clearly save your life, and realizing it, was a humbling experience I wasn’t necessarily prepared to admit or accept; at least not yet. Otis leaned forward and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. “I tell ya what, if she hadn’t been there, you and I wouldn’t be talkin’ right now. I can assure you of that.” “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right,” I said. “Shit Slice, you know I’m right. That fuckin’ beaner was about one breath away from shootin’ us and finding that money on his own. She said that cocksucker started screamin’ Now! Now!” He paused and shifted his focus to the floor. “You know, there at the end, when he was screamin’ like a mad man? That’s when she knew it was time. That fucker was done askin’, and you and I don’t speak fuckin’ Spanish. Hell, he was talkin’ so God damned fast, none of it could have made sense. It’s a good thing she speaks that shit.” He raised the beer bottle to his lips and took a drink. Otis’ forearms were still covered in blood. As I studied him I thought of what had happened and who might have put the attempted theft into motion. To think of another Mexican gang attempting to rob the MS-13 was almost impossible for me. No one in their right mind would attempt such a thing. To cross them would not only be suicide, but an assurance your entire family and the families of anyone you knew would be murdered. I was having a difficult time believing the two Mexicans knew who they were robbing on that end. I had an easier time believing they knew who we were. I rubbed my hands together clenched my teeth. As I felt my jaw muscles flex, I realized my frustration was reaching an unhealthy level. Typically, I tend to try and resolve issues immediately, before they have a chance to fester within me. The longer I wait to find resolution; the more liable I am to make a decision I may later regret. I sat, stared down at my hands and ran the events of the night through my mind. I hooked my index finger onto the rubber band and began to play with it, “I’ve been thinking. There ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell those two fuckers knew they were robbing the MS-13. And, if they didn’t know that, it leaves me to believe they did know they were robbing us. The more I think about it, the more I think it stinks. Someone said something. And that something ended up in the lap of a Mexican

gang. They didn’t come after the guns, they came after the money. And they knew we had the money. They were screaming at you and me, not the Mexicans. Are you following me?” “Shit. Yeah I see what you’re saying. Fuck, you think one of our own said something?” he asked as he stood from his seat. “If you already know the answer, don’t bother asking the question,” I said. “I hate thinking of that, Slice,” he said as he leaned over the trash can. I snapped the rubber band against my wrist. “Throw that motherfucker in the shop. God damn, Otis. You know by now I don’t want to smell that stinkin’ fucker. And I sure as fuck don’t like thinkin’ of it either, but I can’t sit here and be blind. It’s pretty simple shit to figure out. Well, now that some fucking beaner ain’t waving a Street Sweeper in my face. Wash that blood off your arms when you’re in the shop. Hell, you get pulled over on the way home, you’re gonna be in fucking jail.” Without speaking, he nodded his head and walked out into the shop. We were both exhausted. The level of adrenaline from the situation we escaped from was so elevated, it had brought me to an all-time high. Coming down off of that high left me tired and feeling weak; and the few times in my life when I found myself feeling weak, it eventually left me feeling vulnerable. As Otis walked into the office, I turned to face him and stared. I had nothing to say, but I wanted answers, and I wanted them immediately. Being in a motorcycle club exposes a person to all types of violence, activities, and situations which will make most people cower in fear. Over the years I had become almost immune to any feeling associated with exposing myself to violence or criminal acts. Being killed was an entirely different story. “What are we gonna do about the girl?” Otis asked as he sat down. He raised his hands to his face and began to rub his temples. I sat up in my chair and stared. “What do you mean?” “We owe her big time, Slice. God damn, she saved our fuckin’ lives. I was cleaning all the blood off my arms, and thinkin’. It kinda freaked me out. But if she hadn’t gone…” “We owe her ass big time,” he breathed. I narrowed my eyes and stared. “You want to buy her a thank you card or get her some fucking flowers? Or maybe a box of fucking chocolates?” Otis stood from his chair, lowered his hands from his face, and shook his head. “You know Slice, you’re the president of this club and you’re my best friend. But I got to be honest on this one. You’re a real prick. That fuckin’ girl saved us. She didn’t wash your sled or have new soles put on your boots. She shot two motherfuckers who were tryin’ to shoot us. Hell, she coulda took that sixty grand and ran. And they’d of killed us for sure. But she didn’t. I know she was scared to death. Hell, she ain’t one of us and she sure as fuck ain’t used to being in the shit we are.”

I stood up and began to speak. “We can sit here all night…” Otis raised his hand in the air. “I wasn’t done, Axton. This is you and me talkin’. Steve and Axton. That girl saved my fuckin’ life, plain and simple. No real way around it. There’s sayin’ it, there’s understanding it, and then there’s believing it. And I’m tellin’ ya, when I was cleaning the blood off my arms, I come to believe it. Yeah, buy her a box of fuckin’ chocolates, you asshole. Send her a fuckin’ card. But I can tell you what I’m gonna do.” “I’m gonna make God damned sure nothing ever happens to that little girl, Axton. Ain’t no motherfucker on this earth ever gonna harm that little bitch. I owe her my life. You do whatever your heartless ass thinks is best. But you know what’s best for the club? Do ya? I do, and I have my fuckin’ doubts about you.” He hesitated and crossed his arms in front of his chest. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and flexed my biceps. “You doubting me, Otis?” Otis uncrossed his arms and chuckled. “Keep flexin’ on me, Axton. It’s just you and me here, remember? I’ll wad your fuckin’ ass up and toss you in the street. Do I doubt you? No. Not really ever. But on this deal? You fuckin’ right I do. That girl needs taken care of. She needs to stay on our good side. Here’s the deal…” “You know why I ain’t got an Ol’ Lady? You know why?” he asked. I shrugged. “Because I ain’t found one I can trust. That’s it. Now, why ain’t you got an Ol’ Lady? And before you answer, I’ll tell ya. Because you’re an asshole, and you don’t let yourself believe one won’t fuck you over. Hell, those ratty-assed bitches you had in the past were just that, ratty-assed bitches. Ratty-assed bitches can’t ever be trusted, but it doesn’t mean all bitches can’t be trusted. Now you tell me the reason,” he said. “So now we’re talkin’ about Ol’ Ladies? I’m trying to figure out who fucked us over, and you’re talkin’ about having an Ol’ Lady? And you want to question me?” I growled. “You didn’t answer my fuckin’ question, Axton,” he said. “Fuck it. I’m tired. I’m going home. But I’ll say this.” He paused and slowly walked toward the door. As he reached for the door, he turned to face me. “You said that night in the bar she was off-limits. Well, make a decision, boss. I’ll remind you, we got bylaws and we got em for a reason. They’re posted on the wall behind ya in case you forgot ‘em. But you ain’t claimed her as your Ol’ Lady, you ain’t got her wearin’ a Property Of patch, and you sure as absolute fuck don’t have an “X” by your name. So, as far as the club’s concerned, she’s fair game. If you don’t make a move, I sure as hell will. You want to know why?” He walked through the door and into the shop.

Before I could respond, he stuck his head in the opening between the door and the door frame, widened his eyes, and began telling me his thoughts. “She’s gorgeous. She’s got guts. She don’t take shit from anybody. She stands up for what she believes in. She don’t run her mouth like a teenager, and…” “Because that little bitch has got my back,” he said as he nodded his head once and pulled the door closed. I lowered myself into the chair and removed my notepad from my jacket. I drew a line down the center of the page. I moved the pen to the left side of line and hesitated. I felt the need to make a list of the people I could trust one hundred percent and the people who I wasn’t sure of. To think of someone being in the club and not being able to be trusted was a difficult thing for me. At some point in time, I trusted each and every member enough to vote them into the club. Now, to consider one of my brothers turning against me was a difficult thing to imagine. I faced the wall and stared at the list of members. After studying the board for a few moments, I turned around, closed my note pad, and removed my jacket. I needed to clear my mind. I walked to the door, flipped the light switch, and gazed out into the shop. My bike sat beside the van we had used to make the delivery with my cut hanging from the ape hangers. I gazed at the cabinet on the left side of the shop and sighed. You’re tired Axton. Take some time to think. I sauntered over to the cabinet, opened it, and removed a lick ‘n stick seat and a clean rag. After I methodically wiped the dust from the rear fender of the bike, I cleaned the seat’s suction cups and pressed it onto the rear fender. I glanced at my watch. 1:22 am. If Avery was anything like me, she wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. After my first shooting, I didn’t sleep for two days. If for whatever reason she was able to sleep, maybe she was more valuable than Otis indicated. There was only one way to find out.



AXTON I looked up the landing of the stairs to the upper floor and stared at the windows of Avery’s apartment. The flickering light led me to believe the television was on. Quietly, I walked up the steps, to the door, and knocked three times. Sloan answered the door in grey sweats that were three sizes too small and a wife beater just large enough to cover her tits and a few inches of her extremely long torso. I gazed past her expecting to see Avery watching television. The small living room appeared empty. “Hey Axton, what’s up?” she whispered. “Is Avery awake?” I asked as I peered over her shoulder. “Uhhm, no. She went to sleep right after you brought her home. You want me to wake her up?” she asked. “Asleep, huh?” I said as I pushed my hands into my jeans pockets. I gazed down at the WELCOME mat in front of the door. As I looked up, I smiled, “As a matter of fact, I do. Wake her up. Tell her that her Ol’ Man is here to get her.” As soon as I spoke, I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth. It was one of those things you say by complete accident or some psychologically triggered inner thought and wish you could immediately take it back. For a split-second I considered grabbing Sloan’s dumb ass and slapping the shit out of her while I explained not to repeat what I had said. She narrowed her gaze and stared. “Ol’ Man?” she shrugged. “Never mind, forget it. Tell her Slice is here, and I want to take her for a ride,” I responded. She stared at me and blinked her eyes. “Slice?” “That’s right. Tell her Ol’ Slice is here,” I said, attempting to force myself to grin. Sloan stood in the doorway and stared as she pressed her upper arms into the sides of her tits. “Ol’ Slice?” She said, giggling as she spoke. Step aside, you nasty bitch. Sick and tired of dealing with Sloan and her two twins, I stepped past where she was standing and into the apartment, being careful not to brush against her when I did. A few well-placed steps and I stood

at the bedroom with the door closed. I gazed over my shoulder. “The one with the door closed?” Buy some clothes that fit, you big bitch. “Yeah, that’s it,” she responded as she dug her thumbs into the waistband of her sweats, lowering them even more. I rolled my eyes and turned around. I slowly turned the door handle and pushed it open. The room was pitch black. I flipped on the light switch and stared into the small room. Sure enough, Avery was fast asleep in her bed. Otis was right, she was gorgeous. After admiring her for a moment, I paused, turned off the lights, and closed the door. As I turned to face the living room, I noticed Sloan had taken a seat in front of the couch. Sitting in the chair with her legs crossed and her heels in front of her crotch, she looked up and grinned. Although they weren’t when I arrived, her nipples were now as hard as rocks and appeared to be attempting to poke completely through the light fabric of her ribbed wife beater. Without speaking, I walked past her and to the front door. As I reached for the door handle, she was already standing behind me. Quickly, I stepped through the door and onto the porch. As I turned around, I was greeted by a smile and her increasingly growing nipples. Horny bitch... “Tell her Slice came by. I’ll see her tomorrow,” I said. “Okay, Slice,” she said as she ran her thumbs along the waist of the sweats, lowering them enough to expose the top band of her orange panties. I blinked my eyes and chuckled to myself. I’ll make sure you get an invite to the barbeque. I’ll have half a dozen Sinners with big cocks waiting to gang bang your dumb ass. “You like barbeque?” I asked. “What do you mean?” she asked, pressing her upper arms into her tits. “Meat, Sloan. You ever heard of barbeque? Ribs, brisket, hot links, chicken? Cook the shit over a grill and eat it? Fucking barbeque?” “Oh, yeah. I freaking love it, why?” “Well, we have a club barbeque coming up. I’ll make sure you’re invited. It might give you a chance to meet a few of the fellas. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds freaking awesome,” she said. I nodded my head. “Consider it done.” I turned, walked down the stairs, and laughed to myself as I considered what Avery told me about Sloan. She really, really, really likes cock; the bigger the better. I threw my leg over the bike and thought of Pete holding her down while Hollywood shoved her twat full of cock and Toad shoved his down her throat. There was something about Sloan I didn’t like, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was pretty damned sure having the fellas fuck her senseless would make me feel a little better about being forced to look at her in the future. I glanced over my shoulder at the lick ‘n stick seat on my rear fender. If there was one thing I detested, it was a seat on my bike without someone sitting on it. I sighed, reached up to the ape hangers and rested my hands on the grips. I fired up the bike and considered going back to the shop and tossing the seat in the cabinet. As the sound of the exhaust echoed throughout the parking lot, I pulled in the clutch and kicked the bike into gear. Hell, Axton, you won’t be able to sleep anyway. There was one man in Wichita who may be able to shed some light on the Mexicans trying to rob us. If there was ever a man who slept less than me, it would be him. I glanced over my shoulder at the seat. I suppose it won’t hurt anything to leave it on there until tomorrow. I nodded my head, forcing my glasses down onto the bridge of my nose, and grabbed a handful of throttle. I figured this late at night I could probably make it there in ten minutes. I just needed to make a quick stop and get one person to go with me. The man who never sleeps.



AXTON At three o’clock in the morning, a person knows for certain just how loud his bike really is. At any time of the day, my bike was loud enough to trigger car alarms, and wake the dead. This early in the morning in a neighborhood full of three million dollar homes, my bike was loud enough to get the cops called pretty damned quickly. I shoved my cell phone into my pocket and waited for the gates to open. As they began to swing apart, I held my left hand out with my palm flat, motioning to proceed slowly. Traveling at part throttle was still louder than a horrible thunderstorm, but as quiet as we could possibly be. As I rolled up to the third house on the right, I raised my left arm and motioned into the driveway. After riding up the long angled driveway, it finally flattened out in front of the house. I killed the engine and quietly rolled in front of the porch. Appearing more like a mansion than a conventional Kansas home, I stared at the huge stone pillars on either side of the front porch. Not my style, but definitely an ornate entry. There was probably only one home like this in the world where I would truly feel comfortable, and this was it. As Toad killed his engine and rolled up beside me, I looked over my shoulder in his direction. He shook his head as he stared at the front of the home. “You shittin’ me, Slice? Are we at the right place?” “Yep, this is it,” I said. The front door opened and King stepped out onto the porch. Six-foot-tall and built like a professional football player, his cleanly shaved head and goatee made him an intimidating man in appearance. Dressed in a silk robe and slippers, however, he looked as if he belonged in the ritzy neighborhood. Knowing his background, the amount of time he had spent in prison, and his manner of earning the money he used to buy the home, I chuckled at the sight of him. “Nice robe, King,” I said. “Get your tired asses up here and in the house,” he said as he waved toward the open front door. “Place like this makes me nervous,” Toad whispered. “You won’t be for long. King’s one solid ass dude,” I said as I stepped off the bike. As we followed King into the home, it was apparent he had spared no expense in building the house or decorating it. A large screen Television on the wall in the kitchen had eight split screens depicting various portions of the facility and grounds. Considering the fact it was three in the morning, it was obvious they were taken with infrared cameras. Leave it up to King to take every precaution in making sure he was not being robbed, watched, or eavesdropped on; at least not without him seeing it happen. “So, a visit from the Sinners makes me nervous. A visit at three am by the President himself makes me really God damned nervous. To what do I owe this visit, Slice?” he asked.

“I’ll get to that in a minute. King, this is Toad. Toad’s a six tour Marine; fought in Afghanistan and Iraq both. Toad, this is Mr. King, but we leave off the mister, don’t we King?” “That we do, there’s no mister in front of my name. Good God damn, six fucking tours? Hell, I know now why Slice brought you. I have a soft spot in my heart for men who keep my country free. I appreciate your service, Toad. I see you’re flying the colors of a Sinner. Wise choice, if I do say so myself,” King said as he extended his hand. Toad shook his hand and nodded his head sharply. “I appreciate it. Just doing my job.” King cleared his throat as he released Toad’s hand. “Go sell that humble shit to someone stupid enough to buy it. I’m part gook, part nigger, part Mexican, and part who fucking knows what, but I’m not a dumb man, Toad. If you fought in six tours as a Marine, you did so because you believed in what you were doing, and I appreciate it.” “Thank you,” Toad said flatly. “Slice,” King said as he turned and shook my hand. “King,” I said with a nod of my head. “So. Have a seat, gentlemen. What can I get you to drink?” he asked. “I’m straight,” Toad said. “Same,” I agreed. “Alright then. Well, I was up watching Denzel Washington in The Equalizer when you called. Hell, it’s over now. Have you seen that one yet?” he asked. I shook my head. “That motherfucker took care of business. I like it when a man does that. It keeps everyone honest. So, as I asked before, to what do I owe this visit?” King asked as he sat down in a huge chair that resembled an upholstery covered throne. I sat across from him on a large couch and Toad sat beside me on the loveseat. I had brought Toad along for the exact reason King imagined. It was no secret King admired military men, especially if a man had actually seen combat. I didn’t think I needed to make King feel indebted to the club, but having Toad along would convince him in some respects to provide whatever information he could to assist us. I turned to face King and rubbed my hands against my thighs. “We did a deal with a local MS-13 clique…” “Stop right there,” King said as he stood from his chair. “Do you know who you’re fucking with?” he asked as he began to pace the room.

I nodded my head sharply. “Sure do. Let me finish, it’s not what you think. We’re good with them, it’s something else. Or at least I think it is.” “Those motherfuckers make me nervous, and nobody makes me nervous,” King said. I stood from my seat and faced King. “Well, let me tell you what happened. I’ll take your opinion on it, and I’ll let you nose around and see what you can find out. I know you know people we don’t, and I need all the help I can get here.” “Sit down, Slice. Son-of-a-bitch, a deal with MS-13? Alright, let’s hear it,” King said as he sat down in his throne. As King sat, I began to speak and sat back down on the edge of the couch, “So, Corndog is damned near done doing his time. He’s got in tight with some Mexicans in prison, the south siders from LA. One thing led to another, and they learned we deal in weapons. After a little negotiation, I made a deal with some of the Mexicans on the outside who were affiliated with the fellas on the inside. We were hoping for a long-term relationship and some support or credibility from these guys. I felt if they supported the club, it’d make us a damned site stronger in everyone’s eyes. So, I made a deal. A hundred AK’s for sixty grand…” King’s eyes widened as he stood from his seat. “You sold a hundred AK-47’s for sixty grand to the Mexicans?” “Sure did.” He shook his head lightly. “First things first, El Presidente. Or maybe I should say El Stupido…” I chuckled. “I don’t speak Mexican, but I don’t think I like what you’re saying, King.” “Sixty grand? You gave those motherfuckers away. You know that, right?” he said. I nodded my head. “I do. And I made sure they knew I knew. Also, I made an agreement in advance for the price on the second shipment if they wanted more.” “Hijo de la chingada. Shit, at that price, I’ll take a few hundred. Jesus, Slice. Go ahead, tell me the rest, I can’t wait to see where this went,” he said as he sat down again. “So, the club knows of the transaction. And, of course, MS-13’s people know, that’s it. No discussions with anyone else. We go to do the deal on the north side of town, the old abandoned grocery store over on Arkansas and thirty-second or whatever.” I paused as King nodded his head and raised his hand to his chin. “Well, we’re doing the deal, and Otis and I are loading the weapons into the truck. We’re in the back of a Ryder moving van, and the Mexicans are in the back of the truck. We’re just sliding the crates to the Mexicans and they’re humping ‘em into the truck. We’re parked tailgate to tailgate. I can’t see shit because it’s dark as fuck, and we’re down to the last crate.”

I stood from my seat and began to pace the living room. “So I heard something, and I started walking to the front of the van. I thought it was a truck out in the street, but it seemed closer than that. And I heard the Mexicans talking a hundred miles an hour. And although I got no fucking idea what they’re saying, I know they ain’t happy. Anyway, I get to the door of the van, and some fucking beaner points a Street Sweeper at Otis and me, and starts screaming. Another one has a gun on the two Mexicans in the back of the truck, but he ain’t saying shit.” I turned to face King. Leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows raised, he sat quietly; ready for me to finish the story. As if waiting for the punchline to a joke, he raised his hand to his chin and grinned as he crossed his legs. “So, now let me back up. It was brought to my attention that my contact was not an English speaking Mexican, so I took someone to interpret for me. And she was standing outside by the Mexican’s truck.” King uncrossed his legs and stared my direction. “You took a girl to do a gun deal with the MS13?” “She was my only option, King.” “You could have called me,” he responded. I turned my palms up and shrugged. “I didn’t think of it. I’m damned near done, let me get through this.” “So, after this beaner gets mad, maybe two or three minutes of screaming for us to give him the money, he’s done. He starts screaming he wants it now. But Otis and I got no idea what he wants, ‘cause we don’t speak Spanish. I can’t pull my piece, and Otis can’t pull his, we got our hands up at our chests, and we’re wearing fucking jackets. About this time I hear two quick gunshots. The beaner drops the Street Sweeper, and it discharges into the parking lot. I jump out, and see him and another on the ground. My girl is standing there with her Glock, shaking like she’s shittin’ stickers. The MS-13 who does speak English tells me these guys aren’t his people, and I say prove it. Now at this time, they’re both on the ground but they’re not dead. He shoots one of the guys in the back, and then blows his head clean off. I shoot the other one. He drags them to the side, we shake hands, and it’s over,” I said. “So my questions are one, who were these motherfuckers? And two, how did they know?” King stood from his chair and shook his head, “Did your girl know where you were meeting?” “Nope.” “Did your club?” he asked. “Yep.” He raised his hand to his mouth and stared down at the floor for a moment. He looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Did the two you were dealing with before the other two showed up have any MS

tats? You know those fuckers always seem to. Did they have any you could see?” “One had a number thirteen tattooed on his face, and the other had MS-13 tattooed on his neck. Clear as day, why?” “All those fuckers do; if they’re the real deal. They’ll have the tats right where you can see them; hands, face, head, neck, forearms. They don’t hide the shit. It’s a pride thing. If they didn’t, I’d say it was a set-up from the start. But, if they did, they’re real MS. If someone has the tats and they aren’t affiliated, MS will cut their heads off and toss them up on the hood of a car for show. I did time with those crazy pricks in the joint. Okay, so the fellas you were dealing with were legit. Now, the other two, the deceased, did they have any tats?” he asked. I crossed my arms and thought. “Not MS, no.” “And at the time the other two show up, you’ve already got the money and the guns are loaded in the Mexicans truck. They come to the truck and ask for the money? They didn’t try and take the guns?” “Correct.” “Well, here’s my opinion, knowing what I know about MS-13. There isn’t a Mexican on the entire planet who would rob the MS-13 knowing they were MS-13. They might on accident, but definitely not if they knew who they were. So, these two ladrones show up, but they didn’t come to rob them, they came to rob you. Sounds like they knew which direction the sale was going too, the more I think about it. Hell, you wouldn’t roll up on a deal like that and know who was loading and who was unloading. If they came to you asking for the money, so they knew you had it. You said the guy at the Mexican’s truck was quiet? Not making demands? Well, that sums it up. They came for the money, and they knew the direction of the deal. Make sense?” I nodded my head slowly. “Makes sense. Yeah, they guy at the truck didn’t say shit that I heard. The guy at our van just started screaming. The girl told me later he was saying, where is the money?” King raised his hands in the air. “Well, if he started screaming, where is the money right out of the gate, he knew.” I uncrossed my arms and glanced at Toad, and then back toward King. “I guess that brings us to the same question. Did the tip come from them or from the Sinners? I might need a little help nosing around here, King. Someone in this city knows who those two were, and you know everybody. So, I’m asking for you to do me a solid on this deal. See if you can find out who they were. That’s all. I should be able to make a connection from there.” “I’ll do that. Let me see what I can find out. Now, I sure as fuck can’t tell you how to run your business, but consider this, Slice,” King said as he pointed at Toad. “Does anyone short of Otis and Toad know about this deal and how it went?” “Just the girl,” I said. He opened his arms and nodded his head. “Act like the deal went without a hitch, like it was

perfect. Don’t tell a fucking soul what really happened. See if anyone says anything or asks questions. See if someone acts out of place. But don’t say one word about the attempted robbery. And start looking into if there’s a member who has financial problems or a sick wife, kid, or relative. You know, someone who needs money and might be desperate. A desperate man acts out of desperation. Leave no one out of your in-house investigation. Hell, start with your boy Toad. Oh, and one more thing…” “Don’t be surprised if your contact with MS-13 doesn’t call you first with the names and background information of the two dead Mexicans. They won’t take an attempted robbery lightly. To them, it’ll all be about respect. And he’ll look at it as disrespectful to you, and in turn, to him. He’ll dig around, you can bet on that.” I extended my hand. “I guess that’s all I’ve got. I appreciate everything, King.” He nodded his head and shook my hand. As he released my hand from his grip, Toad stood from the loveseat and quickly walked toward the door. As he reached the entrance and stopped, King inhaled a shallow breath and laughed as he exhaled. “Damn, your boy Toad’s ready to get the fuck out of here. Doesn’t even want to shake my hand,” he said. Toad turned around and stared at King. The look on his face wasn’t one of gratitude or thanks. If looks could kill, King was a dead man. What the fuck, Toad? Toad dangled his arms at his side and popped his neck. “I don’t know you, King. And out of respect, I was going to leave here without embarrassing you. But now that you mentioned it, I’ll explain something to you. You called me boy twice now. I’m not a boy, and I haven’t been for some time now. You might have helped the club, and you might be doing Slice here a solid, but you’ve got nothing coming from me, you disrespectful prick. And, if you don’t agree with me, you can step up here on the porch and I’ll whip your ass in your own home. Don’t disrespect me again, motherfucker.” Toad turned, opened the door, and walked outside. I glanced toward King. He shrugged and lowered his shoulders. “Shit Slice. He’s right. I didn’t even realize I’d said it. Now that he mentioned it, I guess I did. I’ve done time in the joint, and a lot of it. Hell, I know better. If you will, explain to him I’m better than that. Hell, just let yourself out, and tell Toad I apologize.” “He’s a hot-head, King. And he won’t take shit from any man. I ain’t saying he’s wrong. But I didn’t even notice. I’ll tell him what you said,” I said as I slapped King on the back. “I’ll be in touch,” he responded. As I walked toward the door, I considered King’s advice. If there were two people I knew I didn’t need to question regarding the robbery, they were Toad and Otis. Thinking of any of my brothers crossing the club wasn’t easy, but King was right. Desperate men make desperate acts. As I stepped onto the porch,

I immediately noticed the lick ‘n stick seat still on the fender of my bike. I looked down at my watch. Hell, another hour and a half, and the sun would be up. Realistically, I realized I should get some sleep. But first things always come first. I needed to put that seat to use.



AVERY Living life is similar to assembling a puzzle without the box to show you what it will look like when you’re done. One piece after another pressed into place until eventually you begin to understand just what it is that sits before you. If you don’t try to push the pieces into place, no progress is made, and you never truly know if they would have fit. When they do snap into place, everything starts to make sense, one little piece at a time. I initially became attracted to Axton because he was a very handsome man. Hell, anyone who looks at him would agree, regardless of whether or not they were attracted to other aspects of who he was. He was simply drop dead gorgeous. Now, I was even more attracted to him, and for reasons other than his good looks. More than likely contrary to what most other women would feel in his presence, he caused me to feel safe. I felt as if nothing or no one could or would harm me when I was in his presence. One thing that always fascinated me about carrying my gun was how I felt safe, powerful, and as if no one could penetrate the barrier the gun created. The gun provided me a false sense of hope. Hope of no one stepping into my bubble and snapping a piece of my puzzle into place I didn’t necessarily want. Simply standing next to Axton, I felt invincible. When he was gone, I felt vulnerable and powerless. I sat outside a coffeehouse in Riverside, sipping on a cup coffee and wondering just what piece of my puzzle Axton was going to snap into place. I was anxious to step back when he was done and see just what direction my life was headed and if the piece were in a place where I could make sense of what the end result would be. “So, I rolled that motherfucker up and strapped it to the bottom of the apes. Hell, it’s how all those Chicano bikers do it out in California. I figured what the hell, my sixty-thousand-dollar blanket,” he said as he nodded his head toward his bike. His motorcycle was parked in the street, against the curb. For all practical purposes, it had been stripped of all accessories. It didn’t have blinkers on the rear, only a license plate. In the front, it had a headlight, running lights, and blinkers, but only because they were an integral part of the headlight assembly. On the bottom of the ape hanger handlebars, he had strapped the Mexican blanket the money was wrapped in. It truly looked like it belonged there. “I like it,” I said. He stared at the bike and squinted his eyes. “I hate changing shit, but I’m getting used to it. Now that seat? That’s a totally different story. I’ll never get used to that motherfucker on there, and those suction cups fuck up my paint.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Price I got to pay,” he said as he shifted his gaze to me. I wanted to ask him what he got in return, but with Axton I’d learned to bite my lip. So far, he and I were making progress. It was minimal for sure, but small measurable improvements nonetheless. Saying something smart-assed was my natural nature, but learning to be quiet was going a long way with him. The old adage, don’t speak unless spoken to seemed all too applicable around Axton and his group. And, as my father used to say, if it isn’t broken, don’t try to fix it. “So, we’ve got a club barbeque coming up. I’d like for you and Sloan to come. You’ll be my guest, and Sloan will be…” He hesitated and looked down into his lap. “Well, I don’t know what Sloan will be. She’ll be your guest,” he said as he looked up. I reached down, picked up my coffee cup, and raised it to my mouth as I tried not to smile. Having him invite me to a club anything was exciting, and it was a step in the direction I wanted to take with him. Sloan going, on the other hand, didn’t excite me too much. I tipped the cup up, took a small drink, and forced myself not to smile. “Don’t invite her on my account. She’s a big girl. She can find shit to do on her own.” He looked across the table and clasped his hands together. “Well, I want to talk to you about that. I’m not going to try and bullshit you here. I don’t care much for that bitch. I know you two are tight and all, but something about her gets under my fucking skin. Here’s why I want her to come…” He rubbed his palms together eagerly. “I want one or more of the fellas to rip that bitch a new ass.” What the fuck? Rip her a new ass? What? I leaned into the table and narrowed my eyes. “Huh?” “You know, rip her a new ass. Like Toad and Pete or Otis. Or whoever,” he said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m afraid I don’t want to.” He leaned into his seat and crossed h.s arms, “You said she likes big cocks. In fact, the bigger the better is what you said. Well, I wanted her to come to the barbeque and meet some of the fellas. I can guarantee you she’ll get some cock at the barbeque. She ain’t gonna meet her groom at this motherfucker, but she’ll damned sure get herself fucked real good. Especially if she dresses the way she normally does.” I crossed my arms and stared at him. Something about Sloan fucking one of the other members of the club appealed to me as well. Maybe more than it did to Axton. In the two weeks since the botched robbery, she hadn’t shut up about Axton. Slice this, Slice that. She had reminded me no less than two dozen times in the last two weeks that Axton was hotter than any other man she’d ever seen. It reached a point I had to continually remind her, although Axton and I weren’t a couple, and we weren’t even technically seeing each other, he was still very much off-limits. Her evening attire changed from the typical hoodie to a wife beater and no bra. Typically I’m not a jealous person, but I’d reached my limit on

her unintended nipple salutes as well as her verbal advancements. “So, just out of curiosity, what satisfaction do you get out of this? Oh, and before I forget, yeah, count me in. I can’t wait. Now, answer the question, please.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. As I studied him, I realized I had only seen him wear two different outfits. One was jeans and a jacket the night of the gun deal. Other than that, I’d only seen him in jeans, boots, and his cut. No doubt it was fine with me, but I’d never really thought about it before. “Well, I guess knowing the fellas won’t show her any mercy. Even if a bitch wants some cock, if she fucks a drunk biker, she’s gonna get more cock than she really ever thought possible. She’ll have a hard time walking for a week. Knowing one of the fellas beat her pussy to a pulp and walked away without so much as a hand shake would suit me just fine,” he said. I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Seriously, it’s just wrong. But yeah, I’ll talk her into going. It won’t take much. Oh, and she says she loves sucking cocks, tell them that, too.” “Doesn’t really matter if she likes to or not, she’ll be doing it anyway,” he said. It’s strange how a woman changes when a man steps into the picture, but thinking of any other girl flirting with, hitting on, talking to, or even thinking about Axton was enough to make me angry; Sloan included. I wanted to either win Axton’s heart, or lose him entirely, but I didn’t want anyone interfering with the process. Lately, hearing Sloan talk about how smoking hot he was caused enough tension between us to make me uncomfortable having him come by to take me for a ride. Maybe the barbeque would be just the right thing for her. I smiled and picked up my coffee cup. “Sounds good to me. I’ll tell her. She’ll be excited. I know I am.” “You done?” he asked as he motioned to my cup. I nodded my head and shook my cup. “Yep. This fucker’s empty.” “Toss it. Let’s ride,” he responded. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” I said as I jumped from my seat and tossed the cup into the trash. Something about being on the back of Axton’s bike made me feel special. It was as if when we rode together, I was actually his. I knew I wasn’t, but when I was on the back, and my arms were wrapped around him, it seemed as if we were one; a part of each other. Flying around the roads together having people look at us like we were different. Seeing people at stoplights giving him the thumbs up out of either fear, jealousy, or some type of appreciation; and being a part of it made me feel as if I was something or someone I always wanted to be. To be irreplaceable, we have to clearly stand out as being different.

And when I was on the back of Axton’s bike, I was just that. “Ready?” he asked. I gripped his waist in my hands and pressed my feet onto the foot pegs. I leaned forward and rested my chin lightly on his shoulder and breathed into his ear. “Always.” And I meant it. Always.



AVERY There’s the being honest and not necessarily saying everything, and then there’s being honest in everything you say. The former was what I was attempting to accomplish. So far, I was doing pretty well, and hoping the conversation shifted before I was tempted to say something I may very well later regret. “No, what he said was this. See if you can talk her into going, it’ll be fun,” I said over the sound of Sloan’s hairdryer. She switched off the hairdryer, bent over, and flipped her hair over her shoulders as she quickly stood. “I think it’ll be a freaking blast. And all those guys from the bar? God, there’s like fifty of them.” I rolled my eyes and pressed play on the remote. Although I had never seen them in the past, I was on season three of Sons of Anarchy on Netflix. To me, Axton was Jax Teller; only bigger, meaner, and better looking. I had become an instant fan of the show, and really didn’t want it to end, but I knew it already had. I was doing my best to make the series last, but found it difficult not to watch them as fast as I could. “You know he kind of already asked me a few weeks ago, when he came over that night looking for you. We were standing out on the porch talking, and he asked me if I liked barbeque. I told him I did. He probably remembered it from when I told him that night. He looked really tired and like he hadn’t slept in a while. I felt sorry for him. You know, I should have offered to let him sleep on the couch,” she said as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. You overweight fucking bitch. You couldn’t even fit that fat ass of yours on his bike. I closed my eyes and bit my lower lip. It was all I could do to not go absolutely psycho on her ass. Hopefully after the barbeque, someone would be fucking her regularly and she’d leave Axton out of her future thoughts. As the scene in SOA shifted to the lady strapped in the wheelchair in the basement, I chuckled at the thought of strapping Sloan to a chair and having ten of Axton’s biker brothers slap her around and teach her a lesson. “What’s so funny” she asked over her shoulder as she walked past. “It’s Sons of Anarchy. Nothing, just a funny part,” I said as I looked up. Gain weight much? “I love that show,” she said as she stepped into the room. I alternated glances between the television and the bedroom door as Sloan stood in front of the mirror. She appeared to be bigger and her face looked fat. It seemed as if I hadn’t seen her in the few weeks Axton and I had been spending more time together, but she never seemed to just get fat before. As she disappeared into the room, I turned to the television. Opie was standing in the street talking to Jax. I realized if Opie’s head was shaved, he’d look just like Pete. As Sloan walked in front of the mirror again,

I shifted my gaze to the doorway. My eyes widened to the point I was afraid they’d fall out of the sockets. Holy shit. She stood in front of the mirror with her hands cupped over her bare boobs. She wore a thong, and nothing else. It wasn’t a pose I had never seen, because it was pretty common for her to stand in front of the mirror half-naked. I had never, however, seen her look as big as she did. Her ass was huge, her thighs looked like tree trunks, and her boobs looked like a one-layer round cake flattened against her chest. I pushed pause on the remote and walked to the bathroom. I turned on the water and stood in front of the sink, looking in the mirror. I turned to my side. I glanced up and down the length of my body from head to toe. I turned half way around. I faced the mirror and turned off the water. I reached for my wrist and removed my hair tie and pulled my hair into a ponytail. It was one week before graduation, and for the first time since I began to attend college, the girl looking back at me was the one I always wanted to be. I flushed the toilet and walked out into the living room. As I sat down and grabbed the remote, I gazed toward Sloan’s bedroom. She stood in front of the mirror in a pair of shorts and a volleyball tee. “You look fucking hot,” I shouted. “Really? Do you like these shorts?” she asked. I nodded my head eagerly. “Fuck yeah I like ‘em. They make your ass look perfect. Have you like, lost weight for graduation?” “Do I look like it?” she asked over her shoulder as she gazed into the mirror. “Uhh, yeah. You look fucking hot,” I lied. “Thanks, you look good too,” she said. And, for the first time since Sloan and I had met, I smiled knowing she was right. I looked good.



AXTON I had no real way of knowing if it was the arrival of summer, the fact Corndog was getting out of prison, or some subconscious feeling of accomplishment from living through the botched robbery, but my moods in the last week or so had changed from my typical asshole self to an asshole with a sense of humor. Almost as if I was witnessing someone else go through the motions of living life, I was enjoying my exposure to myself throughout the course of each day. “Take ‘em off, Prospect,” I howled. Cash surveyed the crowd. Every member of the club wasn’t present, but there were twelve watching and waiting, including me. He gazed at Otis as if the big man was his salvation, his way out, his only hope. I crossed my arms and flexed my biceps. “Hey motherfucker, look at me when I’m talking to you. That big son-of-a-bitch can’t help you. It’s me you got to worry about. Now, I told you to drop your pants and get your cock out. You don’t have a choice. Drop ‘em.” He reached for his belt and unbuckled it. As he unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them past his boxers, everyone started pointing and talking shit. Not a one of us had any proof of the alleged choad, but we wanted to know just what he was packing before the barbeque. There were a number of single women who would be coming to the party, and having Cash trying to pick up on them and embarrassing the club by pulling out a one-inch cock would be a disaster. After a short discussion, I decided to have him pull it out so we could see if it was something that belonged in a circus. His jeans now bunched around his knees, and standing in his boxers, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and stood as if waiting on directions. “Prospect, if I tell you to go find a fucking dog turd and eat it, you better start sniffing. If I tell you to go cut the toe off a North Korean Communist and bring it to me on a chain, you better get on a fucking boat and start rowing straight west of here. And if I tell you to whip out your cock for me and the fellas to do a cock inspection, you better whip that motherfucker out. Drop ‘em, Prospect,” I demanded. Cash sighed, pushed his boxers down to his thighs, and leaned back as he pressed the web of his hands into his hips. Several of the men started clapping and whistling as he pushed his shorts down. Otis and I stared in wait. As Cash stood with his hands on his hips, he lowered his gaze to the ground as if embarrassed. Slowly, his cock began to rise to attention. The crowd gathered erupted into either laughter or cat-calls. Somewhat shocked, but probably more prepared after Avery’s description than the rest of the crowd, I stood and stared as if it were a six car wreck on the freeway. “Jesus God damned Christ, Slice. Kid’s got a cock like a mule,” Pete screeched. “Send his ass to Hollywood and pimp him to the porn industry, Slice,” Hollywood said with a laugh.

Toad pushed his way between Otis and I. “Excuse me fellas, I need to see what we got here.” Toad stood between Cash and I and bent at the waist. His hands now resting on his thighs, he was a matter of two feet in front of Cash staring down at his cock. After a short study of the merchandise, Toad stood up, turned to the crowd and shook his head. “Don’t know that I call it a choad, but it damned sure ain’t much to brag about,” he said. “Shit, Toad. Kid’s got a cock like a horse,” Pete said. Toad shook his head and laughed. “Bullshit. Fucker’s three and a half inches long. And that’s a big maybe. It’s hard to tell, because half of it’s that huge fucking head. Shit, the head of that fucker’s as big as a Washington apple. I’m not impressed.” “Somebody grab the tape measure out of the toolbox,” I hollered over my shoulder. The head of Cash’s cock was the size of a teenager’s clenched fist. It made everything else seem disproportionate and rather strange. There was no doubt he belonged in a circus, but not for having the shortest cock on the planet. Sloan’s description was on track, but somewhat inaccurate. If nothing else, it was entertaining to look at. To me, it was similar to a hairless cat or a pug-nosed puppy, you stare at them in the pet store in amazement, but you’d never dare to take one home. As Stacey stepped beside me, he handed me a tape measure. “Good lookin’ out, Stacey,” I said as I grabbed the tape measure. “Now hold still,” I said as I pulled the blade out to 24” and locked the tape measure in place. I leaned down and pressed the end of the tape into Cash’s lower abdomen and looked down at the tape measure. 3-3/4”. I pressed the lock and reeled the tape measure back into the case. “Three and three quarters inches fellas, from base to tip.” “Looks bigger; it’s probably that huge fucking head. That’s the biggest cock head I ever seen, short of on a Shetland pony,” Stacey said. I shook my head and grinned as I pointed down at Cash’s jeans. “Pull ‘em up, Prospect.” As he jerked his pants up, he expressed his displeasure. “Fucking bitch.” “Well, what’d you expect? My source told me you told the girl you were gonna fuck her senseless. Now for you to do anything like that with what you’re packing would have required that she have a pussy attached to the bottom of her foot or the palm of her hand. But you God damned sure weren’t gonna fuck her senseless with that, with her being built the way she is,” I said as I tossed the tape measure to Stacey.

“Listen up, fellas. Now, the girl with the big titties from the bar, the one who rode back with Cash; she’s coming to the barbeque. I need.” I said as I raised my right hand in the air. “Oh hell, why don’t we say three volunteers? I need three of ya to agree to fuck this girl, and fuck her hard. I don’t want her to be able to walk for a week, nothing less. She says she likes big cocks, the bigger the better. Prospect, you’re out. Patches only. Who’s hung like a horse and wants in on this deal?” Damn near everyone started hollering like a bunch of idiots. I raised both hands in the air and rolled my eyes in disbelief. “Hold up. Quiet the fuck down. Jesus. We’re going to have to go on seniority or something. Maybe draw straws again, fuck.” Toad stepped between Otis and I, bit the neck of his beer bottle in his teeth, and reached for his belt. In one effortless motion, he pulled the belt, unbuckled it, and dropped his three sizes too big jeans to the tops of his boots. No boxer shorts for Toad, he was obviously going commando. Now standing in the center of the crowd with the beer bottle still clenched in his teeth, he slapped his palms against his butt cheeks and stared straight ahead, stone faced. His cock was soft and about eight inches long. It looked like it weighed five fucking pounds. Without a doubt, when hard, he’d have a ten-inch cock. I’ve never been one to actually want to see another man’s cock, but the baggy-assed jeans he always wore began to make sense. I raised my hands and slowly began to clap. Toad raised his right hand slightly and curled his fingers and thumb to form a “C”. Holding his hand at chest height and still staring straight ahead, he released the beer bottle from his teeth. As if he’d performed this trick in the bar a thousand times, as it fell toward the ground, he caught the bottle in his grasp without looking down. Standing expressionless, he raised it to his lips and finished drinking it. His pants still around his ankles, he tossed the bottle fifteen feet toward the trash. I shifted my gaze to the trash can as he released the bottle, aggravated he’d thrown it in the first place. Broken glass on the shop floor was one of my pet peeves. The bottle fell right into place in the center of the can. Toad bent down, pulled his pants up, and buckled his belt. With both index fingers, he pointed to his crotch. “Any of you fellas can fuck with that, get in line. I say we go off cock length, boss. You said the bigger the better; let’s give this girl a good solid Sinner fuckin’.” “Agreed,” I shouted. “If you’re hung like Toad, step up.” I crossed my arms and glanced at Otis. He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his temples. Shit, Otis, I know you don’t have a moral bone in your body. Don’t act like you’re thinking about this. He lowered his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll do it.” No shit. “Alright. I’ve got Otis and Toad. Who else is hung like Toad here?” The fellas mumbled and grumbled, but not one volunteer stepped forward.

Shocked, I raised my hands in the air and glanced at each of the members. “Come on. A shot at a God damned college girl the week before she graduates? Black hair, tight pussy, and tits the size of fucking watermelons? Says she loves sucking cocks too. Hell, I forgot all that part. I need one more, fellas. Who will it be?” Pete stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down at his feet. As he looked up, he raised his right hand and stroked his beard. “I’ll do it if we got some rules to this deal, Slice.” Hollywood chuckled. “Rules? If it ain’t covered in the bylaws, it don’t matter.” I narrowed my gaze. “What the fuck are you talking about, Pete? What kind of fucking rules are there to a gang bang?” Pete released his beard and raised his hands. “I can’t do a gang bang, Slice. Hell, everyone here knows I’m hung like a mule, but I got a bad case a stage fright, Slice.” “What the fuck does that mean?” I chuckled. “Can’t piss or get a stiffy in front of another man,” he said. I wrinkled my nose and stared. “No shit?” “Nope. Tried a time or two, and it don’t work. Not at all. I can go first, or in the middle, or hell, I’d even go last. But I can’t be all up in it at the same time one of the other fellas is, and I can’t have ‘em standing by me watchin’ either. If we’re taking turns, hell yeah, I’ll hurt that bitch,” he said. I glanced toward Otis and Toad. “I don’t need to watch that ugly prick fuck,” Toad snarled. “Same,” Otis said. “Your Ol’ Lady okay with this, Pete?” I asked. “She’s at her folks up in Milwaukee. I ain’t gonna bother askin’,” he responded. I looked into the crowd. “Anybody else?” Silence. “Well, it’s settled; Otis, Toad, and Pete. I don’t want anyone else fucking with this girl. And I don’t want any one talking shit to her about it before it happens. I want it to be a surprise. Like it just happened. Understood?” Most of the fellas nodded or began to tell how they would have torn her to shreds if their Ol’ Ladies weren’t coming. I grinned and slapped Toad on the shoulder.

“Don’t be throwing beer bottles around the shop. One of ‘em breaks, and you’ll be sweeping it up, not the Prospect,” I growled. “Gotta miss the can to bust, Slice. I don’t miss,” he responded. Considering the amount of grenades he’d thrown in Afghanistan and Iraq, he probably didn’t miss. As the men all began to filter out of the shop and hop on their bikes, I glanced at my bike. Sitting in the rear of the shop with my new blanket strapped to the bars, it looked good. The lick ‘n stick was still on the rear fender from the night before. I shook my head and slowly walked toward the bike. I reached down and gripped the seat in my hands. As I lightly pulled against it to release the suction cups, I turned my wrist and looked at my watch. 12:48. I pressed the seat back into place and threw my leg over the seat. As I relaxed into the seat, I raised my hands to the apes and rested them on the grips. As if programmed to do so, I twisted the throttle twice, pulled the choke, flipped the ignition, and hit the start button. As I pulled out of the shop and toward the gate, several of the fellas turned and stared. “Last man out lock up the shop,” I hollered over my shoulder. Because this might be an all-nighter.



AVERY For a woman to accurately determine what a man is really thinking would be similar to a man having a full understanding of what it’s like to go through a menstrual cycle. It’s never going to be completely clear to either party no matter how much a person tries to explain. “So, let me get this straight. I’m not trying to play with words, or be a smart-ass; I’m really not. But let me see.” I said as I stood from the park bench I forced my hands into the rear pockets of my shorts. I twisted myself into my best naïve schoolgirl pose just to throw him off a little. The shorts I was wearing were absolutely killing my pussy without any underwear, but they looked hot as fuck. As much as I wanted some relief, I pulled back on the pockets and tried to give him just a little of a show up front. He sat quietly on the park bench and stretched his rubber band to the point of complete failure. Snap! Good. Now, if you like it, take it. I pulled my hands from my pockets and tossed my hair. “So, I’m going to stick by your side and stay quiet. If someone talks to me, I will respond. If they don’t, I stand, smile, and look pretty. If anyone asks if I’m available, I say no, and if they ask if you and I are together, I say no. And if someone asks if I’m your Ol’ Lady, I say hell to the no. Lastly, if anyone fucks with me, I find you or if I can’t find you, I find Otis. So, technically I’m not spoken for, but I’m not available either. Right?” “You coulda left the last part out, but that’s it. You got it,” he said as he played with the rubber band on his wrist. I lowered my hands and stuffed them into my rear pockets again. Holy fuck that’s uncomfortable. I bent my knees slightly and rocked my hips back and forth. After he snapped the rubber band again, I lifted my right shoe slightly and dug the toe into the dirt, twisting it back and forth as I watched the impression I was leaving in the sandy soil. No one knew better than I did that I didn’t have any tits, but what little I did have was exposed to the world through the opening of my vee neck tee shirt. As I felt the early evening breeze across my nipples, I glanced in his direction. His eyes were fixed on the opening of my shirt. Get an eyeful, Axton. “You want to sit the fuck down, you’re making me nervous,” he grunted as he shifted his gaze upward. As I tilted my head and gave my best duck face, he snapped the rubber band twice.

Good, all that practicing I’ve been doing in front of the mirror worked. “My legs are cramping. I need to stand,” I lied. He stood from the park bench and pulled his knife from his pocket. As he raised it to his other hand, he flicked the blade open. Now focusing on his fingernails, he fidgeted with his knife and stopped paying attention to me altogether. Frustrated, I turned away from him and dug the denim out of my sore pussy. “What are you afraid of, Axton?” I asked over my shoulder as I turned to face him. He looked up from the half-assed manicure he was performing. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I shrugged my shoulders. “With us. You and me? What are you afraid of?” He folded his knife, clipped it to his pocket and lowered his chin slightly. “A lot of motherfuckers will claim it, but only a handful actually mean what they say; I’m one of that handful. I’m not afraid of a God damned thing on this earth.” “So what’s keeping you from making progress with me?” I asked. He turned and stared at me as if I were absolutely insane. As he crossed his arms and continued to stare, it was obvious I’d touched on a subject he really wasn’t ready to discuss. The muscles in his biceps pulsated. As soon as he began speaking, the tone of his voice was sterner than before. “You just don’t get it, do you? I am making progress with you. More than I’ve made with anyone in the last fifteen God damned years. It’ll probably come as no fucking secret, but I fucking hate women. Last I checked, Avery, you’re a woman,” he said as he tilted his head toward the bike. “I absolutely hate, and I do mean hate having that seat on the fender of my bike. About every ten minutes when you think I’m rubbing my cheek, I’m not. I’m looking over at that God damned lick ‘n stick and wondering if it’s eating through the clear coat on my fender. But I’ve left that motherfucker on there for what seems like a month straight. Do you want to know why?” He rested his hands on his belt and raised both eyebrows while he waited for me to respond. I was beginning to feel small. I swallowed heavily and nodded. A very inaudible yes puffed from my lips. “Because I like having you on the back of my bike. I have no fucking idea why, I really don’t, because I hate bitches on the back of my bike. But for some God damned reason, having you back there makes me feel, at least for as long as we’re riding, like I’m normal. Well, Avery, I got a news flash for you. I’m far from normal.” He snapped the rubber band more times than I could count. Yeah, that’s not the ‘I think you’re way too cute’ snap, is it?

“I’ve been shot at and missed, and I’ve been shot at and hit. I’ve been beaten, burned, cut, stabbed, and I’ve gone long enough without food and fucking water that I should have died. I’ve been in more fucking fights than any professional boxer, and my left arm is pinned back together with metal screws because the third time it broke, I didn’t have time or the money to fix it. I’ve been to jail more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. No, Avery, I’m far from normal. You want to know why they call me Slice?” he growled. I stood and stared. I suppose I should have been scared or surprised. For some reason I was neither. I was beginning to like him more. For the first time since we had been spending time together, he was coming out of his shell. I attempted to swallow the rock in my throat, but couldn’t, so I simply nodded my head once. He reached down and grabbed each side of his cut, and pulled upward, unsnapping it. He leaned over, hung the vest from his ape hangers, and turned toward me. As he stood facing me, he reached down and pulled his tee shirt over his head. He quickly turned, tossed it over his shoulder and onto the seat of the bike. As he turned around, now shirtless, I gazed like an idiot at his upper body. Oh my God. His chest was massive, and far more defined than I would have imagined. His stomach didn’t have an ounce of fat on it. In fact, it was chiseled to perfection. His upper arms were solid muscle, and now that he was angry, were quite swollen. But my focus wasn’t solely on his muscles or well-proportioned body. My focus, at least now, was on the twelve-inch-long scar on his stomach. And the one below it that was eight or so inches long. And the one across his chest. And the one that went from his rib cage toward his back and appeared to never end. The wounds didn’t seem to have ever been stitched or taken care of by a medical professional. It looked as if he’d been tortured by a chainsaw wielding maniac. As I stood and stared, he slowly shuffled his feet and turned around. On his back were smaller scars, but there were more than I could count. They ranged in size from an inch to several inches long. Without speaking, he turned around again and grabbed his tee shirt. As I stood and stared, he pulled it over his head and covered his body. “That’s why they call me Slice. Now, before you ask, about three or four of them came from fights. The other thirty or so?” he asked as he ran his fingers through his hair. “My Ol’ Man. You wanna know why I don’t have any on my arms? Because a shirt wouldn’t hide ‘em when I went to school, that is on the days he would let me go. And none of them ever got stitched because I couldn’t let the doctors see ‘em or he’d have been arrested. When I was a kid he’d already been to the joint twice. One more time, and it’d been life in prison. Well, now he’s doing life in prison, and I’ve got these to remember him by.” “Turn around,” he demanded and he stepped toward me. “Axton, I…”

“Turn the fuck around you question asking bitch,” he demanded. Reluctantly, I turned around. The park bench was only a few inches in front of me. I felt as if I was trapped, but I faced it anyway. As he positioned himself behind me, he raised his hand to the left side of my jaw, clenched it between his thumb and forefinger, and tilted my head to the right. As he breathed into my ear, he pressed his hips into the back of my ass. His breath against my ear caused goose bumps to rise along the length of my arms. “You feel that?” he breathed. All I could feel was his warm breath against my face. I swallowed heavily. “Feel what?” I squeaked. “That stiff cock of mine, Avery. It’s pressing against your ass. You feel it?” he asked as he pressed his hips against me with a little more force. I nodded my head and whimpered. “That lump you feel rising against that little round ass of yours, you want to know what I call it?” he growled. Still holding my jaw firmly, his control of me was apparent. His strong hand not only held my face in the position he wanted it to be, but provided me a sense of ownership and restraint. Had he released me, I would have melted into a puddle right then and there. I nodded my head again and puffed out another dry yes. “I call it progress,” he said as he bit my earlobe between his teeth. With my ear still clenched firmly between his teeth, he continued. “For the last fifteen years, my cock ain’t been much good; probably either from my Ol’ Man beating me, or from all the women who fucked me over, hell who knows.” “Reach back there with your right hand,” he demanded. I stood in shock and trembled. Not from fear, but from nothing other than one hundred percent alpha male arousal. Although we were standing in the hot sun, his breath against my ear caused me to shiver, “You little tease. You said whatever I told you to do, you’d do. Now reach your skinny little arm back here and grab that big fucking cock of mine.” I reached behind me, slid my hand along the thigh of his jeans, and felt around until… Oh God.

“I said grab it. If you can’t grab it any harder than that, I’ll toss your little ass in the dirt and ride the fuck out of here. Now grab it,” he growled. Staring straight ahead with my eyes closed, I squeezed his cock firm in my hand. It felt as if I were gripping a baseball bat. “Now tell me just what it is you feel.” he said as he released my ear from his teeth. “Progress?” I squeaked. He released my jaw, spun me around, and stared into my eyes. “You’re God damned right. That’s progress.” “Now you want to know why that motherfuckers hard?” I bit my lower lip and lowered my head. “Because every time you stick your hands in your pockets and twist around like you’re some innocent little farm girl, it makes me want to fuck you. Bad. And for right now…” He reached down and grabbed the rubber band. Snap! Snap! Snap! “For right now, I’m exercising patience,” he huffed. “Now, you got any more God damned questions?” I shifted my gaze to meet his. My eyes now trained on his, I reached toward my left hand. As my fingers found the hair tie which was wrapped around my wrist, I pulled against it and released it sharply into my skin. Snap! Incapable of speaking, I simply stood and lightly shook my head. Again, I pulled against the hair tie. Snap! Officially head over motherfucking heels, sir.



AXTON Respect. In the hustle and bustle world of the modern age, the general population has forgotten how to be respectful. Most of what would make us more courteous as adults was drilled into our heads as children. Don’t touch it if it isn’t yours. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Don’t steal. Use the words please, thank you, and excuse me in everything you do. Think before you act. If someone serves you something, eat it out of respect without complaint. Stand up for what you believe in. If you make a mistake, be man enough to admit it. Don’t say you’re going to do something unless you have every intention of following through with your promise. No, it’s not okay to cut me off on the highway because you’re late for your son’s soccer game. There is never a good time to text a picture of the soup you ate for lunch to your girlfriend while you’re on the highway. People assume because I look tough, I’m covered in tattoos, and I ride a motorcycle I must be disrespectful. Nothing could be further from the truth. I treat others with respect, and I expect the same in return. For me to walk this earth smiling at every person I see and shaking the hands of strangers would be the same as living a lie. Most people on this planet aren’t the caliber of person I want to know, be friends with, or allow to the luxury of even saying they’ve ever met me. “Damned near graduation day, huh?” I asked as I slid my empty water glass to the center of the table. “Yep,” Avery responded. She sure didn’t seem to be excited about the fact she was graduating from college. Hell, I barely made it through high school. As much school as I missed, it was a miracle I even graduated. I learned more in my post-graduation reading than I ever did in school. I wouldn’t trade who I had become for anything, but it sure would have been nice to get a degree in mechanical engineering. Applying the education of a technical degree to building bikes would be far more efficient than reading books every night. “Can I get you some more water?” the waitress asked. “No thank you,” I said. She turned and smiled at Avery. “You ma’am?” “No thank you,” Avery responded. “Anything else?” she asked. I shook my head and grinned. “The food was great. We’re stuffed.” “Okay, I’ll leave this here. No hurry, whenever you’re ready,” she said as she placed the bill on

the table. I looked at the bill. $17.22. I reached for my wallet and placed thirty dollars on the table. I’ve always believed if I couldn’t leave a ten-dollar tip for a meal, regardless of the cost, I shouldn’t be eating in public. “Ready?” I asked. She stood from her chair and slid her glasses onto her nose. Avery had changed from talking a hundred miles an hour about any and everything to being a woman of a few words. In a conversation about a particular subject she’d talk for as long as I was interested in doing so. Through the course of a normal day, she now spoke very little unless I encouraged her to do so. Seeing the change in her caused me to believe she was willing to modify her behavior to attempt to please me. “You don’t talk much anymore.” I chuckled as I stood. She shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t have to.” I opened the door and waited for her to walk through. As I stepped to the sidewalk and turned toward my bike, a man was standing beside it taking pictures. I reached down and pulled the rubber band away from my wrist. “What are you doing?” I growled. Snap! He looked up, grinned, and took another picture. “Just taking a few pics of this bike.” “Is it yours?” I shrugged as I stopped in front of the bike. He shook his head and stood. “Nope. Probably yours, huh?” Avery stood quietly by my side with her hands in her pockets. It was probably a good thing she was with me, as I had found myself fractionally more reserved in her company. I rested my hands on my belt and stared as he continued to try and take the perfect photo of my bike. “Probably.” Dressed in nice jeans, a button down shirt, and dress shoes, he looked like a thirty-something year old business man. I would have expected him to have had enough common sense to at least, in my presence, ask permission to continue. “You have any kids?” I asked. He looked up and smiled. “Yeah, two.” “What’s your address?” I asked.

He shoved his cell phone into his front pocket and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?” I crossed my arms and began flexing my pectoral muscles, causing my chest to flare. “Your address? I need your address.” “Uhhm, I don’t think so, why?” “I want to come over sometime when you’re gone and take some pictures of your fucking kids, you idiot.” “Uhhm. Listen, I was just…” he began. “You were just fucking with something that wasn’t yours is what you were doing. I don’t have a family, that bike is all I’ve got. It’s like my kid. It sure as fuck isn’t on a pedestal in a museum, is it? It’s not on display out here for you to take fucking pictures of, that’s for God damned sure.” I shook my head lightly and inhaled a deep breath. I looked up and down the block and then shifted my gaze to him. “You know, this is the only restaurant around. There isn’t another place of business for two fucking blocks. It was pretty fucking obvious where we were. It would have been a lot different if you’d have stuck your head in the restaurant and said, hey, I’m building a Heritage Softail and I’d like to use yours as a template. Hell, I’d have agreed and probably been fucking flattered.” “I uhhm. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” “Get out of here. I’m done talking to you,” I grunted as I raised my hand and waved toward the end of the block. As he walked away, I glanced at Avery. “I fucking hate people.” She grinned and lowered her chin slightly. “So, what? Now I talk like a motherfucker, and you smile and nod?” She grinned and tossed her leg over the rear fender. “Yep.” I stood beside the motorcycle and admired her. As much as I hated to admit it, she looked damned good sitting on the bike. Having Avery accompany me for the last month allowed me to become fractionally more civil. I was still myself, but a little less rough around the edges. “Well, it’s a good thing you were here. Balance. You give me fucking balance,” I said as I stepped over the seat. “Progress,” she said. I raised my right hand to the apes and rested my hand on the grip. Across the street a new Lexus was parked; probably the amateur photographer’s car. I grinned, twisted the throttle twice, flipped the

ignition, and hit the start button. As the engine warmed up to temperature, I released the throttle, reached over the ape hangers and snapped my rubber band against my left wrist. Snap! I gazed at the new Lexus. Snap! “Ready?” I asked as I moved my right hand to the throttle. “Always,” she responded. As we slowly rode past the Lexus, I grinned. Progress.





AVERY Setting and achieving goals has driven me to succeed at almost everything I intended to accomplish. Graduating from college was my most difficult goal to date; therefore, I looked at it as a huge accomplishment. Considering my mother’s disappointment in my choices in the last few years, it came as no surprise that I didn’t hear from my family prior to graduation. As stubborn as I am, I wasn’t about to call her and remind her, and as disappointed as she was, she certainly wasn’t going to naturally offer. Either way, graduating from college and having no one in attendance made me, once again, feel invisible. “Avery Taylor.” The voice crackled over the loudspeakers. Already in position on the right side of the stage, I stepped up the three stairs and onto the platform. As I walked across the stage, it was almost as if I was in a trance. Deaf and blind to what surrounded me, with my left hand I accepted the diploma and shook his hand with my right. I shuffled to the next handshake, and the next. Quiet and feeling tiny, I walked back to my seat with my shoulders slumped. As I found my chair, I opened the diploma. A fake. A phony. Not having the actual certificate made me feel even more uneasy. They had advised us we would receive the actual document in the mail. Knowing it didn’t make me feel any better. I slid forward in my seat, knowing this was almost over. I wanted to see Axton, ride on his bike, and let the wind against my face allow me to feel as if none of this really mattered. Instead, I was scheduled to meet Sloan’s parents for dinner. I hadn’t even reminded Axton I was graduating. I knew he would have bigger and better things to do than come to some bullshit like a college graduation. At least my name starts with a “T”. This is almost over. “I now present you with the Southwestern College graduating class of 2014!” As I watched everyone stand and scream, I turned and walked along the row of seats toward the aisle. Students stood hugging their friends, family, parents, brothers and sisters. It was a joyous occasion for all. I’ve never been a person to wallow in self-pity or feel sorry for myself, but I felt alone. My throat felt dry and my eyes felt wet. As I stumbled toward the parking lot still in a fog, I heard my name being called. “Avery! God damn, girl. Are you fucking deaf?” I glanced up and toward the voice. A large black mob of Sinner cuts stood before me. Holy shit! Axton, Otis, Hollywood, Toad, Pete, Stacey, Mike, Fancy, and several other members I didn’t recognize were all standing shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed. Axton stood in the center with his arms outstretched and open wide. Immediately, I felt as if nothing else mattered. I wanted to rush toward him and have him pick me up and swing me in the air. Instead, I walked slowly as if it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“I’m proud of you,” Axton said as he wrapped his arms around me. As he squeezed me and lifted my feet from the ground, I closed my eyes. You. Just. Made. My. Day. Continued ‘good jobs’, ‘congratulations’, and ‘fuck yeah, you did it, girl’s’ came from the crowd as Axton held me in his arms. When he finally lowered me to the ground, Otis reached into his cut and removed a wrapped gift. After handing it to Axton, Axton, in turn, handed it to me. “What…” “It’s from the fellas, it ain’t from me. Well, it’s from all of us. Open it,” he said with a nod. I unwrapped the gift carefully and clutched the wrapping paper in my hand. As I opened the small black box, I wanted the moment to last forever. The excitement, the men, the hug, the attention, the fact that there were hundreds of people graduating, and the only men to ride motorcycles to the ceremony and wear their cuts to graduation were all waiting for me. I tilted the top back and peered inside. A wide silver bracelet, beveled on each side with ornate engraving on the face was positioned in the center of the box on a velvet pedestal. I glanced toward Axton. Don’t fucking cry. Just don’t. I nodded my head once and reached inside the box. “Turn it over,” he whispered. “Look inside.” I picked the bracelet up and looked inside. Engraved in elegant script, the words were clear. The Devil Looks After His Own. I naturally attempted to inhale a breath, but it shuddered. I was about to lose my composure and start sobbing. With shaking hands, I removed the bracelet, pressed it over my left wrist, and looked at it down in admiration. “You like it?” Otis asked. I looked up and nodded my head. “The bracelet is from the Sinners. The engraving on the inside? It’s from Otis and me.” Axton winked. The Devil Looks After His Own. “Where’s Sloan?” Axton asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Supposed to meet her in the parking lot. Her parents are here and stuff. We were all going to go to dinner or something, I don’t know.” “I guess you getting on the back of that sled of mine is out of the question?” I pulled my gown over my shoulders and lifted it over my head. After carefully folding the fake diploma, cap, and gift box into the gown, I walked to the trash can a few feet away and tossed them inside. “Glasses?” he asked. I unzipped my clutch and pulled out my glasses. “Always.” “Ready?” he asked. I pushed my hands into the rear pockets of my shorts and looked down at my sneakers. What started out as an awful day had quickly turned into the best day of my life. I glanced up and smiled. “Always,” said. Axton turned toward Toad and nodded his head. “On it, boss,” Toad responded. Secretive fuckers. As the rest of us methodically walked to the parking lot, Toad stayed behind. Something about being in the presence of all of the men made me feel powerful. I watched as girls I’d went to school with for four years craned their necks and whipped their heads to the side to catch a glimpse of us as we walked through the parking lot. That’s right bitches. The Devil Looks After His Own. Yep, the fellas came to congratulate me and take me for a ride. “We were thinking of riding out to Stearman Field Airport in Benton and meeting up with another club. About an hour ride there, stay an hour or two, and an hour back. It’ll kill the rest of the day, you alright with that?” Axton asked over his shoulder. I may not officially have been Axton’s Ol’ Lady, and we may not be fucking, but I knew him having me along for the ride with twelve other members, meeting another club, and being the only bitch in attendance didn’t go without notice from all of the other men. He might not have been ready to admit it, but he was taking me along because he wanted to, not out a feeling of obligation. I grinned and nodded my head. “Now, listen up. When we ride with these fellas, it ain’t like when we ride alone. These guys are

gonna ride hard, so be ready,” he said. I started to say something smart-assed, and bit my lip instead. Awwe, what the hell. “The harder the better. That’s what I’ve always said,” I said. As Axton glared at me and continued to walk his mechanical walk of don’t fuck with me swagger, he reached toward his left wrist. I didn’t need to see what he was doing, I knew. I waited to hear the sound. Snap! I grinned and threw my leg over the back of his fender. Mission accomplished.



AXTON “So this motherfucker looks up at the television and says, I’m gonna go take a shower, and when I get back, it better be on Family Feud.” “You see, in the joint, it’s just like it is in the club, it’s all about respect. They vote on what to watch, and whatever wins the vote is what they watch. Everything’s put on a list. You know a week in advance what you’re gonna watch. Family Feud is on the list, but big boy is watching Jerry fuckin’ Springer. And in the joint it don’t matter how big a motherfucker is or how small he is. Now the fella watching the T.V. was about three fucking hundred and six foot six; he was bigger’n Otis. And the fella headed to the shower was maybe five foot five and a buck twenty.” “So big boy keeps watching Jerry Springer or whatever it was. I sat back at my table and watched. I knew what time it was. Little man comes out of the shower and walks over between us. He looked up at the T.V. and shook his head. When he walked back to his cell, I stood up and got my back to the wall. Hell, you never know in the joint when one fight will pop off a riot. So, I’m watchin’ over to little man’s cell, and here he comes. Got a tube sock danglin’ from his fist.” “A fucking sock?” Hollywood shrugged. Corndog nodded his head. “Yep. Lock in a sock. You take the padlock off your locker and put it in a fuckin’ tube sock. Now, that lock ain’t much, but in the bottom of a sock when you’re swinging it, that’ll knock the biggest motherfucker to his knees.” “Let the man finish his story, you rude prick,” Otis said as he tilted his beer toward Hollywood. “So little man walks up behind the big fella in a wide sweep, and swings the fucking sock. Funniest fuckin’ thing I ever seen. You see, a two-foot sock stretches to about three feet when it’s got a three-pound lock in the bottom of it and you’re swinging that fucker about sixty miles an hour. So the sock stretches, and just wraps around big boy’s head coming back and hittin’ little man’s wrist.” Corndog raised his bottle of beer to his mouth. After a long drink, he lowered the bottle to his waist, and rested his thumb on his belt. “Now big fella gets up and his eyes are as wide as a motherfucker. That little prick recovers from the first swing, leans back and…” “WHACK! The fucking lock hits this motherfucker on the temple and down this bastard goes like a sack of shit. And little man steps on his chest with one foot and just pummels this prick into a bloody pile of toothless shit. He finally gets satisfied that his work is done, and he looks over to me and nods his head. I nod back. He walks over to his cell, washes the lock, flushes the sock down the shitter, and walks back out.” Corndog paused and took another drink of beer. “So guess what the little fucker does now?” he asked.

I shrugged, expecting I already knew the answer. “Drags that big fucker over about ten feet, sits down, and switches the television to Family Feud. Like nothin’ happened. When the Goon Squad shows up, he says he didn’t even notice the fucker layin’ there. Here’s the other thing. Nobody saw shit. That’s how it works in there. No fucking snitches. Snitches get stitches for being punk ass bitches.” “Well, I’m just glad you’re out,” I said as I slapped him on the back. “Feels like I never left, Slice. Shit, time in that bitch goes slow as fuck, but once you’re out, it’s all good. Little ol’ five-year bit? Shit I’ll do the next five standing on my head,” he chuckled. “Well, this little barbeque is for you, brother,” I said. “Appreciate it, brother. I’m gonna wander around. Hell there’s a hundred fuckers here I ain’t seen in a bit,” he said with a grin. “Stay out of trouble, Dog,” I said. As long as I had waited for him to be released, and as much as I anticipated his arrival at the barbeque, it seemed odd having him back. Five years is a long time. In his eyes nothing changed. It was as if he stepped out of a meeting and stepped right back in. In my eyes, he’d been gone for five years. A lot happened in the time he was gone. New members, members retiring, some being locked up, and others died. Be as it may, Corndog was out of prison, and I was glad to have him back. As I stood amongst the few men who had surrounded Corndog to listen to his story, I glanced around, looking for Avery. I hadn’t seen her since she walked away with Sloan fifteen minutes prior. Not necessarily worried, but a little uncomfortable about her wandering around a hundred bikers without a Property Of patch, I had my doubts even she would walk around for long without someone doing or saying something. “Anybody seen Sloan?” I asked into the crowd. “In the dyno room with Toad. Has been for half hour,” Otis responded. “Hasn’t been half a fucking hour, Otis,” I hissed as I looked down at my watch. “Fuck it hasn’t. It’s ten o’ clock,” Otis responded. “Why the fuck ain’t you in there with Toad? And where the fuck is Pete?” I growled. “Toad’s alone with that bitch. He wanted first in, so he got it. That chic’s nuts, Slice. Toad told her he wanted to fuck her until she’d have to be hauled off in a wheel chair. That was his pick-up line. And what’s she say? Bring it. That was her response. Bring it. So, that crazy fucker Toad snaps his fingers like a high school cheerleader and does that deal with his head, and says, it’s been brought,” Otis said as he swerved his head from side-to-side.

Unamused, I looked around the crowd for Avery. There were probably fifty people in the shop talking or gathered around the kegs drinking and another fifty or so in the paved parking lot outside. I scoured the crowd in the shop. Nothing. “Let’s go out in the lot, Otis. I need to see what the fuck Avery’s up to.” “Got it, Slice,” Otis said as he began to push his way past the people standing by the door. As we wandered into the parking lot, I noticed there was a small crowd gathered in the corner near the street. It appeared two men were fighting. Nothing out of the ordinary for a biker get together, but I still needed to find out who it was and what the fuck was going on. The crowd surrounding the two men was pretty quiet while one of the two was talking mad shit to the other. I didn’t recognize the voice, so I assumed it was someone from Wichita who I didn’t necessarily know. Our typical open gatherings were used to invite outsiders to see what the club was like, what we did, and what we stood for. The Sinners did not recruit talent. Potential prospects came to us and asked questions about becoming a member. As a result, we often invited outsiders to our parties to let them see what we were all about. If they were interested, and asked the question so what’s it take to be a member? We’d take time to explain. Some outsiders later became hang-arounds, some lost interest, and others become prospects. Having people I didn’t necessarily recognize or know at parties wasn’t anything new. I followed Otis toward the group. As we got closer to the two arguing men, I noticed Avery was standing on the side watching the fight intently. Otis tapped me on the shoulder and pointed toward Avery. I nodded my head in acknowledgement, walked to her side, and rested my hand on her shoulder. She spun around nervously and widened her eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked. “Watching these two dip-shits,” she responded as she tilted her head toward the two men. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “What fucking part of stay by my side didn’t you underfuckingstand?” “I’m sorry Axton, but you were talking to Corndog and the rest of the fellas, and some asshole walked up to me and started being a total dick. I tried to get away from him, and I tapped you on the shoulder like twice but you never paid attention, so I figured you were busy. I just wanted him to leave me alone, so I wandered out here to get away from him. Then he found me again. When he wouldn’t let up, the other guy told him to shut the fuck up. Now they’re in an argument.” “God damn it. I told you if anyone fucked with you, to find me or Otis, didn’t I?” I said. She nodded her head sheepishly. “Uhhm. That’s the one who told the other guy to shut the fuck up,” Avery whispered as she pointed toward the bigger of the two men.

Neither of you two would bust a grape in a food fight. Stop trying to impress the ladies, fellas, no one cares. “Break it up, fellas,” I shouted uncaringly toward the two men. As soon as I spoke, the bigger man’s gaze shifted to where I stood. I didn’t recognize either of the two men. Neither of them wore a cut or colors from a club. They appeared to be two bikers from out of town somewhere who were invited by someone in the club to come enjoy the fun. The bigger of the two had shoulder length hair, and was doing all of the shit-talking to the other man. “This asshole was being disrespectful. Everything’s just fine. Now why don’t you get your hand off of my bitch?” the bigger man said over his shoulder. Are you fucking shittin’ me? I pushed my way through the crowd. “Your bitch?” “Let me explain something, motherfucker,” I said as I pushed the smaller man to the side. As I grabbed the sides of his hair in my hands, his eyes widened. Without any notice or saying a single word, I thrust the top of my head into his nose. As I felt it shatter from the force of my head crushing down on his face, I released his hair from my grip and swung a right uppercut into his jaw. He collapsed onto the concrete. “God damn,” I heard someone holler. “That’s the President of the Sinners,” I heard someone else say. “You just need to pick him up and get him on out of here,” Otis said as he stepped through the crowd and into the area where I stood. I pointed down at the man who was laying silently on the concrete, “Him?” I snapped. “I’m just getting started,” I said. I swung my right foot into his stomach. “Get up, you worthless piece of shit.” “Slice, he’s done. That right hand knocked him the fuck out,” Otis said. I shook my head. “No. I’m nowhere near done with this mouthy prick.” “I said get up,” I growled as I kicked him in the stomach again. “Where’s the other motherfucker, the one who was fucking with Avery?” I asked. Otis shrugged his shoulders.

I stared down at the motionless body. I reached down and pulled him to his feet by his hair and belt. The thought of anyone fucking with Avery angered me to an unhealthy level. Adding salt to the wound came from the stupid fucker claiming Avery as his bitch because he had stepped in and saved her from the mouthy prick who started the problem in the first place. Everything around me became a haze. The sound of the music, people, talking - it all felt distant. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Slice!” I spun in the direction of the voice with my hands raised, ready to fight. “Slice, drag him out to the street. Come on, it’s over. You beat that poor fucker half to death. Someone’s gonna call the fucking cops. You made your point. We got the other guy out of here,” Otis explained. I looked down at the man on the concrete. His face was almost unrecognizable. Blood covered his face, hair, and shirt. His lips looked like hamburger and both eyes were swollen partially shut. I glanced down at my hands. Both were covered in blood, and the knuckles on my right hand were beginning to swell. “God damn, I think I just lost it. Where’s the other guy?” I asked as I raised my hands to my face. “Toad got him. Wasn’t too pretty. Kinda broke up the little party,” Otis said. I looked around the parking lot. Roughly two-thirds of the people were gone. Somehow, I had no memory of what had happened. Although this wasn’t the first time something similar had happened, it hadn’t happened since I was a kid. When I found the quarterback fucking my girlfriend, I ended up in jail for the beating I gave him. I didn’t remember any of it. I learned in court he had a broken jaw, fractured skull, and a few broken ribs as a result. Another time, when I was in my early twenties, my father and I were in a terrible fight. It was the first time I stood up to him, and the last time we really spoke. I have no doubt he’ll remember what I did to him for the remainder of his miserable life. I glanced down at the heap of shit on the concrete. I shook my head and rubbed my knuckles as I shifted my gaze to Otis, “So what happened to the other dude?” “Can we drag this fucker to the street? You done, boss?” Otis asked. “Yeah, I’m done,” I responded. Otis waved toward the fellas who were standing off to the side, obviously afraid to intervene. Hollywood and Pete stepped in front of me, picked the man up, carried him past the entrance gate, and laid him on the curb. Luckily, the clubhouse was in an industrial area of the city, and away from the general population, at least at night. Although he could probably use medical attention, he sure as fuck wasn’t going to get it from any of us. When he woke up, he’d realize how he fucked up. More than likely when he was back in Wichita telling stories or asking questions, someone would explain to him the benefit of keeping his mouth shut around the Sinners.

“Well, Avery pointed the kid out. I was just going to carry him out and toss his dumb ass in the street, but fucking Toad came runnin’ out of the dyno room when he heard all the screaming. His fuckin’ belt wasn’t buckled, and his baggy fuckin’ pants were all around his thighs like Busta fuckin’ Rhymes or one a those fuckers,” Otis said, laughing as he spoke. “So this kid looks at Toad and his fuckin’ pants and he starts laughing. I didn’t hear it, but the fellas said he said some shit like, what the fuck are ‘you’ gonna do about it? Yeah, didn’t end well for him. Toad jumped up in the air and did some fucking Bruce Lee shit. Kicked the kid in the head, and when he hit the ground, his head split open like a ripe melon. Funny part was when Toad came back down from the spinning kick deal. His fuckin’ baggy pants hit the ground.” Otis shook his head and started laughing again. “Commando?” I chuckled as I looked up from my bloody knuckles. “Yep,” Otis nodded. I shook my head and laughed.”Can’t buy entertainment like this, can ya? Where’s the girl?” “In the Shop with Sloan. Think ya mighta scared her a little bit with the beatin’ you gave that poor bastard,” Otis said. I glanced down at my bloody hand. As I walked toward the shop I pressed my knuckles into my jeans. Avery and Sloan stood talking amongst a small group of Sinners. Without speaking, I walked to the cabinet, grabbed a rag and my lick ‘n stick, and slowly made my way to my bike. Methodically, I wiped the dust off the rear fender, positioned the seat in the center, and pressed it into place. I tied the rag around my hand and looked over my shoulder toward Avery. “Avery!” I hollered as I stretched my leg over the seat and rested my rag-wrapped hand on the right grip. Her eyes widened as she spun my direction. It seemed as if she had no idea I was even in the shop. I reached behind me and slapped the lick ‘n stick with my left hand. She smiled, nodded her head toward the fellas, gave Sloan a hug, and pulled her glasses from her purse. As she walked across the shop, rolled the hair tie off her wrist, and pulled her hair into a ponytail, I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. And I hate people seeing me smile. Silently, she swung her leg over the fender, dropped down onto the seat, and placed her hands against my waist. I glanced down as she rested her feet on the pegs. After I twisted the throttle twice and pulled the choke, I flipped the ignition and hit the start button. “See you fellas in the morning,” I hollered over the sound of the exhaust. “Ready?” “Always,” she responded.

I grabbed a handful of throttle, released the clutch, and pulled out onto the street. I knew Avery had no idea where we were headed; hell, she didn’t care. As long as she was with me, she seemed to be satisfied with everything else around her. I turned and looked over my shoulder as we passed under a street light. She smiled a smile of complete satisfaction. The type of smile that washes over your face naturally and is never created for a camera; the smile you might see only a few times in a lifetime. As I shifted my gaze to the road and out of her line of sight, I smiled the exact same smile.

AVERY There comes a time in every woman’s life where she must decide whether or not she wants to take the next step with a man; to add him to the list of other men who have gone the distance with her sexually. Very few women, if any, stay with their first love for their entire life. Especially with girls my age, the lists of men steadily grew as we’re drunk and make stupid decisions, are lied to by some smooth talking player, or fall into another trap of some married prick who gives us a false sense of security and really wants nothing more than a quick piece of ass. A few months prior, I may have eagerly fucked a man who seemed at the time to be a challenge, an impossible task, or someone worthy of my advances. The difficult chase had always made the success taste sweeter. The more impossible the man was to obtain, the more justified the sex was in the end. Now, sitting in Axton’s living room, I had one goal and one goal only. To end the chase forever. I would have been a fool to believe I was falling in love with Axton. To do so would have been juvenile, and completely inaccurate. I wasn’t a foolish woman, and I didn’t fall into the typical patterns of wishful girls who fall in love with every man they meet. I did know one thing about Axton if I knew nothing else; being in his presence allowed me to exhale. When we were together, I relaxed. Nothing else around me mattered when he was by my side. After spending time with Axton, for the first time in my life I felt comfortable in my own skin. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, because he was a man of few words. It was more of what he didn’t say, and his ways of speaking which weren’t necessarily vocal. Maybe what I was feeling was the onset of love. I didn’t know for sure, and would have no way of knowing; as I had no experience with being in love. Quite possibly it was Axton’s alpha male presence combined with his don’t fuck with me walk and handsome looks. It could very well be the fact that I knew in his presence I would never be harmed by another man. This certainly wouldn’t prevent him from harming me, but I had a gut feeling as tough as he was, he would never be violent toward me. Nervously sitting on the couch, I waited for him to get out of the bathroom. I looked around the house, surprised by the cleanliness. Everything was perfectly placed and the entire home appeared spotless. As I surveyed the contents of the living room, I realized everything in the home was symmetrical. The pictures hanging on the walls were all placed in a pattern. The lampshades were all perfectly positioned, none were out of place or titled. Two couches, a loveseat, and two chairs were in the living room. A coffee table in the center was decorated with two stone bookends and a dozen or so hardbound books that appeared to be no less than a century old. I stood from the couch and quietly walked toward the bedrooms. One room had a bed, nightstand, dresser, and weight lifting equipment. Again, everything was perfectly placed. I glanced in the other bedroom. One entire wall was a bookcase. After counting the spines of a few books and performing some simple math, it appeared there were over a thousand books in the case. A bed, nightstand, a sewing machine, and digital clock were the only other objects in the room. The bed, although made with a simple comforter and two pillows, was crease and wrinkle free. As I turned to walk from the room, I noticed a small cardboard box on the floor neatly placed by the door. I looked inside.

My cap, gown, diploma, and the gift box sat inside. You sneaky fucker. I tiptoed back into the living room and walked toward the coffee table and bent down. I carefully traced my index finger along the spine of the books, A Bridge Too Far, Making of the President, The Blue and Gray, The Caine Mutiny, Midnight, Robin Hood, Closing the Ring, Cast the First Stone, Mark Twain’s Works, The Days of McKinley, The Birth of Britain. As I heard Axton turn the faucet in the bathroom off, I fell backward onto the couch and rested my cheek in the palm of my hand. A few seconds later, he emerged from the bathroom. “Your hands steady?” he asked. “Huh?” “Your hands, do you shake?” “No, I mean not really. Why” “Here,” he said as he reached toward me. I took a small plastic tube from his hand. As I looked at it curiously, he explained. “Superglue. I need you to glue this back together,” he said as he sat down beside me. He pulled a dry washcloth from his front pocket and dabbed at the large cut across the knuckle of his middle finger. He raised the washcloth slightly and fixed his eyes on mine. “I’ll dry it up with this, and you squirt a little glue inside and pinch it together. Don’t smash it together, or it’ll look like shit when it heals. You only get one fucking chance with that shit, you know.” I scrunched my brow. “Superglue?” “Best shit ever,” he nodded. I glanced down at his hand. A cut which would probably require at least four or five stitches was across his middle knuckle and onto the back of his hand. As he dabbed the blood from it, I could see into the wound until it quickly filled with blood again. It appeared to be open clear to the bone of his knuckle. “Uhhm. That looks like it may need…” I began. “It needs Superglued. Give me that shit,” he snapped as he reached for the glue. I pulled my hand back sharply. “I’ll do it. Jesus, Mr. stubborn. Press down on it for a minute.”

“Does this stuff hurt?” I asked. He raised both eyebrows and stared as he pressed the corner of the cloth onto the top of the wound. “Look at me. Do I really look like the type of guy that would complain if it did? And no, it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. It’s only uncomfortable for a second. Ready?” I pulled the cap from the glue and squeezed the tube until a small drop began to rise on the tip. “Go!” As soon as he pulled the cloth from his skin, I lowered the tip of the tube to the wound and attempted to make a perfect line of glue along the cut. As I was finishing my masterpiece, the blood began to boil from the cut. I opened my mouth and lightly bit the tube, holding it in my teeth. Half frantic, I pulled the washcloth from his hand as I pinched the cut together. Almost magically, the wound closed and stopped bleeding. After a few seconds of blowing on it, I wiped the excess blood. I sat back, placed the lid onto the tube of glue, and admired my handiwork. He chuckled as he looked down at his knuckles. “A regular Florence fucking Nightingale.” “Yep. Now all I need is for you to get the syndrome or whatever,” I said as I handed him the tube. He shifted his gaze from his hand to me. “What syndrome?” “The Florence Nightingale syndrome,” I said as I stood. “Sit down,” he said. “What do you know about that?” he asked as if he were in shock I even knew who Florence Nightingale was. I sat lightly on the edge of the couch. “It’s where the caretaker develops a romantic interest for the…” “I know what it is,” he snapped. Well, if you’ve read all of those books in the back room, I’m sure you do. He studied his hand for a long moment and then glanced up and broke the silence. “I don’t like sleeping in my bed if I’m dirty.” I gazed his direction and attempted to keep my face free of expression, “Okay.” He continued to stare at his hand. “So we’re both going to need to shower. You’ll be staying here tonight.” Sweet Jesus.

Thank you Lord. I looked down and began to pick at my cuticles. I had no intention of allowing him to see my face. “Okay.” The word barely escaped my dry lips. “So we can shower together or separate, but I’m exhausted,” he said as he stood. I glanced up and spoke almost apologetically. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.” “Look, don’t think for one minute you’re the first woman I’ve seen naked. People don’t make me uncomfortable. If you’re fine seeing my scars, come on,” he said as he turned away. I attempted to hide my excitement as I followed him to the bathroom. On this night I watched Axton beat a man half to death for attempting to claim me, learned he trusted me enough to allow me to tend to his wounds, came to his home for the first time, and now prepared to shower with him and stay all night. Progress. Axton and I were making progress.



AVERY With my head on Axton’s chest, I waited quietly for him to fall asleep. As his breathing shifted to a soft effortless pattern, I relaxed and inhaled the scent of his soap on my skin. The first time I saw him naked was in the shower, and we didn’t even have sex. Seeing his naked body and not greedily attacking him was not an easy feat, but it was a necessary one. It was crucial that the relationship proceeded at Axton’s pace, not mine. Most women would be frustrated or disappointed with the return on their investment with Axton. I, on the other hand, was absolutely thrilled with what I had received from him. Dressed in one of his wife beaters and a pair of his extra-large sweat pants, the only thing absent was the low, scratchy rumble of his voice to comfort me. I stared at the ceiling and attempted to count the times I had ridden on his motorcycle. When we rode to the park and he asked me if I spoke Spanish. To eat in Wichita at the noodle place. Pizza downtown. When he dropped me off at work and went to make a deal. The ride home later. The other time he took me to work, and waited while I worked a two-hour shift because Lori’s fat ass was sick. To eat noodles again. To the coffee place in Riverside the first time. Down to the spot by the bridge where the big tree is. Riverside coffee shop again. I started to fade in and out of sleep, and I wasn’t a third of the way done. I began counting again at the most recent, and started working backward. There were too many to count. To his house. To the barbeque. To get new shorts before the barbeque. The night we just went to relax. Graduation day back from Benton. To Benton. God, riding with all those bikes was so cool. When we rolled up to the restaurant at the airport, it sounded like a hurricane. Everyone turned and looked. It was so cool to be a part of that. When we walked into the bar, I was so proud to be with him. When we left with the other group of bikers, God it felt so powerful. More than twenty of us, sideby-side at eighty miles an hour, following the curves together, staying a foot or so apart. It looked like a work of art as we flowed down the highway. He said slim and not at all the day we met. Before long this summer will be over, and I’ll have been on his bike the entire time. Pretty God damned slim, and not at all. Ha. Progress. Axton might be a big, mean, complex person, but to me, he’s Axton. I wouldn’t change anything about him, even if I had the chance. What do I like about him the most?

Let me think...



AXTON It had been almost twenty years since I had seen a woman wake up in my bed. I stood in the doorway sipping coffee as I watched Avery slowly migrate from sleeping soundly to waking up. She shifted in the bed, closed her eyes tightly as she realized the sun was up, and yanked the comforter over her head. “Are you going to wake up? It’s almost eight o’clock,” I said over the top of my cup of coffee. She pulled the comforter down to her chest and blinked her eyes a few times. “Was that you grinding coffee beans at like six thirty?” I nodded my head and took a sip of coffee. “Already worked out, showered, and made coffee. I’m ready to eat. What do you normally eat for breakfast?” “What time is it again?” she groaned. “It’s ten before eight. I was going to make a bagel and cream cheese. Maybe some bacon if you want it. I eat a light breakfast,” I explained. “I don’t eat pork. Uhhm, a bagel sounds good. A bagel and coffee,” she said as she sat up in bed. “Muslim?” I chuckled. She shook her head and grinned. “No, pork’s slippery and gross. I don’t eat bacon because it’s bouncy.” “Alright, no bacon coming right up. Well, I’ll get a bagel toasted for you. Coffee’s ready,” I said as I turned toward the living room. Avery was a very beautiful woman. Any fool could see it. What a man wasn’t capable of seeing made her even more attractive. There was no doubt she was extremely intelligent, but she was also very perceptive. I’ve never been one to explain to someone what I expect of them or what I would like to see them change in their life. People are who they are and it certainly wasn’t my place to be critical of them. I’ve always believed by the time we reach twenty-five years old, we are formed into the person we will live the rest of our lives as. Avery’s age and lack of experience in living life allowed her to continue to learn from being exposed to her surroundings and make adjustments as she saw fit. Her perceptive nature caused her to naturally pay attention to what my likes and dislikes were, and make modifications to how she acted and reacted in an effort to please me. The end result was her transformation into what I expected would be one of the best little Ol’ Ladies a man could ever ask for. Whether or not she was the woman I needed to spend my days with had yet to be decided. I dropped two bagels into the toaster, grabbed the cream cheese from the refrigerator, and two plates from the cabinet. As I was pouring Avery’s coffee, my phone beeped, indicating I had received a text message. Typically, I didn’t do a tremendous amount of texting or talking on the phone. To separate

the text messages of the club from the text messages of customers, I had assigned different people different text tones. The tone of the chime on my phone was assigned to only one person. El Pelón. I sighed and reached for my phone. It’s one of your own. Meet me in an hour at Cortez. Come alone. My heart rose into my throat. I snapped the rubber band against my wrist a few times. Meeting at Cortez made me a little nervous. A joint known for violence, gang torture, and importation of illegal aliens, it wasn’t a place where I would ever be comfortable. Knowing I’d be the only non-Spanish speaking person there made me even more uncomfortable. I wondered if the entire thing was a set-up. He said it was one of my own. My mind began to race, wondering who it may be, and the amount of value I would place on the information El Pelón provided me. To think of one of my brothers betraying the club was impossible. As I snapped the rubber band again, I looked up at the sound of Avery’s footsteps. “So, no bacon?” Avery asked as she walked into the kitchen. I glanced up from my phone nervously, and held my index finger in the air, “I need to send a text.” Without speaking, she turned toward the living room, walked to the couch, and sat down. I pressed the keys on the screen, said what little I had to say, and pressed send. I’ll be there at 9:00 but I won’t be alone. If there were two people I knew I could always trust, they were Toad and Otis. For sheer intimidation purposes, Otis would be my best bet. I scrolled to Otis’ number and pressed call. After ten rings with no answer, I hung up. I scrolled to Toad’s number and pressed call. He answered on the third ring. “What’s up?” his deep raspy tone was proof enough he was clearly still half asleep. “Need you to roll with me brother. We got to be in Wichita in one hour. Come to my place?” I asked. “Gimme twenty, Slice. Shit, I’m still in bed, Bro,” he responded. I heard Sloan’s voice in the background, asking him who he was speaking to. His response was what I would have expected. “Club business.” “I’ll be here,” I responded. I hung up and tossed the phone across the countertop. “Listen. I’m going to eat this and then I have to run. Club business. You can stay here if you like, I should be back in an hour and a half, maybe two.”

I reached for the toaster, pulled the bagels, and dropped them onto the plates. Avery stood from the couch and walked into the kitchen. Although she looked cute, she seemed somewhat out of place in my sweats and wife beater. I fumbled with trying to spread the cream cheese on the bagel as I watched her walk into the kitchen. “You’re a cute little fucker,” I said as her gaze met mine. She grinned as she ran her hands through her hair. “Thank you. My hair’s probably a fucking mess. It was still wet when I fell asleep.” “Looks great,” I said as I slid the bagel across the counter. “You sure it’s okay if I stay here?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t. I trust you,” I responded as I bit into the bagel. “I uhhm. I noticed a lot of books in the spare bedroom. Can I read while you’re gone?” she asked as she stirred sugar into her coffee. “Knock yourself out, there’s plenty in there to read, that’s for fucking sure. You always wake up looking like that?” I asked as I tilted my bagel toward her. “Yeah, nice, huh?” she said in a sarcastic tone. She lifted her coffee cup to her lips and hesitated. Her hair was a sculpted mess, as if she’d purposely attempted to make it look as shitty as she possibly could. I didn’t have a mirror in my bedroom, and I didn’t think she’d been into the bathroom yet, so I doubted she knew exactly what she looked like. To me, seeing her wake up looking like she did was all the proof I needed to know she was far more beautiful than ninety-nine percent of all other women who were on this earth. I stood silently with the bagel dangling from my fingertips as I admired her beautiful face and perfectly proportioned body. I lifted the remaining portion of bagel to my mouth and bit into it as she stood and sipped her coffee. I gazed at her and snapped the rubber band repeatedly into my wrist as she nibbled around the circumference of the bagel. Standing across from me, unaware of my thoughts, feelings, or what I was about to go do, she looked innocent and beautiful as she gnawed at the toasted bread. You are a humble little bitch, aren’t you? “You look great, babe,” I responded as I swallowed the bagel. Babe? Where the fuck did that come from? Fuck, Slice, you’re softening up. “Thanks. You always look the same. Hot as fuck,” she said over her mouthful of bagel.

God damn, I wish I didn’t have to leave. As she stood beside the kitchen counter eating, I walked past her and into the living room. I couldn’t stand to look at her any longer without making a move. I opened the small cabinet at the end of the sofa and pointed inside. “There’s a CD player in here, some CD’s, and an iPod with a playlist on it. It’s wireless to the speakers in the ceiling.” She glanced up from her bagel and gazed toward the ceiling. “Cool.” The sound of Toad’s bike pulling up reminded me of what I had to do. Getting the information about the robbery was high on my priority list, but the fact it included one of the club’s own men wasn’t what I had hoped for. Although I suppose I knew it was where the investigation was going to point, especially after talking to King, I had secretly hoped for another answer. I turned to face Avery, not really knowing what to say. “Go. I’ll be fine,” she said. As I walked toward the kitchen, she gazed down at her hand and continued to nibble at the small piece of remaining bagel. I reached for my phone, and hesitated; my eyes still fixed on her. With my right hand, I reached toward her face and lifted her chin slightly. As she glanced up, I leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly. As soon as our lips parted, I slid my hand to the back of her head and pulled her into me aggressively. I kissed her passionately, allowing our tongues to intertwine and my thoughts to rush places other than the potential violence which was before me. She dropped the remaining bagel onto the floor and gripped my ass firmly. After a long, impassioned kiss, I broke away, leaned back, and scanned her from head to toe. I shook my head in an effort to clear it. “You sure as fuck do. You look great, Avery.” “Where the fuck did that come from” she whispered. “That’s progress, Avery,” I said as I grabbed my phone and keys. She nodded her head and glanced down at the floor at her piece of bagel. “Five second rule, better hurry up,” I said. “I’ll make another?” “Go right ahead. Whatever’s here is all yours. I’ll be back in a few hours,” I said over my shoulder. Kissing her just seemed like the right thing to do at the time; and considering where I was going, I didn’t know if I was ever coming back.





AVERY Axton’s kiss caught me completely off guard. I had no idea where he was going or what he had planned to do, but the fact he kissed me before he left led me to believe it wasn’t something he really wanted to do. I walked into the living room wondering if what he had to do might be related to the attempted robbery. Feeling like some music might ease my mind; I fumbled through the CD’s in the cabinet looking for something and not necessarily knowing what. After seeing nothing I recognized, I scrolled through the iPod. Again, nothing I had ever heard of. I scrolled up to the top of the list of tunes on the iPod. Allman Brothers. Never heard of them. What the fuck, if he likes it, I better learn to. I pressed play. A soft organ and mellow guitar started playing. It sounded similar to country, but it was a little more bluesy and upbeat. I closed my eyes and listened to the piano. Eventually, a deep, soft voice began to sing. I opened my eyes and pressed play again. After listening to the song a second time, I immediately pressed play one more time, and listened to it a third time. As the song played the third time, it made perfect sense. The song was a story of an outlaw on the run from the law; or whoever it was that was chasing him. Obviously he was on a motorcycle, because he was riding. A man living life one day at a time, running from place to place and from woman to woman; owning no more than what was on his back and in his pocket. In the song, however, he never stops running. He never reaches a destination or gets away from the man chasing him. The only way he can stay free is to keep from hiding, to continue to run. Running is riding. In a sense, Axton was the Midnight Rider. Hell, all of the members of the club were. More accurately, most men who rode motorcycles were. Society, in a sense, is doing all of the chasing. To conform to society’s expectations is to be caught. Riding, for me at least, allows me to feel free. I have no doubts Axton feels the same way. Axton calling my car a cage began to make sense. I knew the rule, no colors in cages. It made a little more sense after listening to the song. The colors are a symbol of freedom. A cage is the opposite. It’s absolute confinement. They contradict one another. I found it strange how music has the ability to change our outlook on certain things. The song caused me to feel enlightened, more understanding, and considerably more appreciative of who Axton was and why he was so passionate about riding. I looked around the house, beginning to feel cramped and

confined. I needed a ride, and I needed one soon. It had only been thirty minutes, and I was going stir crazy being locked up in the house. I flattened myself out on the couch, pulled a throw over my shoulders, and got lost in the memory of Axton kissing me. As I came to the realization Axton leaving and conducting club business was going to be common, I likened it to how a military wife must feel, knowing her husband was away, risking his life while she knew nothing of what he was doing or whether or not he was safe. A sacrifice, I suppose, to be in a relationship with a man who was unlike most other men. A sacrifice I was willing to make.



AXTON We never know who we truly are until we have nothing. Losing everything and recovering from it causes a man to emerge from the tragedy a more understanding, humble, and appreciative soul. After having nothing, a man is appreciative of everything. For those who have everything, the fear of loss causes a select few to react in a manner contrary to what they - or anyone else - believed were their true moral beliefs. Being faced with adversity and finding the courage to hold your chin high enough to see a life beyond the ruins defines a man who is satisfied with simply living life. To think I voted a man into the club who I believed to be capable of laughing in the face of adversity, only to learn he would become an enemy, risking my life and the life of other brothers for a small potential monetary gain, was inconceivable. “What was he riding? What color was his bike?” El Pelón turned to the two men bound to the steam lines in the boiler room and jabbered some Spanish shit. After they responded an unintelligible answer, El Pelón glanced in my direction. “They said he wasn’t riding a motorcycle. He was in a red truck. A four door Ford with chrome rims,” he said. I shifted my gaze from the floor to Toad. Toad shook his head and raised his hands to his face. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and I don’t either. But they picked out his picture off the website. They know what he drove. I hate it too, Slice, but it is what it is.” I spit on the concrete floor. The room was easily thirty degrees hotter than it was outside, probably at least 120 degrees of utter humid hell. I was covered in sweat, aggravated, and felt betrayed. El Pelón’s scouts had found the two local Mexican gang-bangers who orchestrated the attempted robbery. Pelón’s people heard the information through friends of friends of the two dead members of the gang, and the information was traced back to the two men now strapped to the steam lines. I guessed the Mexicans didn’t adhere to the club business is club business belief. Hell, who was I to talk, one of my own brothers had stabbed me in the back and betrayed the club. After a short interrogation of the men in Cortez’s boiler room, they gave an accurate initial description of the Sinner, and picked him out of a photo off of the website on Toad’s phone. Describing his truck and the chrome rims was icing on the cake. No one could possibly know what he drove short of someone who actually saw him driving the truck. He probably hadn’t driven it a few hundred miles in the last year. As I tried to digest what happened, more questions came to mind. “The split. I want to know what this cocksucker was going to gain. What were they going to get, and what were the two dead motherfuckers going to get? What was his fucking cut? My guy?”

After exchanging a few words, El Pelón spoke over his shoulder. “Thirty mil.” “What the fuck? It was a sixty grand deal?” I snapped. “Thousand, my bad homie. Thirty grand,” he said as he wiped his brow. I smeared the sweat from my face with my forearm. After wiping my arm on my cut, I glanced at Toad. “Anything else” Toad nodded his head. “Ask the motherfuckers what he was wearing when they met him.” I scrunched my brow and stared. “What the fuck for?” “I want to know,” Toad responded. “Ask ‘em what he was wearing.” When they answered, they both nodded toward Toad and me. Pelón turned toward Toad and responded. “They said he was wearing a vest like yours with two crossed rifles, wings and a calavera. A skull.” “That motherfucker,” I snapped. “I knew it! That cocksucker! He disrespected the colors, the club, hell, he wore his fucking cut in a cage, he…” Toad paused and reached into his cut. “What about these two fuckers?” I gazed at El Pelón and shrugged. “Well?” “These two? They’re mine. Homie here and me are going to cut off their heads and play soccer with them on the playground where their kids go to school. They disrespected me, the MS, and their families. I’ll take care of these two. You take care of yours. You got anything else you want from these two fuckers before I saw their heads off?” he asked calmly. “Mother…fucker,” I stammered, “No, I guess not. I just need to get out of this hot motherfucker. I’ll be in touch.” He nodded his head once and turned toward the two men. Thinking of what was next for them brought the reality of my own problems to the surface. As Toad and I walked out to our bikes silently, what bothered me more than anything was the fact Hollywood was Road Captain of the club. He was not only a member, but the fucking Road Captain. Hell, he helped put the gun deal together with Otis, acquiring the AK-47’s. Son-of-a-bitch probably knew all along he was going to steal the cash. As I sat down onto the seat of the bike, I felt absolutely sick. “How you wanna handle this?” Toad asked as he dropped his pistol into the saddle bag of his bike. “I don’t know. Nothing’s ever happened like this before. I want to keep it quiet, but I want

everyone to know what happens when someone makes a move like this against the club. Let me think about it while we ride back to town,” I responded as I fired up the bike. Toad nodded his head and fired up his bagger. As he climbed into the seat, I sat, staring, as numbness washed over me. A brother willing to sacrifice the lives of two members of the club, two people who considered him a brother, all for a little money. The thought of it caused me to question the sincerity of many of the other members in the club. We needed a come to Jesus meeting, and we needed to have it quick. As I glanced over my shoulder to check oncoming traffic, I noticed the lick ‘n stick seat on the fender. Strangely, I came to realize the one person who I knew had my back in a life or death situation wasn’t a brother, but a bitch. And a damned good bitch at that.



AXTON “You still got that Glock 40 caliber? You know the one we got new out at Cabela’s a few years back?” I asked. He stared blankly. “Yep.” “I want to know if I can borrow it. Toad and I got an argument going on about 40 cal. versus 45 cal. Only one way to settle it,” I shrugged. “Yeah, hold on a sec. What are you gonna do?” he asked. “He’s got some ballistic gelatin or something. We’re just going to fire a few rounds into it and see which one has more penetrating power,” I responded. “Hell you can get all that shit off the internet. Google is a powerful thing,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward his gun safe. “Yeah, but you know me, arguments are only settled on facts. Not propaganda,” I said flatly as I followed him to the safe. “There you go, just cleaned it,” he said as he handed me this pistol over his shoulder. “Got an extra box of ammo?” I asked. “Damn Slice. Sure, hold on,” he said as he reached into the safe. “Here you go,” he said as he handed me the box of ammunition. “Appreciate it. See ya in about thirty minutes when we get done.”



AXTON I stood beside Toad’s bike and gazed blankly at him. “Alright, when we get there, I’ll get him in the garage. Just stand by my side. Then, when he gives you an opening, but only after he opens the safe, pull some fucking Marine shit and get him in a choke hold so I can question him.” “I’m on it, Slice,” he said. I gazed down at the ground and shook my head thinking about what we were about to do. As I shifted my eyes to Toad, I crossed my arms and sighed. “I’ll run into his house and get the pillow, just make sure you keep your fucking head out of the way. I guess it’s a good thing this fucker lives out in the country away from a bunch of people.” “Let’s roll,” Toad responded. Toad had proven himself over and over with the club. His ability to keep his mouth shut, willingness to participate in the more intricate club business, and for lack of a better term - downright toughness, made him a shoe-in for a seat on the board. I was proud to call him a brother. I hopped on my bike, flipped the on switch and hit the start button. As the motor began to rumble, I tossed my head forward motioning for Toad to lead. As we pulled up to Hollywood’s house, he did as I expected. He walked out into the garage by the gun safe. Having his pistol, which was registered to him, should allow me to shoot him with it and make it look like a suicide. Technically, he’d need blood splatter on his hands for it to pass a good investigation, but shielding his face with the pillow should assist with not needing to meet that necessity. The pillow would also, if checked, meet DNA requirements and sampling for being his. Whatever financial problems he was having should pass for motive. As soon as we shut off the bikes, Toad made his way into the garage. I followed close behind holding the carrying case for the pistol. When I was a matter of a few feet from the garage, Hollywood opened the safe and began small talk with Toad. I slowed my stride and waited for Toad to make his move. Two more steps, and Toad had him in a choke hold. Now standing behind Hollywood, Toad had one arm around his neck, and another pressing the back of his head forward. “Jesus Toad,” I said as I placed the pistol on the garage floor. I hustled through the garage and into the house. After grabbing a pillow from Hollywood’s bed, I hurried back out into the garage. I tossed the pillow beside the pistol case and stood in front of Toad. “Don’t kill his ass, I want to talk to him Toad, Jesus.” Toad relaxed his hold on Hollywood’s neck. As he gasped for breath, I began to speak. “I need to ask you a few things, ‘Wood. Now don’t disrespect me again by trying to bullshit me

and act like I’m some dumb fuck that doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Why’d you set up the robbery with the Mexicans?” Immediately shock washed over his face, followed by worry. After completely catching his breath and taking a short pause, he began to cry and attempt to explain. “Slice, it got out of hand. I’m seventeen grand upside down on this place. You know it’s been tough since the divorce.” He coughed and started to blubber. Right now, I don’t have a compassionate bone in my body. Crying like a pussy won’t change a thing. “They’re gonna foreclose on this fucker. I needed the money,” he blubbered. Hell, I never thought it would be this easy to get you to admit it. Fuck. I still hoped it was all a lie, ‘Wood. Still disappointed beyond comprehension, I stood in front of him with my arms crossed. Having him admit his participation allowed me to feel better about my own administration of justice. Not having him confess would never allow me any closure. As I stood and stared, still not quite believing he would betray the club, I started speaking my mind. “You know what? That Mexican motherfucker damn near killed Otis and I. I never said anything because I thought it originated in the club, and I wanted to find out for sure before I let the cat out of the fucking bag. And guess fucking what, motherfucker? That fucking girl that’s been a fender ornament for the last month is the one who saved us. Not a brother, not even a man, but a fucking college girl. She shot both those fucking beaners and saved our asses.” “If you’d have asked, ‘Wood, we’d have had a fundraiser. That’s the sickening part. A poker run would have raised fifty grand. Hell, if you’d have asked me personally, I’d have flipped you twenty grand. Fuck this shit, you make me fucking sick, I’m done. Hold him, Toad,” I growled. As Hollywood tried to explain, Toad cinched his grip tighter on his neck. Hollywood relaxed and went limp. “You know I ain’t really a God fearing man, but on this earth, we got good and evil. Right and wrong. You know I read a lot to make me stronger in living life. Numbers 30:2 says.” I paused, bent over and picked up the pillow and pistol. “If a man vow a vow to the LORD, or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceeds out of his mouth. To me, that applies to us. So, if you’re not a man who believes in the bible, you still took an oath to the club, and if you do believe in the bible, you took an oath with the club; but you’re bound by the belief of God and the bible. However you want to look at it, but you’re supposed to keep your fucking word. Either way, you fucked us. And you broke your word.” I lifted the pillow in front of his face. “Move your head to the side, Toad, I don’t need both of your asses dead.” I held the pillow up to his face, and pressed the pistol into the pillow and against his forehead. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. Instantly, he fell limp into Toad’s arms.

“Toss his ass beside the safe,” I grunted. I removed a round from the box of ammunition and bent down to where Hollywood lay on the floor. After pressing the bullet against his fingertips, I used his finger to push the round into the magazine. I tilted my head toward the driveway. “Run and get those three phone books.” Toad quickly returned with the three phone books. After wiping the pistol free of my fingerprints and placing the pistol in Hollywood’s hand, I cupped my hand around his and fired a round into the phonebooks. The brass casing fell to the garage floor. I stood up and gazed down at a man I once admired and considered a brother. “Now his prints will be on the pistol, the brass, and he’s got cordite on his hand from firing the gun. Safe’s open, and it looks like he came out here, opened it, and shot his stupid self, using the pillow to muffle the sound. Hell, the fact they’re foreclosing gives him all the motive in the world. Alright. Take the phonebooks and the other brass from when I shot him and load that shit up. And grab his cut off the bars of his bike.” As I wiped the fingerprints from the box of ammo and pistol case, Toad collected the phonebooks and the brass casing. Using my tee shirt, I opened the ammo box and placed it beside the safe. After doing the same with the pistol case, I turned toward the driveway. Toad sat quietly on his bike waiting. In somewhat of a daze, I walked down the driveway to the bikes. “Remind me to never piss you off,” Toad said flatly as he started his bike. Over the sound of his exhaust, I took exception to his comment. “What the fuck would you have done?” He shook his head, then tilted it toward the garage. “I’d have just walked up and shot him. I was meaning all of the planting evidence. Shit, they’ll rule this deal a suicide and close the book.” “Well, if there are any questions, I know the local cop, so it’s all good. Fucking piece of shit, I’m glad it’s over,” I hissed. “Let’s roll,” Toad said as he popped his neck. I stepped over the seat and looked up the driveway at Hollywood’s body. As I reached for the controls, I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even noon yet, and I was exhausted mentally and physically. I needed something to calm my nerves and put my head in a peaceful place. There was only one thing I could think of that I knew would provide me with such pleasure. And she was waiting for me at home.





AVERY It had been a little more than three hours since Axton had left, and I was on an Allman Brothers, Jonny Lang, and Ben Harper shuffle while reading Alice in Wonderland. Spending time in his home without him present gave me a false sense of being in a relationship with him. I realized in some respects, we were in a relationship, but it wasn’t close to anything conventional, and it certainly wasn’t sexual. Axton was a difficult man to get next to, but I felt if we ever did become intimate, he would be the type of person to provide me everything I needed in a relationship. I turned the page to a new chapter as Jonny Lang’s When I Come to You began to play. I closed my eyes and listened to his soulful voice and bluesy guitar. The sound of Axton’s motorcycle caused me to jump to my feet and run to the window like an over anxious child. I watched from the corner of the pulled blind as Axton rolled up the street and into the driveway. I released the blind and flopped onto the couch and opened the book. As I was flipping to my current page, Axton opened the door. “Nice day for a ride, huh?” I said over my shoulder. “It’s humid as fuck, but yeah. Actually, I was thinking of a shower and relaxing a little. You like Jonny Lang?” he asked over his shoulder as he tossed his phone and keys onto the kitchen counter. “I do. I’m on a Lang, Allman Brothers, and Ben Harper shuffle,” I responded as I arched my back. “What are you reading?” he asked as he tossed his head my direction. “Oh, Alice in Wonderland,” I grinned. He paused and gazed down at the floor. As he stared at his feet, he chuckled. “That’s par for the course.” He lifted his head and gazed in my direction. “It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.” “Excuse me?” I said as I shifted in the seat. “It’s from the book. Let’s see, how about, it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. I like that quote, because to me, it’s about making progress. And I’ve always felt like there was a part written for me,” he said. He placed his hands on his hips and stared up at the ceiling. “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?” “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.” “I don't much care where…”

“Then it doesn't matter which way you go.” He glanced down from the ceiling and smiled. “Let’s take another shower, I feel dirty.” I snapped the book closed and jumped from the couch. As I slowly walked his direction, I pushed the sweats down my hips and grinned. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. Leaving the sweats half-way down my hips, I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it on the floor beside him. As I reached around and unclasped my bra, I quoted my new favorite line from the book, “Actually, the best gift you could have given her was a lifetime of adventures…” “I hope you’re ready for this,” he said. “I am,” I responded as I pushed my sweats to the floor. And I was.



AVERY Yet another sexless shower with Axton, and I was frustrated beyond comprehension. My sheer attraction to him, his gorgeous looks, and the fact he was hung like an absolute motherfucker made seeing him naked, and not having sex, all too difficult. As I walked to his room wrapped in a towel, I wondered what color baggy sweats he was going to give me to wear. Standing beside the bed shirtless and dressed in pajama pants, Axton seemed out of place. All I had ever seen him wear were jeans, short of falling asleep with him the night before. And, on that night, he wore black sweats. They were close enough to the appearance of jeans it just seemed as if he were wearing black jeans. Standing in the well-lit room in plaid cotton pants was something new, and as much as I hated to admit it, I liked it. I liked it a lot. As I entered the room, he turned his upper body toward me. His face seemed to harbor a hint or embarrassment or guilt. Probably from all of the scars, I figured. As drawn as I was to his muscular body, I made a conscious effort to shift my gaze away from him and not stare. As I prepared to ask him what he wanted me to wear, he reached for the bed and lifted up a black cotton spaghetti-strap summer dress. “Put this on, I want to see you in it,” he said as he dangled the dress in front of him. Seriously? I don’t want to wear one of your former slut’s clothes. I scrunched my nose slightly. “Uhhm, where’d you get it?” “I bought it from the mall last week when I went to Wichita. I shoved the bag behind my Mexican blanket. Fucker flapped all the way here, I thought it was going to fly off, but it made the trip,” he said. You bought me a dress? Short of a gift from my father as a child, no man had ever bought me anything. I bit my quivering lower lip and held out my hand. As he tossed the dress over my outstretched arm, he smiled a genuine smile. As I admired his teeth, I silently wished he’d smile more. He didn’t have the teeth of what I would have expected a biker to have; they were quite straight and considerably whiter than mine. I lifted the dress and glanced at the tag. Von Maur, size 2, $125.00. Holy shit, Axton. You didn’t have to… “I was headed back from a meeting with a few other clubs and I stopped to see what they had. I thought you’d look cute in that little fucker. Hell, all you ever wear are shorts. Suppose you can’t wear it on the bike, so you just as well put it on now,” he said. I dropped the towel, and stood completely naked in front of him. I pulled the dress over my head, along my torso, and past my hips. It fit perfectly. After remembering he didn’t have a mirror in his room, I held my index finger in the air excitedly. “Hold please.”

I ran to the bathroom and opened the door. Standing in the opening, I looked into the mirror. Not only did the dress fit perfectly, it appeared I had gained a few pounds in all the right places. I turned, pressed the dress to my stomach and gazed in the mirror. I bend down slightly and stared at my reflection. I looked marvelous; I was braless and it looked like I actually had cleavage. My butt looked cute. As I felt Axton’s presence behind me, I turned to face him. My mouth said the words thank you, but no sound escaped my lips. Overcome with joy, lust, a strong sense of self-worth, and an attraction to the man standing before me, I merely stood and stared. “You uhhm. You look beautiful, Avery,” he stammered. Unable to speak without blubbering, I raised my hands in the air, smiled, and repeated my silent thank you. I watched curiously as he reached over, slipped one arm behind my legs, another along my shoulders, and picked me up from my feet. My head began to spin. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he carried me toward the room. As he lowered me to the bed, I realized I didn’t care what his next move was. The dress, my newfound curvaceous body, his expression of my beauty, and the progress we had made so far was enough for me to survive the entire summer. With my legs dangling over the edge slightly, he knelt on the floor at the end of the bed and raised his index finger to his lips. I lifted myself onto my elbows and watched as he pushed my thighs apart, raised the dress to my waist, and positioned his head between my thighs. Softly, his mouth kissed up the length of my thighs until I felt his tongue against my overly anxious pussy. My entire body shuddered as I felt his tongue against my clit. Oh God, seriously? We went from zero to a hundred miles an hour instantly. The slight pressure from his finger penetrating me caused me to inhale sharply. I bit my lower lip and craned my neck to watch as he slowly began to finger me and lick my soaking wet pussy simultaneously. The rhythmic motions of both his tongue against my clit and his finger working in and out of my wetness became expected and quite a pleasure. Anticipating each pleasurable move, my breathing began to be as predictable as his tongue and finger. If you expect me to last any length of time, we’d better slow down. I felt myself reaching a climax of new proportion. After Axton, my vibrator would become useless, and every orgasm preceding this one would be nothing short of some faint memory which would eventually fade into nothingness. As he continued to lick and slurp against my clit and work his magic finger in and out, l lowered my head and bit my lip. I couldn’t watch any longer. His two day’s growth of bad-boy beard and the muscles in his arms combined with his love for sucking and licking my pussy proved to be all too much. I wanted this to last at least another sixty seconds before I exploded into another atmosphere. My ears began to ring, and I felt itchy all over. And. I.

Screamed. “Holy fucking Jesus fuck!” I screamed. I felt as if I was going to die. The, I’m headed to heaven type of death, not the, Oh shit I’m going to die type. Knowing heaven had no place for a girl like me, I continued to scream as I opened and closed my eyes repeatedly. Visions of Axton came and went and he continued to flick his tongue against my now swollen clit. Combined with his finger’s ability to find whatever the fuck that spot is on the top of my pussy, he extracted another earth shattering orgasm. “Oh…” I bit against my lip. I opened my mouth and stared at the ceiling. “My…” I looked down at his face, still buried between my thighs, and blinked repeatedly, “Axton…” My entire body shook from another five-minute-long orgasm. Webster’s Dictionary should have a picture of the face I made through the course of having it under the definition for orgasmic bliss. As I came back down to earth, I realized although I meant to say Oh my God, and I actually flubbed it into Oh my Axton. It was, however, a perfect expression for how I felt. Right now, Axton, to me, was God. He was my beginning and my end. My savior, my salvation, my bad-boy, and my alpha male biker, he was my… Holy shit! As he pulled down his pajama pants, I almost passed out. His cock was rigid and massive. From taking two showers with him, I knew it was huge, but I had no idea it would grow into what was between his legs. As he stood there stroking it, I realized I had no idea he’d even stopped licking me. I must have slipped away to some other distant place for a moment. Maybe it was the fact that deep down inside I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything or anyone in my life. As his knee pressed into the comforter, and I felt his full weight being added to the bed, I wanted to ask about protection, diseases, and at least tell him I was precautious enough to have been taking birth control, just in case. As he climbed into place on top of me, I stared down past his massive chest, chiseled stomach, flaring biceps, and focused on his rigid cock. I opened my mouth and inhaled a short breath. “Fuck me,” escaped my lips. I should really have him wear a condom. “Fuck me,” I screamed. “Now. Just fuck me. Please?” I pleaded. His hand moved to his cock. I closed my eyes. Even though I was soaked, and my pussy was beyond willing, the pressure against my pussy was horrendous. His cock was huge and if pussies came in

sizes, mine was without a doubt an X-Small. I bit my lip. I felt as if my hips became dislodged somehow. As soon as he finally penetrated me I opened my eyes in disbelief. The pain, although deep and dull, was pleasurable. As he slowly worked himself in and out, I began to feel more and more like this might actually work. I suppose, in a perfect world, a large cock and a small pussy are the perfect combination. The beginning, no doubt, is utter hell. I’d always day dreamed about being with a bad-boy and having them do with me as they wished; tossing me around from room to room and maneuvering me through no less than half a dozen various sexual positions. Possibly held upside down while being eaten out, or being bent over the hand rail at a football game and being fucked from behind while the crowd cheered us on. Having Axton on top of me exceeded any expectation whatsoever of crazy bad-boy sex. His weight against me, his chest pressed to mine, and his warm breath against my neck was far more of a turnon than anything I had or would expect to ever experience. As his hands pressed into my shoulders, he worked his massive swollen manhood in and out of my wet, tight pussy. The flesh on flesh friction, combined with being completely filled with cock proved to be all too much, and I felt myself begin to return to my heavenly orgasmic place. I felt the dress being lifted over my head. Momentarily, I opened my eyes and attempted to focus. “I want to feel your skin on mine,” he said. I nodded my head and opened my mouth to say something in acknowledgement, but nothing happened. I was lost in his slow, methodical thrusts. As I felt his cock begin to swell, I bit my lip and prepared for my orgasmic explosion. Slowly, he pulled himself from inside me. I opened my eyes in disbelief. As he stroked his cock and pointed it at my stomach, I stared in disbelief. Although I’d love to see him jack-off and cover me in his cum, I opened my mouth. This time words actually spilled from my lips. “Inside me. I’m on the pill. God, please. Inside me!” I barked. As I felt his cock against my wet mound, I sighed. Within a few seconds, I was back to where I was, tingling from head-to-toe, preparing to be launched into space. As I once again felt him begin to swell, I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. His cock continued to thrust in and out of me like a man possessed was behind it. As I heard him release a groan which would wake the dead, I joined in with my own scream of pleasure. Together, as we both reached climax, the sound of our voices was enough to cause any sane person within a mile to call the police. I shifted my gaze to meet his. His back arched, his hands held high above his head, and his fists clenched, he looked like a tattooed Greek God. As he unclenched his fists and ran his fingers through his short curly hair, he looked down and smiled. A new smile. One with white teeth gleaming, and the sides of his mouth curled up to depict what could only be

described as… Progress.



AXTON For as long as I graced the earth and I was able, I knew I would be an outlaw. Being in an Outlaw Motorcycle Club wasn’t only where I belonged, it was who I was. This one thing, regardless of any other changes in my life, would never change. Allowing Avery to enter my world caused me to feel a sense of accomplishment in my life I had never felt. She allowed me to exhale and believe, at least in her presence, I was not only an outlaw, but an outlaw and human. Having never felt like much other than a criminal, keeping her by my side would certainly prove effective in making me feel better about myself, and making me a more effective president. In some way or another, everyone in my life would benefit from what Avery provided me. “You know I’ll always be an outlaw,” I said without looking up. “Uh huh. I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she responded. I glanced up from my bowl of noodles, “I could end up in prison for some bullshit charge, and you may never see me again.” “They allow visitors,” she said. “The club always comes first, Avery. Always,” I explained. “As they should,” she said as she stirred her chopsticks through her soup. “You realize there isn’t really a law or a commandment I haven’t broken. Think about that,” I said as I laid my chopsticks across the bowl and pushed it toward the center of the table. She looked up from her bowl and raised her eyebrows. “Seriously? I’ll be caught up with you in no time. You’re not going to scare me away.” “Well, I’m just making sure you know who I am for sure,” I said. “Well, it’s a little late for starting to introduce yourself, but yeah, I know who you are,” she said as dropped the chopsticks into her bowl. “Guess that’s all I’ve got for now. You got anything?” I asked. After a short hesitation, she raised her hand to her mouth and tapped her index finger to her lips. “Yep. One thing.” “Well?” I sighed. “Can I like say whatever, and you won’t get mad?” she asked.

I nodded .y head, “Sure.” “Okay. Well, I think I’ve been doing a good job of being respectful and stuff. You know, keeping my smart-ass mouth shut and not saying shit. Like don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.” She paused and leaned into the center of the table. “I never told you that, but yeah, I’ll agree. You’ve been pretty good,” I said. She pressed her elbows into the table and rested her chin in her hands. “Well, I figured it out on my own, you know, from reading and stuff. So, anyway. What I was wondering is this. When it’s you and me, just us, can I like speak a little more freely? Not be disrespectful, but like say what I want without you getting mad?” She sat up and leaned into her chair as she waited on my response. I raised my hands in the air slightly and shrugged. “Sure. But from you or anyone for that fucking matter, I won’t be disrespected.” “And I won’t disrespect you. Agreed,” she said as she extended her hand to the middle of the table. I shook my head and rolled my eyes as I leaned over and shook her hand. “Agreed.” “Okay. Well, I have always dreamt of having a guy like you. I know I don’t have you, but you know what I mean. A bad-boy, an alpha male, a biker; all of those things are my perfect dream. So, I get you, and then we finally have sex. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved the sex. I loved it. But, I uhhm. I was kinda wondering if we could like go all crazy once in a while. You know, like pull my hair and shit. Have some of that wild shit like people always tell stories about and stuff. What do you think about that?” she said without so much as taking a breath. Avery always spoke a hundred miles an hour whenever she chose to speak. Hearing her say all of what she just said as fast as she said it made me take a moment to digest it all. As I watched her face change from a look of confidence to worry, I sighed. I leaned forward, pinched my chin between my thumb and forefinger, and nodded my head. “You like it rough?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I like thinking about it. But not just rough. You know, rough and adventurous.” I raised one eyebrow. “You want me to fuck you harder than I did?” She shrugged again. “Oh God. I don’t know. Maybe after we bone for a while. Your cock’s huge and I’ve got a little hoo-hah.” I shook my head. “Don’t ever call it that again. A fucking hoo-hah? You can add that to the list of shit not to say. It’s a pussy.”

She leaned into the table and whispered. “I have a tiny pussy.” “That you do,” I agreed. “Well, we’ll see. I think you’ll be satisfied with what you get from me. We’ve had sex one time. Well, one and a half if you want to include the shower sex after the bed. But you didn’t last long.” She widened her eyes and gasped. “It was hot as fuck, humid, and you’d already fucked me senseless. What did you expect?” “Hell, if it was up to me, we’d still be fucking,” I said as I stood. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and threw thirty bucks on the table. As I glanced across the table, she stood from her seat and stretched. “You might want to do the splits a couple times before we saddle up. Where we’re headed it might come in handy,” I said as I walked past her and toward the door. “Where are we headed?” she asked excitedly as she ran to my side. I pulled the door open and held it for her to pass through. “You’ll find out soon enough. But if we get caught, I can tell you this, we’ll both probably go to jail.” Standing in the open doorway, her eyes widened. I grinned and walked past her, knowing our perceptions of events would never quite match. Satisfying her, however, was strangely on my list of priorities. As I stepped over the bike and lowered myself into the seat, I glanced toward the entrance. Still standing at the door with her mouth open, she stared back at me. “Saddle up, we’ve got some fucking to do,” I hollered. As she slowly walked toward the bike, I figured she was attempting to dream up all of the possibilities of what might be next. She was without a doubt an intelligent girl, but she would never figure out what I had planned. Not in a million years.



AVERY Be careful what you wish for. I’ve heard it. I’ve preached it. I had a sinking suspicion just to prove a point Axton would attempt to make me regret ever telling him I wanted rough and adventurous sex. Axton wasn’t much of a practical joker or a prankster of any sort. He was all business. As I was wondering exactly what I signed on for, he pulled his bike along a side street in Winfield and parked it alongside the curb. “Well, get off,” he insisted after he parked. He turned the ignition to lock, and put the keys in his front pocket. “You hear me?” “I’m getting off,” I said as I stepped off the bike and looked around. “Follow me,” he said as he began walking down the sidewalk. “You kind of like really stand out. You’re fucking huge, covered in tattoos, and you’re wearing a 1%er cut. Someone’s going to call the cops,” I said as I attempted to catch up with his long stride. He continued to walk silently. “I fit in. I’m a cute college girl wearing roll-hem jean shorts and a Pink tee. Hey, slow down,” I said between breaths as I tried to catch up with him. “You’re a college graduate who talks too fucking much. Be quiet,” he said flatly. As we turned a corner and began walking down another residential side street, I stopped and stared. A police cruiser was parked in the street two houses down from where we were. “Cops,” I announced as I pointed toward the car. “No shit,” he sighed as he continued walking. As we walked up to the car, it became apparent what he had planned. At least where he planned to fuck me was clear. “Watch for the cop, I’m going to look for a spare key,” he whispered as he lowered himself to the ground. I scanned the street in both directions. “You’re going to steal a fucking cop car?” “No, I’m not going to steal the motherfucker. Now be fucking quiet. They always keep a key in one of those magnetic key holders on the frame of the car, just in case they get locked out. Just stand there and look pretty,” he said as he slid under the car.

As I listened to him groan and grunt, his feet moved along the outside of the car, indicating where he was looking for the key. Honestly, I had no desire to have sex in a cop car. It would be exciting I suppose, but we would definitely go to jail if we were caught. I’m sure in a small town like Winfield it would be written up in the local newspaper as well. My professors would certainly have a long laugh at my expense. Please, don’t find it. I looked up and down the block for pedestrians, neighbors, and of course, the cop. It was nine o’clock at night in the summer, and it had only been dark for fifteen minutes. No one was in bed yet; everyone was up and watching television or cleaning up the mess from dinner. As I attempted to look innocent, he said the three words I had hoped he wouldn’t. “I found it!” he whispered. As he slid out from under the car, I inhaled a shallow breath and sighed heavily. “When I open the door, the interior light is going to come on. If I don’t start the car, it’ll stay on for ninety seconds or so; and I don’t intend to start it. So, during that time, you little smart-ass, you’re going to suck my cock. That way you’ll be hidden. When the light goes out, we’ll figure it out from there,” he said as he held the key in front of him. I glanced up and down the block. The street lights illuminated the street rather well. As a girl, I had always felt the city’s streets were dark and scary at night. Now, standing beside the cop car thinking of sucking Axton’s cock, the street seemed to be illuminated all too well. “Do they like add street lights on the blocks where the cops live? It’s like day time out here,” I complained. He pressed the button on the key and unlocked the door. As he glanced up toward the house, he nodded his head toward the car and gave me his command. “Get the fuck in.” He pulled the door open and slid into the seat. “Come on.” I rolled my eyes and slid in beside him. As he had guessed, the light stayed on long after he shut the door. I sat in the car with my heart beating through my chest, hoping I didn’t see a cop walk up and beat on the window. As I planned my escape route just in case, he unbuckled his belt. “Get down so they don’t see you,” he whispered as he pulled out his cock. “Jesus, Axton. You’re already hard as fuck. I thought you had problems with that?” I chuckled. He was far from amused. The look on his face was one of sheer disappointment and anger. Although I’ve never really been one to actually want to suck a dude’s cock, I immediately planted my face into his lap and began to lick and suck his huge cock. On about the third slurp, the interior light went out. I slowly lifted my head from his lap.

“You’re nowhere near done,” he grunted as he gripped my head in his hands. Reluctantly, I began to work my mouth up and down his cock. I was kind of starting to get into it, and it was turning me on no matter how much I disliked doing it. One advantage, I suppose, was that for the entire time, my eyes were closed and I didn’t think of where we were or what might happen if we were caught. After sucking and stroking it for some time, my jaw began to get sore. I lifted my mouth free of his massive rod, and began to stroke it as I opened my eyes. He was sitting upright in the seat, looking down at me as if I were crazy. “Take off your shorts,” he demanded as he tossed his hand toward my waist. “Off off? Like Off?” I asked as I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and looked out the window. “What other kind of off is there? Yes, fucking off, Avery. I’m going to fuck you, and it’ll be a real bitch if you leave those fuckers on,” he growled as he pulled his jeans down past his thighs. I looked out the window and gazed up and down the block. Nothing. I turned and looked the other direction. Nothing. I leaned back into the seat, and stretched my legs out as far as I could. Half scared, and with my heart pounding, I unbuttoned my shorts and slid them to my ankles. After a second’s thought I decided to leave my shoes on, and pulled the shorts past my shoes. Not knowing where to put them, and considering there were all kinds of cop radios and shit everywhere, I tossed them onto the dash. After a quick survey of the front of the car, I reached into the floorboard, picked up my clutch, and placed it on the dash beside the shorts. “Jesus jumped up Christ. You ready?” Axton sighed angrily. I nodded my head eagerly although I was scared to death. “Get up here and ride me,” he said as he began stroking his cock. “Holy shit. Seriously?” I gasped as I looked down at the ten inches of throbbing flesh. He raised his hands in the air and spoke crossly, “I swear, you went from fuck me hard and be adventurous doing it to a complete scared ass little fucker in a matter of hours, didn’t you? If you’re scared, go to fucking church.” I climbed across the seat and lifted my leg over his thighs. After resting for a moment on his upper legs, I raised myself into the air and hovered over his cock, holding my ass over him with what little arm

strength I had. Half in fear of his cock killing me in this particular position, and half in fear of the cops shooting us or arresting us, I slowly lowered myself onto his cock. As I felt it begin to penetrate me, I exhaled loudly and attempted help relieve myself with my quivering arms. I leaned forward and looked between my legs. The street lights shining in through the window confirmed my suspicion. I had roughly a fourth of his cock in me. I felt like I was being impaled by a sword. I closed my eyes, raised myself up and lowered myself again. Slowly, I repeated the process. Each time, I took a little more of his cock inside of me. I bit my lip and lowered myself onto it again, taking a little more of the shaft inside me. It came as no surprise as I relaxed on the down stroke, I had a miniature orgasm. I raised myself and lowered myself again. Another orgasm. I opened my eyes. “Having fun?” Axton asked. “Uhhm. I forgot where we were. It feels weird. I keep having like mini orgasms. You’re fucking huge,” I responded. “I know I’m huge. It’s my cock. I’ve had it for a while, so I’m well aware. You ought to try walking around with this motherfucker hanging between your legs for a lifetime. Now,” he said as he reached under my ass with both hands. “We’re going to fuck.” He lifted me off of his cock and released me. As I literally fell down the entire length of his shaft, he raised me again. Again he lowered me down the shaft, then up, down, up. I began to breathe heavily. He moved his hands from my ass to my hips and began slamming me up and down his cock. About thirty seconds into it and I was a literal wreck. I bit my lip and began to have what I knew would be another earth shattering orgasm. When I realized where we were, I began to look around nervously as I felt myself reaching climax. As if embarrassed to be seen having an orgasm, my muscles tensed. After seeing no one peering inside the car, I relaxed onto his cock. As I exhaled a breath, Axton shook his head, lifted me off his cock, and tossed me to his side. “What?” I gasped. “You nervous little motherfucker. You’re done driving this train. Get out,” he demanded. “What?” I stammered. “Out. It’s the opposite of in. Get. Out,” he growled. Not knowing what I had done or what to do, I sat and stared, sad that I hadn’t satisfied him. He reached over me and pulled against the door handle, opening the door, and turning on the interior light. He pointed out toward the street.

“Get out and put your hands on the fucking trunk. I’ll fuck you in the street,” he grunted. Nervous, but not willing to risk making him angry, I stepped out of the car naked from the waist down and walked nervously to the trunk. Right behind me, Axton shuffled his way to the rear of the car with his jeans around his ankles and his boots still on. As I glanced up and down the well-lit street, he pushed me against the trunk and kicked my legs apart. “Long-legged little bitch. Get that little pussy down here where I can get to it,” he said. I pressed my hands onto the surface of the trunk and closed my eyes. As I felt his hand against my butt, I flinched nervously. His still swollen cock now in his hand, he guided it into my wetness. I gasped at the angle of his cock inside of me; it was hitting spots that had never been hit. Never having felt anything like it, I spread my hands across the trunk and planted my face against the cold metal. After a few short, slow strokes, he grasped my hips and forced himself inside me completely. “Ready?” he asked. “Always,” I whimpered. He began to forcefully fuck me with all his might. His hips slapping against my ass, and my thighs banging against the edge of the trunk, he continued to fuck me steadily and deeply. I opened my eyes and stared into the back of the car in shock as he continued to fill me with his ten-inch swollen dick. His balls slapping against my clit with each stroke were enough to cause me to close my eyes and attempt to focus. “Tight pussied little fucker,” he said. Being fucked in the street of small town USA wasn’t necessarily what I had in mind when I said I wanted adventurous sex. Although it wasn’t as scary as I expected, having him pound me into the back of a cop car wasn’t anything that made me various shades of comfortable either. As he slid his stiff cock in and out of my soaking wet pussy, I opened my eyes and began to moan. Whack! His hand slapped my ass. Holy fuck. Initially startled, I was immediately turned on by his hand slapping me. As the stinging on my butt cheek heightened, he slapped me again. Whack! “My hair,” I gasped as I lifted my head and tossed my hair over my shoulders. “Pull it.” He breathed against my neck. “Fuck yeah I will.”

He gathered my hair in his hand and pulled it steadily. As my scalp began to sting, I arched my back and rose up onto my tip-toes. Fuck yes, this is what I was talking about. “Fuck me,” I whimpered. The sound of his hips slapping my ass echoed up and down the block. Lost in the feeling of his cock filling me, I began to moan louder and louder. I arched my back and moaned in pleasure as his swollen balls banged against my clit. Knowing I was mere seconds from exploding, I opened my mouth and groaned. “I’m…” He pulled my hair with a little more force. “I’m going…” I closed my eyes and focused. My entire body began to tingle. Again, just as before, my ears started ringing slightly. “I’m going to fucking cum. You sexy little bitch. I’m going to fill that tight little pussy with cum,” he growled. As I listened to his breathing change to heavily labored choppy breaths, I relaxed my arches and lowered myself off my tip-toes. Immediately, I exploded into an earth shattering orgasm. As my legs began to collapse, he thrust himself into me and held his cock still. I felt him explode inside of me, filling me with his warm cum. I relaxed and exhaled into the darkness, satisfied that I had satisfied him. As he stood still, I felt my inner self quiver into another orgasm. I closed my eyes and sighed into another orgasmic bliss. As my knees bent and I almost collapsed, he reached under my hips and held me upright. “Holy shit, that’s one tight little pussy you’ve got, Avery. God damn, we’re going to need to work up to an all-nighter. No way I can last all night in that little fucker right now,” he sighed. “Can you stand?” he asked as he pulled up his jeans, forced his half stiff cock inside, and buckled his belt. “Doubt it,” I moaned. “I’ll grab your shorts and little wallet,” he said flatly. As he opened the door to the car, I heard a voice from my right side. “What the fuck are you doing on the trunk of my car?” a deep voice hollered from the front porch of the house. I immediately stood straight up. As I heard the car door close, Axton screamed. “Come on. Hurry the fuck up.”

As Axton passed me, in a full on dead run toward the corner, I turned and began running toward him, naked from the waist down except my Chuck’s. My legs and hips on fire, and cum falling from my sopping wet pussy, I slowly began to catch up. As we ran, we both began to laugh heavily. As our laughter filled the night air, I knew one thing for sure. Being with Axton would never produce a day of boredom. Not a single one.

AXTON I sat at the sewing machine, staring down at the cut. Something about sewing a cut myself had always pleased me. A sense of accomplishment filed me as I carefully placed the patches in their respective locations, held them in place, and worked the material through the machine. Watching the red thread unravel as the patch became one with the leather made me feel as if I was breathing life into the vest, and in turn, the vest would breathe life into the new addition to my family. Pride in craftsmanship, and pride in the materials used allowed me to look through the ranks of my club and see the men in their cuts with a deep sense of pride. I reached down and carefully cut the excess thread from the last patch. I stood up, lifted the finished cut from the machine and shook it in the sunlight of the room. It was perfect. Now. It was time to make my move.



AXTON Making changes in the way we live our life is to admit something was wrong, or we had been living a life filled with mistakes. When natural changes occur through the course of merely living, it can only be described as progress. Progress is change over time; a step or steps in the right direction, one at a time, making simple improvements which one day might lead to a brighter future, a better way, or a life with less complication. Progress. Equals. Improvement. Somewhat nervously, I studied her as she sat quietly across the table from me. “We’ve made quite a bit of progress in only a few months. I never thought I’d give two fucks about a woman for as long as I lived, but I’ll be the first to admit I was wrong. You’re one hell of a woman, Avery.” She smiled and tilted her chin downward slightly. “Appreciate it.” “You know, I’m not one for flowers and cards, or any kind of shit like that. And for me to think of marriage.” I inhaled a short choppy breath. “Well, it just doesn’t make any fucking sense. For me to conform to the rules and regulations society establishes as law? I can’t do it. A piece of paper is required by the court to show how I feel about another person? I can’t wrap my mind around that. But Avery, there are other types of commitment.” I stood from my seat. I reached down and pulled my keychain from the clip on my belt. Methodically, I walked to the cabinet and pushed the key in the lock. A lone cardboard box sat amongst the cuts and patches in the cabinet. I removed it, walked back to the table and sat down. I laid the box in front of me on the table and placed my hands on the top as if protecting it from harm. “You know when you’re a teenager you ask a girl to go steady. You get older, you say you’re what is it? People say we’re exclusive. You get a little older or maybe a little more committed and you buy a ring and say you’re engaged. If you get her another ring, you’re married. My life isn’t like that. Sure as fuck isn’t. Here, in the world of the MC, things are much different. The commitment might be the same or deeper, but the means of expressing it is different.” I gazed at the floor, inhaled through my nose, and shifted my eyes to meet hers. “Avery, I need to ask you something.” She lifted her chin and glanced up. “I’m listening.” Short breaths; just take it easy, Slice. You can do this. I slid the box across the table and held my right hand on the top as I swallowed heavily. “I want to know if you’re interested in this.”

I removed my hand from the box and sat back in my chair. She narrowed her eyes, opened the box, and peered inside. Carefully, she reached in and removed the leather cut. After placing it on the table beside her, she unfolded it and stared down at the back of the cut. Her gaze never shifted upward. A little more nervous than I expected, I stammered as I attempted to speak. “I uhhm. I stitched it myself. I know it ain’t much, but I think having my hands involved in actually making it gives it a little more importance, you know? Makes it that much more, hell I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Meaningful. Yeah, more meaningful.” I stood from my seat and crossed my arms. “Before you answer, let me explain a few things. Wearing it means more than you think. When two people get married, the woman gets a ring, and with that ring she gets a sense of ownership and a feeling of commitment from her husband. He, in turn, wears a ring showing his commitment to her. When you see them together, and they’re each wearing a ring, there’s no doubt they belong together and they’re committed to each other. If they’re apart, however, all you know is that each one is committed – because of the rings they wear, but you don’t know where the commitment lies.” I nodded my head toward the cut. “Now with that, it’s obvious where the commitment lies. My name is on the back of it, and you’re wearing it. Anyone see’s that cut on you, and they know you’re mine and I’m yours. There’s no question.” “You know, most people don’t understand the Property Of patch. Not only am I claiming you, but it’s worn as a warning to others outside the club that the Ol’ Lady wearing the patch is to be respected the same as a fully patched male member, and that she warrants the same protections as her male member counterpart. That patch, Avery, says don’t fuck with this girl, in more ways than one. You’d be the President’s Ol’ Lady, and nobody, and I do mean nobody will fuck with you.” “So,” I said. “Will you be my Ol’Lady?” She stood from her seat, slipped her arms through the cut, and snapped each button carefully. She glanced up at the motto posted on the wall and swallowed heavily. As she rubbed her bracelet with her thumb and forefinger, she inhaled a shallow breath and shifted her gaze down to meet mine. God damn, woman, say something…



AVERY To understand a woman or women’s thoughts would be impossible. I am convinced there are more personalities in the female population than grains of sand on the beaches of the world. To attempt to comprehend the intricate thoughts and behaviors of a woman would be impossible for a trained psychiatrist, let alone an average man. Most women, including me, don’t necessarily know what we want until it arrives on our doorstep. Diamond rings and wedding dresses may be for some women, and I always believed they were one of my main goals in my life. I had learned over the course of the summer I wanted so much more than a conventional wedding. I wanted a man, not just any man, but a man who was satisfied with what he had in life, and didn’t need a woman to complicate things. I wanted Axton. We never really know where we belong for certain until we get there. This summer, I landed where I belonged, and I now stood grateful for being delivered to my final destination. Axton may not totally agree, but his asking me to be his Ol’ Lady and allowing me to wear the Property Of patch meant more to me than an engagement or marriage ever could. I removed the cut from the box and stared, afraid I was going to lose my composure and begin crying. I pressed it into the table, unsure of what he had specifically done. A simple Property Of patch would have meant one thing. But a Property Of patch with Slice on the lower rocker meant so much more. We were committed to each other. And the club had my back. I pulled the cut over my shoulders and buttoned it up. Axton stood across from me with his arms crossed in his what the fuck are you looking at pose. He didn’t realize it, but when he did that, he was one scary motherfucker. As he turned his palms upward and spoke, I bit my quivering lip. “So, will you be my Ol’ Lady?” I knew the answer, but I was incapable of speaking. Still biting my lip, I shifted my eyes upward and lowered my chin in a half-assed nod. I swallowed heavily and for the first time in my life, spoke slowly. “I won’t embarrass you or the club, Axton. And yes, I’ll be your Ol’ Lady.” “Go saddle up, we got to make a run to Wichita. El Pelón needs to talk,” he said. “I’ll get the lights.” Standing taller, feeling prouder, and knowing no matter where I went or who I was with I would always have the confidence I previously only had in Axton’s presence, I walked out to the shop.

Progress. I made it. Mission accomplished.



AXTON The only family I had ever claimed were the men I rode with; my brothers. Adding a new member to the family had always been an exciting thing for me. Adding Avery? Well, that was a totally different feeling. Having her as my Ol’ Lady was a huge step for me. Her wearing the cut was even a bigger commitment. I offered it to her knowing I was ready for the responsibility, and I’d never disappoint her. Feeling more proud than I had in my entire life, I walked to the door, looked up at the motto, and flipped out the lights. As I stepped through the door and pulled it closed, I realized there was one more thing I needed to do. I shook my head and grinned at the thought. The unthinkable. I opened the door, flipped on the lights, and stared at the membership board. No doubt about it, one thing was missing. I walked to the board, picked up the pen, and without hesitation, marked a big black “X” beside my name in the Ol’ Lady Allowed column. I stood back and crossed my arms as I gazed at the board. God damned right, fellas. She’s mine. And I’m proud to admit it.

TAKING THE HEAT S. D. Hildreth



DEDICATION Judging a person based on what we see, the color of their skin, race, creed, religious belief, lack of religion, sex, or appearance is wrong. In my opinion, to judge a person, even for their actions, is a difficult thing to justify. Having not experienced their life makes it difficult to judge their actions. In short, judging a person does nothing to define them, but does everything to define you. This book is dedicated to those who have the ability to love all creatures of this earth.

AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. TAKING THE HEAT 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Covert art by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth

TOAD I leaned forward and placed the folded sheet of paper on top of the headstone. I had every intention of leaving it and walking away, but for some reason I wavered. As if I expected an answer from a man who had been dead for a dozen years, I slowly knelt and stared blankly at the etched stone. Cambio Salvadore Todelli GY SGT US MARINE CORPS WORLD WAR II May 8, 1920 Sept 16, 2003 PURPLE HEART BRONZE STAR “Everything’s going pretty good, Nonno. Mom made those meatballs last Sunday. You remember the ones we fought over right before I left for the war? The big fuckers with the thick sauce? You remember, the ones she makes with pork? Hell, I didn’t need the last one any more than you did, but I damned sure wasn’t going to let you have it,” I hesitated, wiped the dust from stone base with my index finger, and considered standing.

Instead, I maintained my kneeling position, inhaled a shallow breath, and continued speaking softly. “So we had this fella who stole from us. Well, he tried to anyway. And he damned near got two of the other fellas killed; two of the main fellas from the Executive Committee. They’re similar to officers in the Marine Corps. You know, it’s just like the Marine Corps, Nonno, we don’t do what we do for the sake of doing it; we do it for the man riding beside us. I’d die for each and every one of these men. I sure would. And they’d do the same for me. Maybe that’s why I’m in this damned club, because it’s the closest thing to the Corps I could find. It reminds me a lot of it to tell you the truth, the brotherhood and all.” I blew the dust from the bottoms of the chiseled letters and grinned at the thought of him actually listening to me as I continued. “Well, anyway, we took care of him. I remember you telling me when I was a kid how it was my duty to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. I suppose in a sense I was protecting the other members of the club from what he might expose them to. You know, harming them in the future or whatever. It all gets jumbled up when I think about it, really. But I know he was a terrible man, Nonno. And he almost killed two of the fellas. Well, he’s gone now, so the club’s a better place. I sure wish you were here to see how solid the rest of these fellas are, you’d be proud of ‘em for sure. Oh, and I wrote you another poem.” I slowly stood, reached for the folded sheet of paper, and removed it from the headstone. As if rehearsed, I unfolded it and began reading. The pages of the calendar blow in the breeze, One by one they go. A wounded boy stands from his knees, The scars of war heal slow. Wind at his face, dead men blow past; The warm breeze dries the tears. The sound of thunder fills the air, And days fade into years.

With a watchful eye the boy checks his six, For a ghost rides in his wake. As the apparition weaves through the mix, A second glance the boy must take. He blinks his eyes in disbelief, There is no need to fret. An exhaled sigh, one of relief; The wraith’s a combat vet. The ghost rides past, his face is clear. The boy grins and nods his head. He rides without an ounce of fear, For Nonno is not dead. I folded the paper, placed it on top of the headstone and wiped the tears from my eyes. “I like that one. It’s better than the one I wrote last year, isn’t it? You give me the courage to stand up against evil, Nonno. And I know you’ve got my back. I appreciate you, old man, and I miss you. I miss you a lot. I better get back, it’s a long ride. Take care, and I’ll be back to see you real soon.” My grandfather passed away after my first tour in Afghanistan. I felt as if he had waited for me to return from the war before he allowed himself to pass. As I knelt at his bedside, he held my hand and explained how he would continue to watch over me after his death. “While I fought in my war, my grandfather watched over me; it’s what grandfathers do. I can’t keep a good eye on you from down here, the earth is too damned flat for me to see you with these old eyes. It’s time for the good Lord to drag my old ass up to the heavens so I can look over you. From up there I’ll be able to see it all, so don’t worry, I’ve got your six. I’ll tap your left shoulder if I ever need to

forewarn you about anything life threatening. And if I don’t warn you, fight without reservation, Cambio. Capisce?” he whispered. Outfitted in my Marine dress blues, I held his hand and attempted to force a smile. The thought of him dying was devastating to me. “Capisco,” I said. “I’ll make you proud, Nonno.” He closed his eyes and grinned. “You already have, Cambio. You already have.” The next day he passed away. I went on to serve half a dozen tours in the war, and did so without much fear of death or even injury. According to those who fought beside me, I made some very courageous decisions; saving the lives of many Marines while I risked my own life in the process. As far as I was concerned, I was simply doing what I was capable of. Although I knew my grandfather wasn’t really going to warn me, I continuously told myself the absence of his warning tap on my left shoulder was reassurance there was no real risk in my decisions or actions while in combat. The entire time I was in combat I felt as if I had a sixth sense. I have since left the war, but the war has never left me. I doubt it ever will.

TOAD When exposed to the brutality and horror of war, a man’s mind must decide how to process the terrifying experiences so the memories may be carefully filed away into the chosen portion of the frontal cortex of the brain; saved for long-term recollection. Some men seem to dwell on the horrific events, and allow them to chisel away at their life for all of the years which follow. Others become somewhat immune to the events of their past, or any similar circumstances which may present themselves in the future. I don’t believe the decision to either lose sight of the past or allow it to inhabit our mind is a conscious one, but more a matter of a person’s chemical assembly. The men who don’t seem at all bothered by their exposure to the atrocities of war are often perceived as evil, immoral, depraved, or wicked. Hardened. I’ve heard some describe me as hardened. I couldn’t say I enjoyed what I witnessed in combat, nor could I accurately describe it as something I found to be horrifying. War happened and I was present. My mind processed the events, and for whatever reason, they were placed on a shelf along with chapters from various graphic books and scenes from B rate horror movies. I’m not so shallow that I perceived the war as a fictitious event, nor did I dwell on it as an absolute fact which required my continual approval or constant embrace. I did, however, realize my exposure to certain violent events had caused me to become less sensitive to any and all things life now offered me; sex included. In short, I needed tremendous mental stimulation of the violent variety incorporated into my sex. I needed it to be aggressive, rough, and unrestrained, or I wasn’t able to perform. My war-torn mind which

had been pickled by the savagery of combat now needed violence to become aroused. There was no doubt in my mind I was a sexual misfit, and I realized my tastes and desires weren’t shared by the masses. The considerate side of me – the side my Catholic parents raised – often viewed my sexual side as a walking contradiction. I saw my sexual self as nothing short of a disaster. As much as I had tried to change it, I couldn’t. So, I simply considered myself damaged and decided to embrace it. “Stop flopping the fuck around,” I said. Considering my sexual tastes and lack of specific boundaries when it came to a sexual relationship, I was very thorough in my explanations of what my sexual partner and I were planning to do. The event, entirely, must be 100% consensual. If after discussing my sexual intention an agreement could not be reached regarding the intended event or events, the plan was changed until it was agreed upon. I may not be as compassionate as most men when it came to sex, but my partner’s knowledge of the situation and expressed consent was a requirement, not a recommendation. I continued to wrap the Saran Wrap around her head at a rapid pace, covering her mouth, ears, and eyes with several layers. Too little of the plastic may allow her to force her tongue through the slit I intended to provide for her to breathe through; but in my opinion there was no such thing as too much. As I made one last revolution for good measure, her arms began to flap like a bird attempting to flee from a captor. Aggravated at her inability to hold still, I gripped the plastic wrap in both hands and pulled, stretching the material until it snapped. I pressed the loose end against the back of her head and grinned at my handiwork. I quickly grasped the wrists of her flailing arms, pulled them behind her back, and wrapped them with several layers of the plastic, hoping to prevent injury. Now completely naked with her entire head and forearms wrapped in Saran Wrap, she collapsed onto the floor of my bedroom. Although her body began to convulse, I knew from experience it was mostly show and not solely from lack of oxygen. Satisfied, I tossed the remaining roll of plastic wrap beside the bed. I pulled my knife and flipped the blade open with my thumb. As it snapped into locked position with a pronounced click, she began to whimper and squirm on the floor. I knelt beside her and pressed against the back of her head with the palm of my hand, tilting her head slightly to the side. As I positioned my mouth against her plastic covered ear, I spoke clearly and with a tone of authority. “I know you can hear me, this isn’t my first time doing this. Just listen. You’re fine. It’s only been about twenty seconds. Now, I’m going to poke a hole in this shit with my knife, which will allow you to

breathe a little. The opening won’t be very big, but it’ll be enough for you to survive. If you flop the fuck around while I’m trying to poke this hole, it’ll just cut your face, and I don’t want that. I’m going to let go of your head, but you need to hold still, okay?” As soon as I lifted my hand from her skull she nodded her head eagerly. Although she continued to moan and sob, she was otherwise motionless. Gripping the knife with one hand and holding her head with the other, I carefully poked the tip of the blade against the material which covered her mouth. A small slit roughly an inch long developed between her lips. As I tossed the blade on the floor beside the roll of Saran Wrap, I watched the plastic heave inward and outward with each labored breath she took. Her muffled sobs only added to the excitement of it all. Fuck yeah. This is the good shit. This not being my first time at doing this, I knew for the most part what to expect. All people are different, and each one will react differently to the same situations. I did know the small slit would allow her to take in enough oxygen to survive, but her attempts to breathe with an elevated heart rate while I fucked her senseless wouldn’t be easy. Probably similar to running a full out one-hundred-yard race with your mouth covered and one nostril plugged, she’d be convinced each breath would be her last. In the end, she’d realize she was far more resilient than she originally thought. As I stood and unbuckled my belt, I felt my cock rapidly rising against the fabric of my jeans. Prior to seeing combat, the mere mention of sex made me hard as a rock. After the war, the thought of simply having sex no longer made my cock hard; regardless of whom my potential partner may be. As past-war fate would have it, the notion of tying someone to a bed and fucking them into a whimpering pile of flesh excited me greatly. Additionally, the thought of a blowjob no longer aroused me. However, grabbing a woman’s skull firmly in my hands and face fucking her until the eyeliner ran down her cheeks provided me tremendous satisfaction. I suppose in the eyes of many, I had become a casualty of war. I, on the other hand, looked at it as a blessing. I no longer had the luxury of even being able to muster a stiffy if the anticipated sex was going to be mundane or simple. For me it was a gift; God’s way of weeding out the few who may be unwilling; or women who were satisfied by simplistic sex. If there was a drawback, it was that I was always seeking someone who was able to withstand my sexual punishment. My definition of rough sex as compared to the opinion of the women I had fucked was in clear contrast.

As a result of my past problems with women and their inevitable gasps of, oh my God, you’re an animal, I made it a point to explain in great detail what it was I expected, wished for, and intended to do; sexually speaking. If someone wasn’t willing, neither was I. If women weren’t absolutely eager to attempt to out-fuck me, I never felt it was my job to convince them to do so. A person needed not only to be willing, but eager. Somewhere in the mix, I always made it clear early on that I wasn’t into kissing. Kissing, as far as I was concerned, was the definition of intimacy, and intimate I was not. At least not to the women I was fucking. Lastly, I made it crystal fucking clear there was no possibility of a future relationship. I didn’t doubt my ability to be faithful to a woman; in fact I knew I was more than able to do so. However, I was quite uncertain of my capacity to be faithful to a typical woman. At some point in time, boredom would surely set in. For me, adventurous sex was a must; and nothing was more satisfying - long term - than the thought of wild sex with countless willing women. “If you keep breathing like that, you’re going to pass the fuck out,” I said as I reached down and grabbed her bound wrists in my hand. As I lifted her to her feet by her wrists, she struggled and groaned against the unforgiving food storage wrap which encompassed her head. When she finally stood on her own, I grasped the inside of her hip on the right with my fingers, and placed my left hand against her upper back. As I pushed my lips against the plastic which covered her ear, my warm breath condensed to moisture on the surface. “Settle the fuck down, you need to pace yourself. Just like we talked,” I whispered into her ear as I kicked my jeans to the side and bent her over the bed. Using my right foot, I swept her feet outward, forcing her to take a wider stance. I was tall at 6’-2”, but Sloan’s legs were much longer than mine. Standing, her pussy was naturally even with my belly button. Lowering it down to a place where I could pound it into a swollen mound of flesh was crucial to the success of this little romp. While she grunted and whimpered, I guided my cock between her upper thighs. As I felt the warmth and wetness of her pussy encompass the head of my cock, I shoved her full of every inch of my throbbing shaft. It wasn’t my intention to simply fuck her and fuck her hard; I wanted her to feel as if she was going to die from what I was doing to her. I pressed my hand against her back of her plastic wrap covered skull and pushed her face into the comforter as I began to work myself in and out of her pussy without so much as an ounce of mercy.

I watched my cock disappear in and out of her glistening mound repeatedly. The sound of flesh on flesh motivated me to continue until my breathing was labored and I felt weak. Considering my physical conditioning, this was quite an accomplishment. Although I hadn’t checked the time, I suspected I had pounded away at her doggy style for no less than fifteen minutes; and not one second of it was slow or sensual. I beat my throbbing cock in and out of her as if my life depended on it. As I finally became conscious of what I was doing, I pushed my cock deep into her and held my hips against her ass cheeks. She arched her back and moaned as I felt myself bottom out. “You young little bitch. You really thought you could keep up with me? I warned you. Ten inches of cock real slow is one thing. Getting your shit beaten to a pulp is another. Now I’m going to fuck you into a coma,” I grunted as I held my cock deep inside of her. I pressed my hand against the back of her head and shoved it deep into the bedding. Again, I pounded my cock inside of her as fast and I was able. My balls steadily slapping against her clit with each stroke began to become hypnotic. A low groan as I tilted my head back and studied the ceiling was confirmation of my deep feeling of satisfaction. As I continued to force my cock in and out of her dripping wet pussy, I released her head from my grasp and gripped the twelve inches or so of hair draped from underneath the plastic which covered her entire head. As I pounded my swollen shaft in and out of her, the sound of my hips slapping against her ass echoed throughout the sparsely furnished room. I pulled against her hair, forcing her to arch her back and lift her head to an elevation where I could see her face. She arched her back to relieve the pain, moving her head toward my hand. In response, I pulled her hair downward, forcing her head to the side. As she turned her face upward, I could see the plastic stretched over her mouth was covered in moisture from what were certainly her continued efforts to breathe enough to survive. My continuous pounding of my cock deep into her soaking wet pussy wasn’t helping her situation at all. As I stared down at her face, I wished I could clearly see her eyes as I fucked her mercilessly. “Kind of tough breathing through that little hole, isn’t it? My guess is when we’re done, you’ll decide you don’t want to do this again. But that little twat of yours sure loves it. I just love filling you with this big fucking cock.” I looked down as I pulled my hips back, watching my entire length slide from inside of her. I slowly thrust my swollen cock inside of her until my balls were against her clit, held it for a moment, and then began pounding away furiously. “And God damn your pussy is fucking tight. Too bad

your face is covered in plastic.” Her muffled moans provided the fuel for me to continue. “I’m really diggin’ the thought of covering your pretty little mug in cum,” I growled as I gazed down at her face. I shifted my gaze to the cheeks of her well rounded ass and watched my thick cock continue to disappear in and out of her swollen pussy. Although her mind might have been telling her she wasn’t enjoying this torturous event, her pussy was conveying an entirely different story. As her juices dripped from my tightening ball sack, I released her hair and slapped the right side of her ass with all my might. I smiled at the red hand shaped welt as it began to rise on her pale skin. “Fuck yes. That fat little ass of yours loves being slapped,” I howled as I raised my hand in the air. As her knees bent in anticipation, I slapped the side of her ass and shoved my throbbing cock as deep as I could into her pussy. As my balls pressed against her swollen clit, I moved my stinging hand toward her head and grasped her hair in my fingers. “Something about pulling this black hair of yours keeps my cock stiff. Maybe it’s that you can’t do a God damned thing about it because your fucking hands are bound,” I said as I pulled her hair tight, causing her to arch her back again. She lifted her chest from the bed, and her monstrous dangling tits reminded me of the fun I previously had while titty fucking her. Slowly, I pulled my cock from her pussy and tugged against her hair. As she twisted her body to the right, I gave my verbal command. “Roll onto your back. I’m going to titty fuck you while I watch you try to breathe,” I groaned. I pressed my right hand into her left shoulder and forced her to lie on her back. After realizing she was half on the bed and half off, I slid my hands under her armpits and shoved her body onto the bed. Seeing her otherwise very attractive face covered in Saran Wrap was both satisfying and sickening at the same time. As I climbed on top of her torso, I positioned my cock between her tits. Grasping her nipples in my hands roughly, I shoved her tits together, squeezing my cock between them. As I slowly began to fuck her mounds of flesh, I lowered my head and spit between them and onto the shaft of my cock. “Nothing like a little natural lube,” I said as I began to forcefully fuck her chest.

Watching my cock work back and forth between her massive tits was a huge turn on. By itself, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Combined with the fact I was able to watch her gasp for breath as I did so made everything much more enjoyable. As the plastic wrap flexed back and forth with each breath she struggled to take, I alternated glances from her face to her tits. As I felt my cock begin to swell, I knew I’d reached my limit. Covering her tits in cum didn’t seem so appealing, considering all of my options. As I felt myself coming close to climax, I lifted my weight from her chest and thrust my index finger through the small slit in the mouth of her plastic binding. As I tore the hole larger, immediately she gasped for air as if she had just rose from the bottom of the ocean. “Oh my God…” she gasped through the opening I provided. “Not so quick,” I said as I climbed atop her face. I gripped the sides of her head with my knees and lower thighs. As I shoved my cock into the hole I had made, I began to fuck her throat. I made certain her feeble attempts to wiggle free of my breath depriving cock, certainly in an effort to get one more taste of the sweet air, were unsuccessful. As I held my cock deep in her throat, the thought of her blacking out from my cock down her throat fueled me to press even harder. “Hold still, you big bitch, I need to cum down that throat of yours,” I growled. As the head of my cock pressed against the inside of her throat, she tossed her long legs across the top of the comforter. I gripped her head in my thighs and watched my cock slide in and out of her plastic covered mouth. The unmistakable outline of her eyes began to become clear through the plastic as I felt myself begin once again to reach climax. “Open wide,” I said as I held my cock deep in her throat. As I felt my throbbing shaft pump warm cum down her wet throat, I held myself firm in her mouth. Completely satisfied I had relieved myself of every last droplet of cum, I slowly lifted my weight - and cock - from her face. Immediately, she began to gasp and cry through cum and slobber covered hole. I watched with tremendous satisfaction as she attempted to catch her breath and collect her thoughts.

“Holy…” she gasped as she rolled from side-to-side. “Freaking…shit…” “I almost…” “Died…” “Untie me…” she blubbered. I blinked my eyes and looked down at my semi-rigid cock. “You were far from dying. Did you see how hard my fucking cock got? God damn that was hot.” “Untie me,” she whimpered through the torn plastic. I rolled to the edge of the bed and toppled over the end. As I stood on the floor stark naked, I gazed for a short second at her plastic wrapped head and bare body. In realizing the sexual event was over, I began to feel much more compassionate about her requests for being free from her plastic prison. “I’ll be right back, I need to get some scissors. It’ll be safer than a knife,” I said over my shoulder as I double timed it toward the kitchen. I grabbed the scissors and ran back into the bedroom. As I stepped to the end of the bed, I reminded her of what we had spoken of earlier. “Lay still and I’ll cut this shit off. If you thrash around, you’ll end up cut and I don’t want that, okay?” “Hurry,” she said. I slid the scissors underneath the plastic, against the back of her head, and lifted them slowly. Without much effort, the bottom blade sliced through the material, freeing her from the translucent confinement. I tossed the scissors aside and carefully pulled the multiple layers away. “Okay, that was freaking scary,” she gasped as I pulled the material away from her face. I relaxed beside her and shrugged my shoulders. “If it wasn’t it wouldn’t had been such a turn on.” She rolled over on the bed and propped the side of her face against her palm. “It might have been a turn on for you, but for me it wasn’t. That shit scared me. I can’t believe I wanted to try it.”

I narrowed my gaze and studied her pale face. It seemed much whiter than before we started. “Your pussy was dripping wet. It might have scared you, but your subconscious mind loved every minute of it.” I leaned over and hugged her, holding her until she pushed me away. As she pressed her palms against my shoulders, I gazed into her eyes. “I love it when you screw me Toad. You were screwing me, so I loved it. That whole…” She paused and tossed her hand toward the pile of Saran Wrap. She shook her head. “The uhhm…covering my mouth thing…that was just freaking scary.” “Well, we can add it to the list of shit not to do in the future,” I said. She rolled her eyes and lifted her head from her hand. “That’s for sure. Now that I tried it for you, can we like date? Like be official?” I sat up on the bed and stared at her as if she had just slapped me. “Say again?’ She grinned from ear-to-ear. “You know, be official? Like exclusive?” I stared at her as if she was out of her mind. “Because you did this for me, you think we should be exclusive?” “Uh huh,” she said with a nod. I turned my head, rolled my eyes, and stood up. I guess I should have known, regardless of the size of her tits and the fat ass she was packing, she was no different than any of the others. Facing away from her, I pulled on my jeans and buckled my belt. Still having a difficult time believing she could be that forgetful over what we had discussed, I glanced over my shoulder in her direction. I raised one eyebrow in true disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?” She nodded her head eagerly. I shook my head as I scanned the floor for my boots. “What part of I won’t be in a relationship didn’t you understand? I didn’t say I might. Or I’d consider it. Or if you do something for me you may convince me, did I? Fuck no, I didn’t. I said, and I quote, there is no chance we will ever be in a relationship. None. To which you responded, that’s okay. I asked if you were sure. You said yes.”

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she whined. I shifted my gaze from the floor to where she sat, still naked on the bed. “You didn’t. I’m not mad, I’m just done. Get dressed, I’m taking you home.” She scrunched her brow and stared. “What do you mean, done?” “The done kind of done. You know, finished? Like over? The I’m taking your ridiculous ass home kind of done. Get dressed,” I snapped. “Toad, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” she blubbered. “Sloan look, the last thing I need is some crazy bitch thinking I’m hers. If you’re hoping we’re going to be exclusive after the speech I gave you a few weeks ago, you’re already half way there. I’ll save you some confusion and me a hell of a lot of headaches. I’m done fucking you. And just so we’re crystal fucking clear, I’m done fucking you forever. Get dressed,” I said as I bent over and picked up my boots. “Oh my God, like forever?” she screeched as she slid her legs over the edge of the bed. “Roger that. Forever. The forever kind.” I nodded my head as I laced up my boots. “Oh my God Toad, I didn’t mean it. I was just kidding,” she sniffled. “Well, I’m not. Get dressed,” I said as I leaned over and picked up my knife. While she cried and complained, she slowly found her clothes and got dressed. Disappointed somewhat at the fact I would no longer be able to explore my sexual desires with Sloan, I found a little humor in knowing more than likely one of the other Sinners would. I realized through my mental therapy at the Veteran’s Administration that a man’s feelings become real only when shared. It would stand to reason sharing my sexual escapades with the fellas would make my feelings of satisfaction from fucking her for the last three weeks even more profound. After hearing details of all of my sexual adventures with Sloan, one of the fellas would surely want to give her a try. Which one it might be would be anyone’s guess. Most of the men should be a little more forgiving than I was, and she may even find one who’d put up with her juvenile behavior. As I held the front door for her, she sniveled and walked past. My patience for her behaving like a sixteen-year-old high school girl was wearing thin. After standing on the porch and watching her blubber

as she stumbled toward the bike, I guess what little sympathy I had for her must have vanished. “I’m sure one of the other fellas will throw you a little cock,” I said as I raised my leg over the seat. Through the sniffles and sobs, she wiped her face with the back of her hand and gazed in my direction. After wiping the final tear from her face, her mouth curled into a half-assed smile. “You really think so?” she asked in a broken voice. “Hop on, I’ll haul you over to Corn Dog’s house right now. The Dog will fuck anything that’ll hold still long enough for him to finish,” I responded sarcastically. “I’d really appreciate it,” she sighed as she climbed over the rear fender and onto the seat. Holy shit, bitch. Have a little self-worth. I reached for the hand controls and started the bike. As the sound of the engine echoed against the garage door and through the neighborhood, I stared along the driveway and realized my thoughts of women and their inability to be sexually adventurous, loyal, and sane were accurate. There was no such thing.



TOAD “Now I’m not saying this as any means of disrespect to Stacey, you all know this. But good fucking God men, I shouldn’t have to remind you of shit like this…” Axton paused and stood from his seat. “If you’re sitting at a God damned stop light in the fucking dark, and you see the lights of some cage rolling up behind you, and the son-of-a-bitch is coming in hot, run the fucking stop light. Shit, you’re on a bike, fellas. There isn’t much of anything more nimble or agile than a bike. Run the fucking light, speed into oncoming traffic, ride the bastard into a ditch, but do something. Don’t sit and stare in your rearview mirror and wonder if that dumb drunk fucker’s gonna hit you. Because odds are if it’s three o’clock in the morning, and he’s driving the fuck around, he’s either drunk or stupid.” He crossed his arms and exchanged glances with most of the men. A few days earlier, Stacey was at a red light waiting for the left turn signal, and a car rear ended him, killing him instantly. The police declared the driver drunk, and claimed he was traveling at a speed in excess of sixty miles an hour when he hit Stacey’s bike. Several times I had been in a similar circumstance, and I had sped through the red light to make distance between my bike and the dip-shit in the car that wasn’t paying attention. I believed riding a motorcycle was similar to being in combat; your head must remain on a swivel at all times. Axton uncrossed his arms and pressed the palms of his hands onto his belt. “As you all might have guessed, the special election was called today to fix this mess in our ranks. I’m the President, so I can’t make a motion, but I’ll God damned sure entertain one if you make it. I have a Vice Presidency slot open, and a Road Captain spot I need filled. Any of you fucking brain surgeons have an idea of what I should do?”

As far as I was concerned, a man would have to search the entire earth extensively to find a person with as much heart, spirit, and compassion as Axton Bishop. He was as solid of a man as God had ever created. To an outsider, Axton might seem like a heartless prick, but to the select few who knew and understood him, he was truly a man amongst men. “Well, none of you fuckers will probably agree, but I say we move Otis to Vice President,” Pete said. “Speak up, Pete. You sound like an indecisive little girl,” Axton growled. Pete fixed his eyes on Axton, narrowed his gaze, and cleared his throat. “I say we move Otis to Vice fucking President, Slice.” “I need a motion,” Fancy sighed. Pete rolled his eyes and pulled against his long beard with his right hand. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch. I make a motion we move Otis to Vice God damned President.” “Second,” Mike chimed. Fancy scribbled onto his note pad and tilted his head slightly. “All in favor?” The entire room responded. “Aye.” “Opposed?” Fancy asked as he looked down at the pad. The room fell silent. Axton raised his hands in the air and shook his head. “Well fuck me running. Thanks fellas. Now I need a God damned Sergeant at Arms and a fucking Road Captain. We made zero progress. Why do I have a feeling we’re going to be here all God damned day?” Otis turned to face Axton. “Boss, I’m all for moving into the VP spot, but I can’t say I’m real comfortable leaving my position of SAA before I know who’s filling it.” Axton lowered his hands and crossed his arms in his signature pose. “I’ve got to agree with you, Otis. There’s a clear problem now with you as Vice President. At least in my opinion, there’s only one motherfucker who I’d trust to do what needs done in the SAA position. Feel free to correct me if you think I’m wrong, but remember, I can’t make a motion or influence your vote. Let me refer to the bylaws in an

effort to remind you pricks of the duties of the Sergeant at Arms.” Without a doubt, every man in the club respected Axton. A good percentage of them feared him. Almost all were intimidated by him, and I’d never seen one man clearly oppose him. He reminded me of a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. Intimidating as hell, and never had to demand respect; he earned it through his actions and the respect he gave the men who respected him. “You can read all that precedes this if you want.” Axton hesitated, turned toward the wall, and began to read from the posted bylaws. “The Sergeant at Arms is responsible for the safety and security of the club, as well as the protection and defense of all club Members and Prospects. He shall keep and maintain a record of all data pertinent to the safety and security of the club, its Members and Prospects. Upon becoming aware of any real or perceived threat to the club, its Members, Prospects, or events, he shall immediately notify the Executive Committee of that information.” He slowly turned and faced the somewhat somber group. “Who here is mean enough, tough enough, and has not only the heart, but the ability to protect this entire group of men?” Axton raised his eyebrows and waited for a response. I gazed down at the toes of my boots, feeling somewhat uneasy about Stacey’s death, Axton’s frustration, and the fact I didn’t necessarily trust my protection and defense in the hands of anyone except Axton, Otis, or myself. “I make a motion we move the Marine into the Sergeant at Arms spot, Slice. He’s the only one big enough and tough enough to fill the shoes. Well, besides you and Otis,” Mike offered. I glanced upward. Axton shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion as he shook his head. “Jesus H Christ. I swear to God almighty. I need a fucking motion and a God damned name. Come on, Mike.” “I make a motion we move Cambini Toad-a-relli or whatever his fucking name is, otherwise known as Toad, who’s the only fucking Marine in the club to Sergeant at Arms,” Mike grunted as he raised his hands into the air. It’s Cambio Todelli, but you were close. “Can I get a second?” Fancy asked. It seemed as if the entire room responded. “Second.”

Fancy scribbled onto his notepad. “All in favor?” “Aye!” I gazed at Axton, who now stood fifteen feet from me with a grin on his face. He rarely smiled, and when he did, there was no hiding the fact he was either amused or extremely satisfied. I hoped his smile was one of sheer satisfaction. I inhaled a shallow breath, lowered my cupped hands along the seams of my jeans, and stood proud as I waited for someone to oppose the motion. “Opposed?” Fancy asked. Complete silence. “Well, I feel better about the welfare of my beloved Sinners. Welcome to the Executive Committee, Toad. Now all we need is a Road Captain,” Axton said as he extended his hand. As I gripped his hand in mine, I bit my lower lip slightly and gazed beyond Axton and toward the group. Without a doubt, I’d never let any harm come to the club, the club’s welfare, or any of the Members or Prospects. Although I was appreciative and humbled by the motion and the expressed opinion of the club in voting me into the Executive Committee, I didn’t dare show it. Being in the club was similar to being in the military or in doing a stint in prison. Showing emotion was a perceived as a sign of weakness. I released my grip on Axton’s hand, crossed my arms, and stood stone faced as if I didn’t give two fucks about the promotion. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I felt as if I was finally where I belonged. Protecting those who were incapable of protecting themselves was what my family had practiced for centuries. I came from a long line of Todelli’s who had risked their lives to make sure the incapable or unwilling didn’t have to stand up against a potential foe. As a US Marine, I risked my life to protect my brothers and preserve this country. For the club, I would certainly do the same. As any former Marine knows, there are no former Marines. Once a Marine, always a Marine.



TOAD The tales told by men in a Motorcycle Club are less accurate but far more entertaining than the events inspiring them. Over time, the stories grow, become more interesting, and always develop an ending that’s either funny as hell or unbelievably grotesque. I’ve always believed they started out as the truth, and become polished to perfection over a period of time. Some men are typically more truthful than others; and considering my capacity to digest lies and bullshit, I was close friends with very few of the men in the club. I loved them all as my brothers, but I chose not to befriend each and every one of them. The club decided through the process of being a Prospect who was allowed in, and I determined through my own means and methods who I felt I could truly trust. In the end, I had a short list of people I called my friends, and Otis was on the top of the list. Otis leaned onto the edge of the table and pushed his cup of coffee to the side. “So, you wrapped her head in plastic, fucked her until she was damned near unconscious, shoved your cock down her throat, dumped a load of cum in her gut, and then told her to kick rocks?” “Yep,” I said as I tipped the bottom of my coffee cup up, draining the little remaining liquid from the bottom. “You’re such a fucking romantic. Think maybe that was a little harsh?” he asked as he leaned away from the table and into the back of his chair. “Fuck no, it wasn’t harsh. She was a childish bitch. She started talking about being exclusive as soon as I cut the shit off her head. And I’d already gave her my speech about all we’re doing is having sex, and she agreed. I fucking swear, finding a good bitch is impossible.” I hesitated and leaned into the edge of the table.

“But I did give her dumb ass a ride to Corn Dog’s house. Left my place, rode to the Dog’s, and dropped her off in the driveway. Fucking bitch waved as she walked up the drive like I was doing her a solid,” I said with a laugh. Otis picked up his cup of coffee, shook it, and rolled his eyes. “That’s some funny shit right there, I can’t believe you did that. Well, I really can’t believe she did it. Heard from the Dog yet?” I shook my head. “Nope. Not a fucking word.” He chuckled. “Probably still fucking that poor girl. Been five years without pussy, he’s got some catching up to do.” I grinned at the thought of Corn Dog taking five years of frustration out on Sloan. Maybe his personal sexual taste combined with the absence of pussy in his life for the five years he spent in prison would mesh well with Sloan’s desire to be filled with biker cock. As I stood from my seat and tossed the empty cup in the trash can, I shook my head and laughed. “You ready?” I asked, still laughing at the thought of Corndog and Sloan. “Suppose so. Damn this sun feels good,” Otis said as he stood. Sitting outside at the local coffee shop was a guilty pleasure of ours. People walking into the store always admired our bikes, and the more brave souls would often ask questions about the club, our bikes, or our cuts. Spending time watching the customers go in and out provided confirmation of just how fucked up Wichita’s east side Starbucks coffee drinking society really was. I tilted my head toward the bank on the other side of the street. “We’re just going right over there. I need to get this shit deposited as soon as they open. You can sit on your bike while I go in if you want.” I had taken the majority of my pay, tax free combat pay, and what little money I hustled from side work and invested roughly half of it into a barbeque joint and two rental houses in Winfield. I purchased the rental houses after bank foreclosure, and got one for $7,500 and the other for $9,000. By my calculations, each should provide between $400 and $500 a month of income. The barbeque business was already established, and it came complete with everything I needed from wait staff to meat smokers. $50,000 wouldn’t buy much of anything in a large city, but in a town the size of Winfield, it had potentially purchased my retirement. Income from the restaurant and rentals, combined with what little work I did on custom bike building allowed me to enjoy my days without necessarily having a job.

As we pulled out of the parking lot of the coffee shop and into the street, the light at the corner changed from green to red. As we slowly rolled to a stop at the intersection I tossed my head in the direction of the light above and twisted the throttle. Age and level of maturity always seem to be tossed aside when two men are riding side by side on motorcycles. Otis alternated glances between me and the light as he nodded his head and revved his motor. The sound of the obnoxiously loud exhaust being thrust into the cars behind us would support their thoughts of bikers being obnoxious tattooed pieces of shit. As the light turned green, I released my grip on the clutch and twisted the throttle tight. Two clear advantages I had over Otis were the high performance engine I had built, and the weight of my bike. At nearly nine hundred pounds, I didn’t have to worry about the front tire coming up off of the ground under hard acceleration. As the rear tire screeched and the bike lurched forward, I watched in amazement as Otis shot past me as if I were parked. What the fuck? After shifting through two more gears at full throttle, I pulled in the clutch, released the throttle, and slowed down to a responsible eighty miles an hour. There was clearly nothing I could do to catch Otis. Like a little boy who had just been beaten handily on his own playground, I slowed the bike down and pulled into the parking lot of the bank; aggravated and ashamed. “What the fuck, brother?” I complained as my bike rolled to a stop beside Otis. “New cams,” Otis responded. I shrugged my shoulders and glared. “Cams?” Otis nodded his head. “When?” I asked. “Put ‘em in last weekend. Surprised you couldn’t hear the difference. She’s got a real rumpity rump to her now,” he said as he stepped over the seat and stood staring at his bike admiringly. I flipped the switch on the hand controls and killed the engine. Still pissed off at the quickness of Otis’ bike, I leaned over and unlatched the left saddlebag. After stepping off the bike and to the side, I opened the lid and removed my deposit pouch. Generally, I kept a week of earnings at home in a safe, and rode to the bank once a week for deposits into my business account. Gripping the pouch of money in my hand, I turned toward Otis and lightly shook my head.

“Wallow in it for now, you big prick. I’ll tear mine down this afternoon, and we’ll go at it again. Fucking asshole,” I hissed. “Runs like a beast now. Shit brother, I waited all fucking morning for you to try something. Go ahead, get your cams in, and we’ll race for that little bag of money you’re carrying,” Otis said as he tilted his head in my direction. “Afraid not. I need to get this in the bank. That fucking Junior is eating me into the red. I’m going to have a talk with that mother fucker,” I said. “The big black kid?” I nodded my head. “Yeah. My meat cost has gone up almost ten fucking percent. He’s either eating ten percent of the meat, or making the meals ten percent larger. Either way, we’re going to have a talk.” “Well fuck. Kid probably weighs what, four fifty? I bet he can eat a shit load of barbeque,” Otis said. After I purchased the restaurant, a few of the employees immediately quit. I put up a Help Wanted sign on the window and almost instantly a local kid approached me about employment. He had just dropped out of school and was trying to help support his family. He explained his mother was having a difficult time supporting him and his five younger brothers and sisters with no father at home. Although at the time he was only sixteen, I hired him on the spot. He was polite, had a great sense of humor, and seemed very responsible for his age. Initially, a perk of employment was free meals for the employees. Later, due to plummeting profits, the perk changed to one sandwich per employee. Now roughly eighteen years old, Junior weighed in excess of four hundred pounds, and it appeared he was eating me into a daily deficit. “Yeah, he probably weighs four hundred something anyway. So you going in or staying out here in the sun?” I asked. “I’ll sit here if you’ll make it quick,” Otis responded as he turned toward his bike. A newer model BMW pulled alongside Otis’ bike as I turned to walk across the parking lot and toward the bank. The gorgeous blonde riding passenger caught my immediate attention, and I craned my neck her direction until I reached the sidewalk leading to the entrance. As I slowly shuffled my feet toward the steps, I watched her out of the corner of my eye until she got out of the car. I continued to make a conscious effort to meander to the door slowly, hoping to hold it open for her and the shit hat she was

riding with so I could get a better look at her. I stepped onto the top landing of the steps, reached for the door, and hesitated as I grasped the handle. As they began to walk up the stairs, I pulled the door open and held it for them to enter, looking over my shoulder as I did. She was wearing nice jeans, conservative heels, and a sleeveless silk top that looked like it had a thousand wrinkles in it. He was wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and a jacket three sizes too large. She shifted her gaze to meet mine, smiled, and immediately looked down as if embarrassed. He, on the other hand, focused his nervous eyes on the deposit pouch I held, eventually broke his stare, and forced his mouth to form a half-assed smirk as he looked upward. I have always seemed to possess an uncanny knack for reading people. She appeared to me to be apprehensive or as if she felt out of place. He seemed nervous and quite anxious. My efforts to make eye contact with him as they walked past me and into the bank were unsuccessful. As soon as he entered the otherwise empty bank, his eyes began to nervously shift back and forth throughout the lobby. He either had a plan and was too damned nervous to implement it, or was assembling one quickly in his mind. Either way, I stood by the door and watched his every move with interest. As he walked into the center of the lobby, she remained at my side; standing beside the door. A man’s physical size may have something to do with his capacity to intimidate other men, but in all honesty, size has very little to do with actual ability. Although I was a good six inches taller than he was, and clearly physically larger and stronger, something about him made me nervous. I was in no way intimidated by him or scared, but his nervous behavior was beginning to make me feel more and more uneasy. As my eyes shifted between him and her, his plan became crystal clear. You’ve got to be fucking kidding… “Nobody fucking move; and if anyone pushes a panic button, I’ll kill every motherfucker in here!” he screamed as he began waving a pistol at the bank tellers. Immediately, my military instinct took over. I damned sure wasn’t new to fighting, combat, gunfire, or stupid fuckers armed with guns, but I wasn’t so self-centered that I didn’t realize he was twenty feet from me and armed with a pistol while I had nothing more than a knife and a pouch full of money. If I could only get him close enough to touch him, I knew I could disarm him before he knew what happened. Having received my black belt in the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program, or MCMAP, I could have remained in the states and been a Marine martial arts instructor. Instead, I opted to go to war. As I studied him and his manner of holding the weapon, he turned in my direction and began nervously screaming.

“Toss your deposit bag. Throw it over here, you big fucker…” he stammered as he waved the gun in my direction. If this motherfucker thinks he’s going to rob me, he’s either going to have to get a dozen more men or a hell of a lot more firepower. “Throw it on the fucking floor,” he demanded as he shifted his gaze back and forth between the bank tellers and me. Sorry, shit hat. Come and get it. Nervously, he shifted his eyes to the row of tellers, “Every one of you motherfuckers better get the money out of your drawers right now. Put it all in deposit bags, and don’t sound an alarm. If a cop comes in here, I’m going to shoot every one of you bitches before he shoots me.” As he quickly turned away from where I stood and faced the tellers, I tilted my head to the side and whispered. “Stay right here by the door. Don’t move, understand?” His female accomplice nervously nodded her head. While he faced the other direction, I took two steps toward him. As he turned around, he blinked his eyes a few times and once again demanded I drop the money. “I told you to toss that bag on the floor, big boy,” he snarled as he pointed the gun toward me. Did you just call me a boy? I figured my best bet was to coerce him to come to me and attempt to take the money. All he needed was a little encouragement. I rolled my shoulders forward, stared down at my boots, and tried to appear as small as a six foot tall 190 pound Marine could possibly look. Luckily, I was wearing a tee shirt that did a pretty good job of covering my Marine tattoo. “Can’t do it. I need to deposit this money in the bank,” I said sheepishly. Come over here motherfucker, I’ve got a little trick I want to show you. “Toss it on the floor,” he barked as he motioned to the floor with the barrel of the pistol. “But it’s damned near fifty grand. I really need to deposit it,” I lied as I raised my left hand toward

my chest in what he would perceive as a fearful posture. As I had hoped, the claim of fifty grand got his attention. With widened eyes he quickly began walking in my direction. As he approached, he held his pistol with his arm extended and elbow locked. Contrary to what was typically shown in movies and television, holding a pistol in this manner is an invitation to have it taken away by anyone with an ounce of training. As he took his last step, the gun was mere inches from my chest. With my left hand raised and my palm outward, I loosened my grip on the bag of money with my right hand and waited. If possible, I needed him to raise the pistol just a little… “Drop it,” he grunted. I attempted to make my voice seem shaky and nervous. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I enjoyed situations like this and truly missed the adrenaline rush I received from being in combat. “It’s all I…it’s all I got…I really…can’t…” I mumbled. He slowly raised the pistol toward my head. In firearm disarmament training, I’d disarmed a man no less than a thousand times in the exact same situation. Taking his weapon would be no different. I released my grip on the deposit bag, and before it hit the floor, I swung my left hand toward the barrel and gripped the slide as my right hand simultaneously swung into his right forearm, just above the wrist. Instantaneously, the pistol snapped out of his hand. In a move which took a fraction of a second, the pistol swung 180 degrees and was now in my control. Unarmed, and with his mouth wide open, his eyes were filled with a combination of sheer surprise and oh shit, what just happened? I raised my right foot and planted a front kick into his left lower hip – bringing my heel down against his upper thigh. He fell to the floor and landed flat on his back. “Don’t fucking move or I’ll plaster what little brains you have all over the floor, you fucking idiot,” I growled as I pointed the pistol at his head. I tilted my head toward the tellers as I stepped on his chest. “I’ll hold him here until the cops arrive,” I shouted toward the three tellers. I turned my head slightly toward the woman standing at the front door. “Come here,” I whispered.

As far as anyone in the bank was able to discern, the woman could have entered with either of us. From the time he stepped in the bank and began demanding money, she stood by my side at the door. Additionally, as I had held the door for them to initially enter, it was never clear if she was with me or with him. I wanted to give her an opportunity, a way out, but only if she wanted it. Nervously, she approached. As she got within a few feet of where I stood, I said what little I had to say. “I’m giving you a way out of this. He’ll do a 20 year mandatory minimum in Federal Prison for this stunt. You’ll do at least half that much for being with him. Cops will be here in a matter of minutes if not sooner. I’m willing to say you came here with me. You married to him? Or tied to him in any way?” I asked. Clearly nervous and shaken up, she shook her head. “Now, I’m asking you, who’d you come here with?” I whispered. “Uhhm, I uhhm. You?” she stammered as she glanced toward him anxiously. “Don’t look at him; he doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with this. He’s on film robbing this bank, he’s fucked. Now, who’d you come here with? Make a decision right now,” I whispered. She swallowed heavily and bit her lip slightly. “You.” “But…” the would be robber whined. “Shut the fuck up,” I grunted as I stepped down on his chest. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Sydney. Sydney Shephard,” she whispered. “Cops can’t tie you to him?” I asked. She shook her head. “I’m Toad. You rode here with me from Winfield on the back of that bike out there if anyone asks. Where’s your car?” I asked. “In Old Town. At the Pump House. I seriously just met him,” she responded.

“I met you at the Pump House last night, picked you up, and you came home with me on my bike. Understand?” Tears began to roll down each cheek. She bit her quivering lip and nodded her head. “Have anything in his fucking car that has your name on it? Anything that’ll tie you to him?” I asked quietly. She raised her purse and shook her head from side-to-side. “Get outside. Go to the big guy sittin’ on the bike. His name’s Otis. Walk out to the bike right now, and say these exact words. ‘Toad told me to tell you to take me to Biscuit’s house right now. The Devil looks after his own.’ He’ll do it. If the cops show up before you get to the bike, tell them you’re with me,” I said. “Otis take me to Biscuit’s house. Devil looks after his own,” she stammered. “Good enough,” I said with a nod. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she pushed the door open and ran toward the parking lot. The entire event, from our walking into the bank until she left took roughly two minutes time. I didn’t know much about robbing banks, but I did believe regardless of his demand to the tellers, they would have probably sounded a silent alarm. I exhaled a sigh of relief as I heard the sound of Otis’ new cams rumble in the parking lot. As the exhaust note faded away, I wondered if one of the overzealous Wichita cops would shoot me as soon as they entered the bank. Considering the fact I was tall, muscular, holding a weapon, covered in tattoos, and wearing a 1%er cut - and the robber was wearing slacks, a dress shirt, and jacket, I stepped into his chest harshly and pushed the pistol into the waist of my pants. After picking him up from the floor and placing him in a choke hold, I tossed the pistol toward the front door. It came to a stop a few feet from the threshold. As I stood fifteen feet from the door choking the fucktard who tried to steal my money, I laughed to myself at what the police would think when they learned the Sergeant at Arms for a 1% club stopped a bank robbery in progress. Ten seconds later, when what appeared to be the entire S.W.A.T. team broke through the front door, I got a good idea of what they were thinking. “Release the man, take two steps backward and slowly interlock your hands behind your head,” the man with the H&K MP-5 pointed at my head barked.

Suddenly I wasn’t in the mood to try to explain anything. After tightening my choke hold - bringing shit-for-brains a little closer to unconsciousness - I slowly released him from my grasp and swept his legs out from underneath him with a quick right foot, dropping him to the floor. As soon as his body came to a thud at my feet, I grinned, raised my arms, and interlocked my fingers behind my head. “The guy on the floor is the one who tried to rob us,” the teller shouted. The immediate look of surprise on the faces of the over-dressed and under trained officers removed what little wonder I had in what they were all thinking. I can see it in your eyes, asshole. Oh shit, the biker didn’t do it? Considering how much I disliked cops, the fact Otis beat me in a street race, and some brainless thief tried to steal my deposit money, I wasn’t in a very pleasant mood. I stared at the cop whose face was covered in disbelief, and I couldn’t help myself. I coughed a laugh and grinned. “Sorry fellas, at least this time, the biker didn’t do it.”

TOAD As I pulled the bike into the driveway, Otis, Biscuit, and Sydney were all standing by Otis’ and Biscuit’s motorcycles staring out at the street. Two hours of questions, interviews, and a short spot on the local news was a little more than I had planned or was prepared for. Luckily, the city cops were the only law enforcement who showed up, and I didn’t have to argue with or talk to the Fed’s. City cops are typically so poorly trained and out of touch with real world reality that bullshitting one of them goes unnoticed by even their best trained idiots. “I expected you’d be here an hour and a half ago,” Otis said as I pulled alongside the parked bikes. “See me on the news?” I said as I stepped off my bike. “Seriously?” Otis asked. “Afraid so. Did a pretty long interview. Fuckers asked me to take my cut off. Can you fucking believe that? She asked if I’d interview in my shirt. I fucking laughed. Told the little bitch listen up, a Sinner stopped this robbery, and a Sinner is who you’ll interview. She finally agreed. I thought it was fucking hilarious.” I hesitated and reached toward Biscuit with my right hand. “How’s it hangin’ Biscuit?” I asked as I shook his hand and patted him on the back. “Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on here but the rent, brother. That and harborin’ fugitives,” he responded. “You were the closest Sinner I could think of,” I said. “Appreciate ya, brother.” Biscuit released my hand, leaned back, crossed his arms and grinned. “The life of a Sinner, it’s always interesting if nothin’ else. So, we heard her side of it, let’s hear what really happened. She said

you whipped some of your martial arts bullshit out, took the fuckers piece, and karate kicked his ass to the floor. Sounded like she was watching the entire show through rose colored glasses.” Although Otis knew she had ridden to the bank with the guy in the BMW, he wouldn’t necessarily know he was the one who was robbing the bank, unless Sydney had told him. Otis had no way of knowing how many people were inside before we arrived. If for some reason she had told Otis, Otis wouldn’t have said anything to Biscuit without talking to me about it first. One thing I admired and appreciated about the club was that a man’s business was just that, his business. The shit talking and storytelling about any activities aside from what was common knowledge didn’t exist. I decided to tell my version of the story, leaving out a few minor details, but being cautious not to actually lie. “Well, I walked into the bank to deposit my hard earned money, and some cock sucker decided to try and rob the motherfucker before I had a chance to get out of there.” I hesitated and exchanged glances between Sydney and Otis. No reaction so far. “So this fucker starts screaming and waving his Ruger 9 millimeter around like he’s gonna get the money and head out without any problems. I acted like I was scared and convinced him to come try and take my money. When he got close enough that I could reach him, I grabbed his weapon and pushed his ass on the floor. Pretty simple stuff,” I said. As I spoke, Otis stood without much expression. Sydney, on the other hand, seemed somewhat nervous at first but calmed down as I finished speaking. “It ain’t every motherfucker who’s gonna take a man’s piece when he’s tryin’ to rob a bank. You act like it’s no big deal. You’re a wacked out war hero. I like her version better,” Biscuit said with a laugh. Otis raised his hands and began rubbing his head. “So what about the cops and the news? Slice’s gonna love the news coverage.” I was pleased with the fact Sydney hadn’t spoken so far. Not that I wanted to try and bullshit my club brothers, but the fewer people who realized what really happened, the better. A handful of people knowing something like this was a handful too many. “Cops questioned me for an hour or so. Fuckers couldn’t believe I disarmed him. One of ‘em was a real prick, the senior officer. He acted like it couldn’t have gone down like that, even after the tellers

told him how it happened. Finally, I told the cocksucker to pull his piece and I’d take it from his ass too. So anyway, the news showed up; it was the little brown haired girl from the ten o’clock news on channel 10. They originally came to interview the tellers, but when they found out a civilian stopped the robbery, they decided the Toad man was a better story,” I said. “What’d you tell ‘em?” Biscuit asked. “Same fucking thing I told you. Kept it simple,” I said. “So how the fuck’s she fit in?” Biscuit asked as he tilted his head toward Sydney. I decided to answer in an abbreviated version of the truth, and see what everyone’s response was. I shifted my gaze toward Sydney and maintained my focus as I answered. “Well, she was scared and I really couldn’t see her sticking around for the cops to harass. I told her to hop on with the big O and get a ride out of there before the fucking cops showed up.” Biscuit crossed his arms, studied Sydney for a long second, and lifted his chin slightly. “So, what now? Should we kill her or fuck her first, and then kill her?” Biscuit was the most serious practical joker in the club. He was a master of keeping a straight face while telling a joke or bullshitting someone. Until the very end of a story, you never knew if what he was telling you was the truth or a lie. He was an honest man and could be trusted one hundred percent, but he got great satisfaction out of bullshitting people just to get a reaction out of them. As soon as he spoke, I knew he was joking, but I waited anxiously to see how Sydney responded. Keeping an expressionless face was difficult, but I didn’t have to do it for long before she reacted. “Definitely fuck me first. Hell, maybe gang bang me right here in the driveway before you cut my throat, huh? And just to forewarn you, you may want to get a warm washcloth and a little soap, I haven’t cleaned my twat in a few weeks,” she responded in a serious tone. Damn, she’s got a little guts. Although Biscuit tried, he couldn’t keep himself from laughing for long. Within a few seconds of silence from Otis and me, he erupted in laughter. “There’s no bullshittin’ you, is there?” he said. She shook her head from side-to-side as she rolled her eyes. “You’ve got no reason to kill me, I

don’t put your club at risk. If anything, I provide corroboration to Toad’s story.” Otis glanced in my direction and raised his eyebrows comically. Biscuit uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. “Keep using words like that and I just might cut your throat. You sound like a fucking cop, sayin’ shit like corroboration. You a cop, little girl?” Biscuit grunted. “Far from it. Right now I’m a jobless, homeless, hopeless, penniless bitch that needs a ride to my car. And this isn’t my first time around 1%ers. My brother’s in an outlaw club, Hell’s Fury. Is, was, whatever. He’s doing life in Big Sandy now,” she snapped. Damn, no wonder she kept her mouth shut. Biscuit widened his eyes, crossed his arms, and took one step back as he studied Sydney. “Hell’s Fury, huh? Don’t think I won’t check him out. I know a few of those fellas in the Fury’s Colorado Springs Chapter. What’s his name?” “Jackson Shephard, same last name as mine. Road name was Killer. Just Google him. If you all remember the ATF infiltration of the Fury and the conspiracy to commit murder charges, well that was him. And if you want to read the piece of shit, they wrote a book about it,” she explained. “I remember it. Fuck, everyone remembers it. Chicken-shit undercover ATF agent rode with ‘em for a few years, got patched in and everything, and then tried to set the club up on murder charges. When they couldn’t get ‘em to kill anyone, they made up some bullshit about a contract killing for another 1%er club and railroaded a few guys. And fuck, Big Sandy’s no joke. That’s a shit-hole penitentiary, even for the Fed’s. Tough time to do, right there,” Otis said. “You got it. Undercover ATF agent fucked them over big time. Set my brother up like a bowling pin. Since they shipped him to Big Sandy, he won’t even let me visit, but that’s a whole different story,” she said. Biscuit took one more step back and narrowed his eyes. After a long pause, he began to speak. “So, lemme ask you a question. If you’re homeless, jobless, penniless, and what else did you say? Hopeless? If you’re all that, what the fuck were you doing in a fucking bank of all places?” “I was going to rob it, but the other fucker beat me to it,” she responded without expression.

Biscuit glanced in my direction. I shrugged my shoulders and grinned. “You truly homeless?” I asked. She rolled her eyes and nodded her head. “Somewhat ashamed of it, but yes I am.” After her confirmation, it appeared no one really knew how to respond to her. As the three of us stood and stared, she broke the long silence. “See this top? Doesn’t it look like I dug it out of the dirty clothes? Know why? Because everything I own is in the back seat or trunk of my car. I live out of it; have been for about a month. Now I’m down to no money and only a little bit of gas. Hopefully I’ll find a job in the next week or so.” As I considered what to say, Otis and Biscuit both reached for their wallets at the same time. She turned her hand up and shook her head. “Sorry, fellas. I don’t take handouts. Call me whatever you want including stupid, but I can’t do it. I’ll die first. I work for my money. I just need to find a job,” she said in a voice full of emotion. “Do you use dope?” I asked. She shook her head. “Never have.” “Liar, thief, cheat, or anything of the like?” “Nope, I’ve never stolen anything in my life. And I don’t lie or cheat. I’m actually a great person who was dealt a shit card in life,” she responded. I crossed my arms and examined her. Other than the fact her top was covered in too many wrinkles to count, nothing about her really bothered me. She certainly didn’t appear homeless. In fact, she was a very well put together woman. The blonde hair hanging well past her shoulders was beautiful and full of body, and although she wore minimal makeup, her skin appeared to be blemish free and healthy. “Can you wait tables?” I asked. “Never tried, but I’d be willing to give it a go,” she said. I lowered my chin slightly and uncrossed my arms. As I raised my hand to my chin I grinned

slightly. “I tell you what. I can give you a job at my restaurant in Winfield. It’s thirty miles from here, but you can start tomorrow if you want. I pay minimum wage plus tips, which is more than most restaurants. Tips aren’t much, but with your looks and attitude, you’ll probably do well. It’s the least I can do for a 1%er who’s locked down; or I guess for his sister. Maybe you can put some money on his books; get him some zoo zoos and wham whams.” “I can’t make it that far on the gas I’ve got in the car. If you want to give me a ride by my car and let me grab a few things, and then if you could maybe give me a ride to Winfield, I’ll sure start tomorrow,” she said. It dawned on me as she spoke that she was actually homeless. Not homeless in a broad meaningless sense, but truly without a place to stay. Her car full of personal belongings was all she had. She had no money, no means, and certainly had no possibility of even doing something as simple as bathing. Seeing someone like her in the condition she was in made me angry with society. I wanted to know what happened to cause her to be destitute. Before I had a chance to water down a question and make it seem less invasive, Biscuit beat me to the punch. Still standing with his wallet in his hand, Biscuit cleared his throat. “So, if I can ask, what happened?” “You sure can, and I’ll tell you. The aircraft plant laid me off. I had a high school education and ten years of experience when they did. I went quite a while looking for another job and couldn’t find one because I was pushing 30 years old, and had no experience other than pounding rivets. I couldn’t pay my rent, and eventually got evicted. I lived in and out of cheap hotels for almost a year delivering flowers part time, but lost that job when they found out I didn’t have a license to drive.” “Son-of-a-bitch, you can’t catch a fuckin’ break, can ya? What happened there?” Biscuit said. “I got three parking tickets for leaving my car sitting in one spot too long. Working part time, it got down to either eat or pay my tickets. I chose food.” she said. Everyone on this earth requires money to survive. Unless a person is born into wealth, they must work to obtain the money. Realistically, we all must drive to our place of work. Society dictates we need a license to legally drive a car. At some point, we must park that car. To think Sydney was given a ticket or multiple tickets for parking a car she wasn’t able to drive because she couldn’t afford to do so, and was then relieved of her license for failure to pay the tickets angered me to no end. Thinking of the rules, regulations, and requirements of society often angered me to a point of being furious. I stared down at my

boots for a long second and attempted to collect my thoughts. “I tell you what,” I said as I looked up. I raised my hands and rubbed my temples with my fingertips. “I’ve got a little rental house Otis and I have been working on for a while. It didn’t cost me shit, and I was going to rent it at the end of the summer when we were done painting and making a few cosmetic repairs. Rent’s cheap in Winfield. Probably go for $350 a month. It’s a shitty one bedroom in a shitty part of town, and it doesn’t have a garage. I understand the pride thing, and not wanting a handout. How about this; pay the rent at the end of each month instead of the beginning? You can pay me the rent in four weeks. One catch, you’ll be responsible for making the repairs.” Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I don’t know what the repairs are, but I’ll do my best. Seriously?” I nodded my head as I exchanged glances between her and Otis. “Just minor painting and stuff, and yes, I’m serious.” “Please tell me it has running water,” she asked excitedly. “Sure does. I turned on all of the utilities when Otis and I started doing the work. I gave the city a few hundred bucks for the bills. What I’ve paid in advance will probably get you to September if you don’t run the air conditioner too much, but after that the utilities are on you,” I responded. “You’ve got a deal,” she said. “Holy shit. This is crazy. Oh my God. Are you for real?” As I nodded my head, Otis and Biscuit both grinned. What satisfaction they received was not from my helping her. They, I imagined, were more concerned with the fact her 1%er brother was doing life in a federal penitentiary for some bullshit charge fabricated by a lying undercover ATF agent. In their minds, helping her was helping him, or as close as they could come to doing so. The legal case she spoke of received a lot of attention by 1%er clubs all over the nation. In fact, the Selected Sinners modified their bylaws as a result. When the ATF agent co-wrote a book about his experiences in infiltrating the club, further lining his pockets with money, it sickened each and every one of us even more. For me, it was a little different. I wasn’t necessarily helping her in my mind, I was saving her. And, saving her was something I felt I had to do. I didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Giving Junior the job at the restaurant was a similar circumstance, at least according to my psychiatrist at the Veteran’s Administration.

A facet of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was a severe case of Survivor’s Guilt. Until I was diagnosed with PTSD, I believed I should not have lived when so many Marines in my battalion died. I often wondered what I could have done differently, and questioned if I had made other choices, whether or not some of the dead would have survived. In short, I felt guilty - subconsciously - for surviving when so many other Marines did not. The human mind provides its own therapy in receiving satisfaction from saving others from a traumatic situation. Saving a life now, in a sense, for the ones I couldn’t save in the past. Impossible for me to totally understand, my PTSD caused me to lack compassion in some areas, and be far more understanding and sympathetic in others. I realized I couldn’t save the world, nor did I wish to. For some reason I had attached myself to certain people and their needs, feeling tremendous guilt if I didn’t step forth and extend my hand to pull them from whatever it was they were drowning in. Sydney, for some reason, was one of those people.

TOAD The tone of Axton’s voice didn’t have to change, the look in his eyes told the entire story. We had been arguing about the concept of good versus evil for nearly twenty minutes. He was clearly aggravated and so was I. As he pushed himself away from the table and maintained eye contact, he raised his hands to his face, tilted his chair back on the rear legs, and spoke. “Stop being so fucking philosophical, Toad. Answer this, would you kill a man if he crossed you? Let’s say if he really, really did you or your family wrong?” I pushed against the edge of the table, sliding my chair back a few feet. “You know I would.” Axton gripped the edge of the table in his hands and flexed his forearms. “So let me ask you this, how can you say you stand up for all of what is good if you’d kill a man for simply doing something you perceive as wrong?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and exhaled. I shifted my gaze to meet Axton’s, inhaled a shallow breath, and responded. “Because it’s in defense of or in support of what’s good. I wouldn’t kill someone for the sake of simply killing them, Slice. I’m not a cold-blooded fucking killer. That’s my point. They’d have to be a really bad person or be doing something pretty fucked up.” Axton shook his head and stood from his seat. “I think that’s the Marine in you, Toad. You’ve been reprogrammed to think because of your abilities that you’re required to stand up against evil. Society might see it as good or bad, but you don’t give two fucks. If you see it as bad, you’re going to stand up and speak your mind. If it requires physical intervention, you’ll intervene. If it requires killing a motherfucker, you’ll do it. I guess I’m damned near done arguing about it, but my point is this. Just because you believe it to be right doesn’t make it right. You’re a good man, Toad. Make no mistake about it. But you do, you’ve done, and you’ll continue to do what’s evil when you feel it’s necessary.”

I looked up at Axton for a moment, and eventually stood. Having him stand over me made me nervous. The conversation began over discussing the bank robbery, and my interview with the news media. After the editing of the interview, several of my long responses were cut down into a few short remarks. One of the longer statements ended up edited to nothing, with my stating, I stand up against evil. The original question was regarding the MC, and my statement in whole was, although I’m in an Outlaw Motorcycle Club, I’m not a criminal. A common misconception is that men in Outlaw clubs are criminals, and we are not. I’ve always made an effort to stand up against evil. The woman interviewing me said, so you stand up against evil? And I responded, yes I stand up against evil. The changes they made to the interview took what I said out of context, and the entire thing, including Axton’s questioning me, was beginning to irritate me. Now somewhat frustrated and standing across the table from Axton, I crossed my arms, mimicking how he was standing. “A man’s abilities do not define who he is. His choices, and the application of those abilities, however, do. Life is not only about the choices we make, but why we make them. If a man commits an act and it is perceived by the masses as evil, but it is done to support all of what is good, or it was administered with good intention, the man and the act are good.” I uncrossed my arms and rubbed my palms together, convinced I’d made my point. “All evil acts aren’t preceded by a conscious thought of evil, Toad,” Axton said. “What are you saying?” I asked. Axton turned his palms up and shook his head. “I just fucking said it, Socrates.” I stood silently and continued to glare in Axton’s direction. “Some people commit acts of evil without thinking the act is evil. Or, they don’t consciously believe they’re preparing to commit evil before they act. That doesn’t necessarily make the act just or right.” “I’m done arguing about this,” I said as I turned away. “I was done a long fucking time ago,” I heard Axton chuckle. “Where the fuck are you going?” he asked. “Out to the shop,” I said over my shoulder.

“Don’t get all butt hurt, Toad. I wasn’t attacking you,” Axton said. I continued to walk toward the door, opened it, and hesitated. “So let me ask you a question, Slice. If a man crossed you, or let’s say really, really did Avery wrong, would you kill him?” I asked. “Without even thinking about it,” he replied. I released the door handle and turned to face him. “So why are you crawling all over me for having the same reaction?” Axton reached behind his head with both hands, placed his fingers against the base of his skull, took a deep breath, flexed his biceps, and exhaled. “Because I know I’m evil, Toad. I’m pretty fucking certain if there’s a heaven and a hell when we’re all done here, I’m going to the place with the warm climate. And I’m not the man stopping bank robberies, being interviewed by the news, and saying I stand up against evil. Hell, you walk around this motherfucker all the God damned time making reference to the Bible. And unless I’m going completely crazy, that night you got your patch - when we killed the child molester - you cited the Bible chapter and verse to that prick before you killed him.” I stood staring his direction blankly as I considered what he said. In actuality, he wasn’t worried about me being who I was or believing what I believed, but he damned sure wasn’t pleased about my news interview while wearing my Sinner’s cut. To be honest, I wasn’t either. “You pissed off about the news segment?” I asked. “Can’t say I’m real happy about it, Toad,” he responded. I stared down at my boots and thought about what had happened and how it may have an effect on the club. Before I had a chance to speak, Axton began to walk in my direction. Without turning and facing the bylaws, he began to speak from memory. “The Sergeant at Arms is responsible for the safety and security of the club, as well as the protection and defense of all club Members and Prospects. Upon becoming aware of any real or perceived threat to the club, its Members, Prospects, or events, he shall immediately notify the Executive Committee of that information.” He paused and smiled his shitty little smile.

I smiled in return. “Toad, you’re on the Executive Committee now. Be as nice or as fucking evil as you feel you need to be. Personally, I wish it was me who would have taken the gun from that shithead in the bank. Hell, I’d have probably shot the prick just to save taxpayers a little money. More than likely would have taken the homeless girl home too. But what I wouldn’t have done was agree to do that fucking interview. They never put them on the news the way they’re recorded. Always think of the best interest of the club,” he said as he extended his hand. As I reached for his hand, he pulled me through the doorway and slapped me on the back. “You’re a good man, Toad. I’m proud to have you as my Sergeant at Arms, I really am. Consider the club first in all you do.” “Aye aye, sir,” I said, using the Marine acknowledgement that an order had been received, was understood, and would be carried out. “Carry on,” Axton said as he released my hand. “Sorry boss,” I said. “No apology needed,” Axton replied. I turned and walked into the shop as Axton quietly followed. Unlike many of the other Sinners who continuously spoke until interrupted, Axton was a master of knowing when to speak, what to say, and when to be silent. I stopped a few feet from my bike, placed my hands on my hips, and stared. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, I looked over my left shoulder toward Axton. “I’m thinking the interview with the news was me being a little selfish. You know, wanting the recognition and such. I’m not using this as an excuse, but I’m thinking it might be part of my PTSD; the Survivor’s Guilt. I think I thought if the entire city believed I saved those people at the bank from harm, then maybe that would have made up for all the Marines my battalion lost in Afghanistan. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll talk to my shrink at the VA on Friday when I go to mental health,” I said. After a short pause, Axton pushed his hands into his front pockets, nodded his head slowly, and spoke. “I’ve never been in the military or fought in a war, nor am I trained medical professional,” he said. “But in my opinion, and it’s only that, an opinion…”

He slowly walked over to his bike and leaned against the seat. He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them along the thighs of his jeans. “You’re a good man, a damned fine one to be honest. Part of the problem is you’re too damned good, raised by good Italian parents in the Catholic church. You grew up believing your understanding of God’s will. You went to war, just like your father, grandfather, and your great-grandfather. And now you struggle with what happened and the lives of your Marine brothers that were lost. You wonder why you didn’t die instead. You wonder what you could have done differently. Now you live your life trying to make up for what happened as if it was your fault, or you had some control over it. I’ve got news for you, it wasn’t and you don’t. Let me ask you something. You don’t have to answer, and I know this is a sensitive subject, but tell me this if you can; were any of the Marines in your battalion who died on your immediate left or immediate right? You know, within an arm’s reach?” I didn’t really have to think for very long to answer. It seemed odd talking to Axton about this type of thing, but I felt strangely comfortable. “No. Not so much. They were close, but not that close.” “So moving one way or another you couldn’t have made a difference by taking a bullet for them or anything like that?” I crossed my arms and I shook my head. “Well then, what happened to them was God’s will. Not yours, God’s. And for you to think you had or have some control over what happened is to think you’re God. I got news for you Toad. You’re one solid motherfucker, but you’re not God,” he said as he stood. He took the few steps which separated us and slid his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. “I think your struggle is with God. In the civilian world, you continue to do what most perceive as evil. It allows you to think the atrocities of war weren’t so evil. It puts things into a different perspective, so to speak; making this life and that life seem similar. If your civilian world was full of butterflies and rainbow barfin’ unicorns, you’d clearly see the complete contrast between life and war. But, if your life resembles war, there is no contrast. Not much anyway. So, considering your upbringing and your relationship with God, you struggle. You know the difference between right and wrong. Do you regret being a Marine?” “Fuck no,” I snapped. “Marines kill, Toad. And Marines die. It’s what they do. Stop trying to make peace with God for something he’s already accepted as being part of his master plan. He’s moved on to hurricanes,

earthquakes, that crazy prick in North Korea, and making sure those flowers Avery planted at my house don’t die. He’s over it. Now it’s your turn,” he said as he pulled his hands from his pockets and stretched his arms wide. One thing I never expected from another man until I was in the MC was to be hugged. I learned in my introduction to the club as a Hang Around, and later as a Prospect that all of the members hugged each other. It seemed strange seeing it at the time, but now it was common practice for me. It was part of the brotherhood, the bond, and a means of expressing our closeness to each other. As he slapped me on the back, he exhaled and spoke in a low tone. “God, Country, Corps, Family, and Self. In that order,” he said. I broke the embrace and stared. “Where’d you hear that?” “Read it on the internet, along with all the other shit we just discussed. I want you to get better, so I’ve been researching. You’re the Sergeant at Arms for this club Toad, I want you at your absolute best,” he responded. As I studied Axton in an odd admiration, I realized in spite of his attitude, rough exterior, and harsh way of making himself clear, he did almost everything for one reason and one reason only. The betterment of the club. And it was time I do the same.



SYDNEY “Peanut butter, bread, 2 dozen eggs, and toothpaste. Is that going to be it for you?” the sixty-yearold cashier asked as she carefully placed the groceries in a bag. “Yes ma’am,” I said with a grin. Inside my head, a song was playing. Not one from the radio, but one my brain had just made up in celebration of earning my tips. I can pay for my own groceries. I can pay for my own groceries. I grinned as the words continued to repeat themselves. She looked over the top of her glasses toward the register. “That’ll be $13.20.” Watch this. I’m going to reach in my purse and grab money. My money. I pulled my wallet from my purse and thumbed through the bills as if I were looking for something small enough to give her. In actuality, I was looking for a $20 dollar bill, and I knew I only had one. The remaining $1’s and $5’s littering my wallet made me look and feel as if I was on top of the world. In all respects, I was. “Here,” I said as I pulled the $20 bill from my wallet. “Are you new in town, Hun? I haven’t seen you in here before,” she asked as she accepted the money.

“Yes ma’am. I just moved here a week or so ago. I couldn’t find a job in Wichita, and was offered one here at a restaurant. So, here I am. I’m Sydney,” I said. “I’m Gladys. Well, it’s nice to have you come in. We try to keep our prices down, but I can’t get as cheap as those places in Wichita. But we’re sure convenient,” she said as she opened the register. As she handed me the change, she smiled. “So, which restaurant are you working at?” “Randy’s Rib Shack,” I responded. She raised her hand to her mouth and leaned over the counter as if telling me a secret, “Randy doesn’t own it anymore. Some hoodlum bought it, but he kept the name.” I wanted to shove the groceries to the floor and tell her to fuck off. Having grown up in a small town, I knew small towns were generally filled with people who had far less exposure than larger cities. The lack of experience with various races, religions, beliefs, and cultures caused many people in small cities to turn their noses up at anyone who even appeared to be different. As much as I wanted to scream, in my opinion it was always better to educate than argue. I swallowed heavily, tapped my toe on the floor lightly, and smiled. “I certainly didn’t see him as that. He was very kind to me. I was unemployed and homeless. He offered me a job, gave me a ride here from Wichita and offered me one of his rental properties for free, or at least until I could pay him,” I said as I reached for the bag of groceries. She covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes widened. “You don’t say?” No, actually I just did. I smiled and nodded my head. “He was very sweet.” She lowered her hand from her mouth tilted her head slightly. “Well, George said he rode motorcycles with that group of hoodlums down south. There’s a bunch of ‘em over there at that old warehouse Torn Mattern used to own, and they all look dirty.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea. All I know is he was very nice to me, and he was far from dirty. Actually, he was clean cut, and had a military haircut. Oh, and I caught a glimpse of a Marine tattoo on his arm, so I asked him about it. It seems he’s fought in the war for this country, they awarded him a few medals for bravery as well.”

She leaned back and scrunched her brow slightly. “You don’t say. Well, George was a Marine. Those guys are as thick as thieves, you know. I’ll have to pass the word. Well, Sydney, it was nice talking to you.” “Likewise,” I said. After I walked the three blocks home, I used my peanut butter, my bread, my knife, and my plate to make the best peanut butter sandwich I’d ever eaten. After I finished eating, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and relaxed on the bed I was so graciously provided by one of the Sinners. As I stared up at the ceiling and waited for the sleep fairy to take me away, I thanked God. For hoodlums like Toad.

TOAD I had been sitting on my bike outside the back door of the restaurant waiting for the lunch rush to end. Junior and I had a long talk about his eating habits, and as a result I had changed the rules for all employees. The new allowance was one sandwich of their choice, one side dish, and as much as they wanted to drink per 8 hour shift, free. I had my doubts about Junior adhering to the rules, and I wanted to catch him in the act of eating lunch. Generally he ate lunch around 1:30, and I hoped to stop in and find him eating. If I didn’t get to the bottom of my steadily increasing meat costs, I was going to go out of business. I raised my leg over the back of the bike, locked the ignition, and walked to the back door. I gripped the door handle lightly, held it in my hand and pressed my ear against the door. The faint sound of whistling was all I heard. Just as I had hoped, Junior was either eating or cleaning the kitchen. I twisted the handle and yanked the door open. Junior turned to face me, his eyes opened to an almost comical width, and his mouth agape. In front of him on the prep table sat a plate of various meats stacked ten or twelve inches high. Beside the meat was what appeared to be the upper and lower portion of the bun we used to make sandwiches. My experience in the few years I had owned the restaurant told me the plate of meat probably weighed three pounds. Our typical small sandwich was to include 4 ounces of meat, and the large 6 ounces. This wasn’t a sandwich or a meal, it was a family feast. “Gorgeous day, Junior. What’s going on?” I asked as I stepped into the kitchen. “Just cleaned the kitchen and I’s going to eat me some lunch, Mr. Toad. Worked me up a powerful hunger, we was busier’n a bunch of bees at lunchtime,” he responded. I stepped a little closer. As I glanced at the plate and inventoried the meat, Junior walked over and

picked up the plate, whistling the entire time. “Do you remember our talk about the eating? How it was dipping into profits?” I asked. He nodded his head as he reached for the plate. “Yes sir, Mr. Toad. I remember it clear as a bell.” I shook my head and tried not to laugh. “Well, if you remember it clear, why don’t you explain to me what you’re eating for lunch?” He looked down at the plate he held, twisted it and tilted it as if looking to make sure he was holding what he’d prepared. As he glanced upward, he smiled. “A sandwich, Mr. Toad.” I widened my eyes. “That’s a sandwich?” “Sure nuff is, Mr. Toad,” he said. Although I tried not to, I chuckled slightly. “Junior, that’s not a sandwich. A sandwich is two pieces of bread with meat in the middle.” He looked down at the plate for a long second. As he shifted his gaze to meet mine, he widened his eyes. “Zactly what we got right here, Mr. Toad. It’s sure nuff two pieces of bread and some meat. I can’t get it in the middle like you say, ‘cause the dag nabbed thing always falls over. It’s tough to stack it up that high without droppin’ it on the floor.” “Junior, if you stacked that meat up on the bun, it’d be three fucking feet high,” I said. He nodded his head. “That’s zactly what I’m sayin’ Mr. Toad. A three footer’d fall over fo sho. So, I’s using the brain God give me to lay it down flat so we don’t have us a meat wreck.” It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “A meat wreck?” “Yessir, Mr. Toad. That’s when she all falls over on the floor. A meat wreck. It’s just like a train wreck, but with meat. So to keep from havin’ em, I flatten my sandwich out,” he explained as he waved his hand over the plate. Still standing beside the prep table with the plate in his hands, Junior stood and grinned. I motioned toward his plate with my right hand. “What all’s on that plate Junior? Just what have you got there?”

He looked down at the plate and recited every type of meat we sold. “There a little bit of the pulled pork, some sliced brisket, some chopped brisket ends, a slice or two of that brown sugar smoked ham, a little chicken, got me a couple slices of turkey, and some of them ribs. Oh, and there’s a few of them hot links down there, but they’s hidin’ under the rest. And the bun. The bun makes it a sandwich, Mr. Toad.” Junior appeared to have gained twenty pounds since I’d seen him a week prior. Easily pushing four hundred plus pounds, he was huge. Without a doubt, at his size he needed to eat considerably more than most to simply stay alive. I shook my head and smiled. “Looks like a fine sandwich Junior, just try to keep it down to one a day. No nibbling on the side.” “I’ll do me just that. One a day, and no nibblin’. And thank you Mr. Toad, I takes me some pride in my work.” “Well it shows,” I said. I couldn’t bear to watch him eat the mess on his plate. I glanced around the spotless kitchen, down at the well cleaned floor, and recalled the condition of the kitchen before I hired Junior. It was a catastrophic mess. If Junior was nothing else, he was prideful and clean. “Have a good day, Junior. I’m going to go fuck me some bitches,” I said. Junior looked up from his plate as he pulled a stool to the edge of the prep table. “Mr. Toad, my momma says your tallywhacker’s gonna fall off if you keep on with those women like you do. Offer she made still stands for goin’ to church with us. She says that’s the only place for a man to meet a good woman; in the church before God.” “Appreciate it Junior. I’ll think on it,” I said. “You do that, Mr. Toad,” he said as he sat down. As I turned toward the door, I realized I had made zero progress for the day. Slowly I sauntered toward my motorcycle. Although I felt a slight desire to go by and check on Sydney, I decided I really had no right to do so. Having provided a place to stay and a job gave me no privilege to stop in and see her, no matter how much I wanted to. There was something about her attitude, gorgeous looks, and take no bullshit personality that not only intrigued me, but provided me with comfort. It was almost as if I felt spending time with her would allow her gratuitous nature and strong will to rub off on me. Knowing seeing her without an invitation could seem creepy, I began to consider what other options I might have.

Sometimes I felt having nothing I was required to do during the day, while most all of the other Sinners worked, was more of a curse than a blessing. As I relaxed into the seat of the bike and turned on the ignition, it dawned on me it was Thursday, and my new cams should be in. Now I had something to do; modifying my bike, which would hopefully allow me to beat Otis in our next race. As far as I was concerned, nothing was more important than beating Otis. Not only in my eyes, but in the eyes of most of the Sinners, Otis was somewhat of a God. It seemed he was incapable of doing wrong. Although Axton was always willing to listen, sometimes he held a strong opinion and came off as a bigger prick than he really was. Otis, on the other hand, was always reasonable and willing to discuss anything at length with any of the club brothers. He never seemed to lose his cool or come unraveled, regardless of what life tossed his direction. Hopefully after I got my new cams in my motor, I could change all of that. Nothing would satisfy me more than beating Otis in a race and having him explode with anger. Highly unlikely to happen, but it would prove to me he was just as human as the rest of us. Either way, I was ready to find out.

SYDNEY Being placed in foster care at the age of four wasn’t something I wished for as a three-year-old child. Having been shipped around from foster home to foster home and never being adopted caused me to feel unwanted and alone. Eventually, we ended up in a permanent foster home, but I never felt as if we were part of the family, because we weren’t adopted. The father a minister, and the mother a codependent housewife, the home was an extremely strict one. Although we weren’t the only foster children in the home, we were the youngest. The biological children of the couple were treated differently, and the foster children were considered outcasts. The father kept the cupboards locked, and I remember always being hungry. The older siblings, be them in foster care or the biological children of the parents, raped the younger children; me included. I didn’t tell my brother until we were out of the home and adults - for fear of losing what little family we had. As I grew older and found out I had aunts and uncles who could have adopted us but didn’t - the sadness I felt was immeasurable. I remember at the time feeling as if my suspicions of not being wanted by anyone were confirmed. As an adult, I became grateful my brother and I were never split up, and I was able to at least grow up with one member of my blood family by my side. As children, we were as inseparable as two orphaned siblings could be. As adults, we were equally as close, but his involvement in the MC separated us more and more as time passed. Eventually, I saw him less frequently, and came to understand the difference between being without parents and actually being alone. For me, being alone as an early adult was extremely difficult. As a result, I attached myself to any man who would give me the time of day, and always kept my mouth shut for fear of them leaving if I chose to oppose their thoughts, ideas, or principles. In the end, I had four failed relationships, a tendency to attach myself to abusive males, severe codependency, and daddy issues. If I had an advantage over all of the other fucked up women on this earth, it was that I was knowledgeable of my deficiencies, weaknesses, and patterns of behavior. There is

not a day that passes where I don’t ask myself the same questions I have since adolescence. What would be so bad to cause a murder/suicide by our parents? What did I do wrong? Why did no one want me? My brother’s absence in my life, and knowing he would never be free from prison caused me a tremendous amount of grief; so I did my best not to think about it. Inevitably, I did have thoughts of his imprisonment, and in a short period of time I was filled with sorrow knowing I would live my entire adult life without a family member by my side. I do believe, considering all things, I am a strong woman and I do a reasonable job of masking my true feelings and faults. Having a sense of humor is the best gift God ever gave me. “Are these racks big?” he asked. “Huge,” I responded as I extended my outstretched arms. “How many ribs on a rack?” “Eight,” I responded. The man questioning me appeared to be in his early sixties. He had explained he was from out of town and was working at the refinery twenty miles away. He had come to the restaurant for rib night because racks of ribs were on sale for $10.99. His concern was the size of the rack, and more importantly, how many ribs were included. “Eight? There ain’t eight ribs on any cow I ever seen. How can you call eight ribs a full rack?” the man complained. “Yes, eight. The owner raises the cattle outside of town at a special top-secret ranch. They’re genetically altered to have eight huge ribs instead of thirteen reasonably sized ones. As long as he continues to breed eight ribbed cattle to eight ribbed cattle, he has an endless supply of racks of ribs that are massive. The only downfall, if you can call it one, is there are only eight ribs to a rack,” I said straight faced. “No shit? Ain’t never heard of such a thing. These cows are big ribbed fuckers, are they?” he asked.

I nodded my head and tried to keep from smiling. “Sure are. But something about the genetic alterations makes the meat orange and kind of fishy tasting. We slap enough barbeque sauce on ‘em you should never notice though.” He narrowed his gaze and wrinkled his nose as he looked up from the menu. “Fishy tasting?” “Most say they taste like barbequed Halibut, I don’t know. I won’t eat ‘em personally,” I said. He sat and stared as if he’d just witnessed a train wreck. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I was kidding. Our rack of ribs includes eight beef ribs. At least here that’s a rack. And you’re right, cows have thirteen ribs, but depending on the butcher, some are left on the shoulder, and the little ribs at the end are cut off and used as riblets. You don’t want those little guys anyway.” I paused and twisted my mouth to the side. “I tell you what. It’s not policy, but I’ve worked here long enough to take this risk without fear of losing the bet. Order the rack of ribs. If you finish the entire rack, two sides, the Texas Toast, and want more, I’ll give you as many as you can eat afterward for free.” I shrugged my shoulders and waited for his response. “But you was kiddin’ about the fishy thing, right?” he asked. I grinned. “I was, I’m sorry.” “Damn, you scared me with that fish deal. Yeah, sounds fair, bring ‘em,” he said as he handed me the menu. “Sides?” I asked as I pointed along the list of side orders on the menu. “Beans and slaw,” he responded. I shifted my eyes to the man accompanying him. “And for you?” “Gimme the same deal?” he said with a laugh. I nodded my head. “Beans and slaw?” “Sounds good,” he said.

I scribbled down the order and pulled the page from the pad. “You won’t be disappointed. Our ribs are huge. I’ll have ‘em here as soon as they’re ready.” Both men smiled and nodded their heads. Although I had never waited tables when I started, my small amount of experience taught me if I was polite and interacted with my customers, they were appreciative of my personality and humor, and rewarded me in a reasonable tip. The customers themselves were a real pleasure of my work. Either by design or sheer luck, there were never really any problem customers in the establishment, even at the bar. Although I couldn’t be certain, I suspected it was because Toad was the owner. He appeared to me to be the type of person a man wouldn’t want to cross. As I walked into the kitchen, I grinned toward the other pleasure of my job, Junior. “Two full. Beans and slaw on each,” I said as I pinned the order to the carousel. “Comin’ right up, Miss Sydney,” Junior said. In the short period of time I had worked at the restaurant, I had talked to Junior quite a bit. After finding out he grew up in a home with no father, I felt a little closer to him. His mother had raised him, three brothers and sisters, and two other children he called his siblings. In reality, he had three siblings and the other two children, the youngest, were his cousins. All told, there were six children, Junior included. They ranged in age from 6 to 19, Junior being the oldest. I admired the fact he still lived at home and worked for the sole purpose to provide for his family. “Busy night, huh?” I asked as I grabbed a plate of ribs for another table. “Sure nuff, Miss Sydney. Busy as a bunch of bees, we are. Makes the time pass real quick like, you know. I like it when we’s busy. When we slow down, I get bored after I clean the kitchen. When I’m bored, I want to eat me some of Mr. Toads barbeque. If’n I eat like I used to, Mr. Toad’s gonna put that big boot in the middle of my black ass. So busy is good,” he said. “I still haven’t had my sandwich for the day, Junior. You can have it later, how’s that?” I asked as I pushed my butt against the kitchen door. “I could sure nuff use it, Miss Sydney. I’m a feelin’ faint,” he said as he raised his hand to his forehead. I rolled my eyes and pushed my way through the door. As I walked through the dining area and

toward the gentleman who had ordered the ribs, I passed the table of the two refinery workers and paused. As I held the plate under his nose, the man’s eyes widened. “Good God. Now that’s a rack of ribs,” he said as he reached for the plate. I slapped his wrist with my free hand. “Sorry, these aren’t yours. I just wanted to show you what you’re up against.” “Think I’ll manage just fine,” he said. After dropping off the ribs, it seemed as if the next thirty minutes or so was nothing but delivering food to tables. Again, I had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed taking orders and delivering food came in completely separate waves. After taking half a dozen orders or so, I would be caught up on orders, and then the delivery would start. After the delivery of food to each of the tables, dropping off the bills came in another wave, and then cleaning the tables. In fractionally more than a week, I felt I had the system down to a sheer science. I glanced at the table of the two refinery workers. Both men were leaned against their chair backs talking. Each of their plates still had what appeared to be two untouched ribs. A precursory glance around the restaurant produced no one needing a refill on drinks or napkins. I grinned as I walked toward the table. “So, how many more ribs you want?” I asked as I flopped down in the empty chair. “Shit. I can’t finish these. Biggest fuckin’ ribs I ever seen,” he moaned. “Can we get a doggie bag or a box or something?’ the second man asked. “Sorry. We take the uneaten ribs back to the kitchen and serve them up all over again. It helps keeps cost down,” I said as I stood. Both men stared as if in shock. “Just kidding,” I said. “Can I get you anything else? Other than a couple boxes, that is?” “You know,” the first man sai. “We eat out every damned night. Have for what, John? Ten years?” The second man nodded his head as he picked his teeth with a toothpick.

“We work turnarounds in the refineries. Have for a decade or so. After work, we eat out. I’m from Texas, but I’ve eaten in restaurants every fuckin’ day for the last ten years. Hell, from Pennsylvania to Wyoming, and from Texas to South Dakota. Anyway…” He paused and narrowed his gaze as he studied my nametag. “…Sydney. I just want to tell ya, you’re the best damned waitress I ever had.” I smiled, thanked him, and walked back to the kitchen to get boxes for his ribs. His comment made me feel so good, so excited, that I literally felt as if I was going to vomit. I’d never been so excited or felt so good about doing anything in my life. I often wished I could have a second chance to live my childhood. There were so many things I wished I could do over. The last few weeks of my life, however, seemed nothing short of perfect. I was beginning to feel as if all of my regrets of yesterday were slowly being washed away by my gratitude for what I was fortunate enough to have today. After I dropped off the boxes and exchanged a few niceties, I made my rounds cleaning tables. A few trips to the kitchen with dirty dishes, followed by Junior’s jokes, and I was back out in the dining area. Sadly, the two refinery workers were gone. Although he said they would be back the next week, I had hoped to say goodbye. As I reached for the bill holder, I noticed the receipt was under the holder, not inside. I picked up the holder and looked down at the credit card receipt. Under the space marked tip, he had written the number 0 and placed a line through it. I had learned this was not uncommon for people who left cash for a tip. I opened the bill holder to drop the receipt inside. A crisp one hundred dollar bill was inside with the words, Best waitress ever. Thanks Sydney, written across the top. As I felt my eyes begin to well with tears, I slapped the holder closed and looked around the restaurant at the diminishing crowd. There was no doubt in my mind; I would never spend the $100 bill. I’d frame it for sure. When I started the job at Toad’s restaurant, I wondered how long I would last. As time passed, and certainly at that particular moment, I knew one thing for sure. I was where I belonged.

TOAD A man’s character can almost always be determined by two things: the cleanliness of his belongings, and how he treats animals. I knelt down and looked at my freshly detailed bike. Not much was more satisfying to me than having my bike free of any road debris, bugs, or water spots. No doubt it would be filthy in another week, but at least for now, it was gorgeous; gorgeous and ready for Otis with a new set of cams. As I admired the black paint and glistening chrome, my mind wandered to thoughts of Sydney. As much as I wanted to stop by and see her for the last few days, I had fought the urge and refrained from doing so. The sensible side of me told me a girl like her would have very little interest in a man like me. Regardless of her knowledge of bikers, understanding of clubs, and the fact her brother was doing time in the pen for his club, she seemed to me to be a person who wanted more out of life than a good hard fucking. Generally speaking, I was a good judge of character. Although I would typically look at a woman like her and wish she was different than my opinion or expectation, I found myself looking at Sydney and hoping I was in fact correct in my assumptions. The thought of her being wholesome and basically off limits appealed to me more than the thought of her being otherwise. If any one thing bothered me about her it was that I found myself thinking differently about her than I was accustomed to. For me, not wanting to fuck a woman was something that hadn’t happened since childhood. Sydney intrigued me; her homelessness, her attitude, and her savvy personality alone were enough to make me want to know more about her. Her living on the street, in itself, made me want to sit and talk to her about her experiences. My not-so-typical feelings about not wanting to have her succumb to my sexual wishes provided even more reason for intrigue. All things considered, I was beginning to feel I was spending more time thinking about Sydney for some reason or another than I spent thinking

about anything else. As I gazed at my bike and fought the urge to ride to her house, the sound of an approaching Harley caused me to stand and peer over my shoulder. Biscuit was coming down the street at a rate of speed well in excess of the speed limit. As I began to wonder if he knew which house was mine, the suspension on his bike compressed as he applied heavy brakes. After releasing the brakes and twisting the throttle one last time, he shot into the driveway between where I was standing and my bike. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker? You got any Red Bulls around this camp?” he asked as he flipped the ignition off. “Don’t fuck with the stuff. Sorry, Brother,” I said. “What’s going on?” “Quite a bit, got a minute?” he asked as he stepped off the bike. “I got as much time as you need, Brother Biscuit,” I responded as I tossed my polishing rag in my saddlebag. “Let’s go inside,” he said as he tossed his head toward the house. “So what’s up?” I asked as I followed a few steps behind his brisk walk. “Need a beer if you ain’t got any Red Bulls. Fucking ATF, FBI, DEA and every other motherfuckin’ Fed agency paid me a visit. Oh, and the US Marshall’s were with ‘em. Cocksuckers,” he huffed as he stepped onto the porch and reached for the door handle. “What the fuck, are you fucking serious?” I snapped back. “Sure as fuck am. In the fridge?” he asked as he walked toward the kitchen. “Grab me one too,” I said as I sat down at the kitchen table. As he sat down and handed me a beer, I attempted to resurrect every gun deal I’d been involved in for the last five years, and if there was anything inherently wrong with them. As I mentally struggled to assemble a spreadsheet in my head, Biscuit began to explain his visit. He tipped up his bottle of beer, drank half the bottle in one swallow and slammed the bottle down on the table. “So I was at the house dicking with my bike in the garage, and about four fucking Suburbans come rolling up. Two of the pricks pull in the drive, and the other two behind the drive. I fucking looked

up, and the suits start piling out.” I widened my eyes, took a drink of beer, and gasped. “What the fuck?” “Precisely what I said, I’m tellin’ ya. If there’s two motherfuckers I hate, it’s people who text and drive, and fucking cops. And there ain’t a cop on this earth worse than a fucking Fed. So anyway, I stand up, toss my rag on the seat, and say how’s it hangin’ fellas? One, found out later his name was McCreary, he responds. He says like a hammer. Fuck I couldn’t believe it. So I ask these pricks as their steadily filing into my garage if they’re at the right place. Now this is where it got kinda scary. This McCreary fella looks at me as they’re all gatherin’ around like a bunch of fuckin’ ducks, and he says you’re Biscuit, ain’t ya? You ride with the Sinners, right? We’re at the right place, ain’t we? This is 9310 Shannon Way, ain’t it?” He paused, drank the remaining beer from his bottle, stood and walked to the refrigerator. As I sat in a state of shock and waited for him to return, my mind continued to race. “So what the fuck did they want?” I asked over my shoulder. “Hold up, I’ll get to it, Brother,” he responded as he sat. He opened a beer and placed two more in the center of the table. “Now I ain’t wearin’ my cut or anything, so it ain’t like these walkin’ turds are readin’ my patches or something. These fuckers are in the know. So, I say let me see some identification. And it’s like a scene from that movie with Tommy Lee Jones, you know the Men in Black movie? They all yank out ID wallets and flash ‘em at me, and that’s when McCreary hands me his business card. Card says he’s the Special Agent in Charge. If you ask me, there wasn’t nothin’ special about any of them pricks. Anyway, so that’s when they start askin’ questions.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, downed half the bottle of beer, and exhaled as he gazed down at the floor. I took another drink of beer and leaned into the table. “God damn, Biscuit, get to the meat of the story, what were they after?” “Well, this little short prick, I didn’t get his name, he’s a DEA or ATF, I don’t remember. He starts in on the bad cop side of things, actin’ all tough. Little fucker’s about 5’-8” and maybe about a buck and a half, and he ain’t wearin’ his government issue black suit. No sir, he’s dressed like you and me. He’s covered in tats, got a two foot long goatee, and about ten ear rings. Little prick steps between McCreary and me and says when was the last time you seen Toad?” he paused nodded his head, and took another drink.

“Motherfucker. What’d you tell ‘em?” I asked. He slapped the table with his hand and chuckled. “Well, that’s what pissed this little bastard off. I said I ain’t seen a toad in a bit, but I was fishin’ the other day and I seen some frogs.” “You said that?” I laughed. His eyes widened as he took another drink from his bottle. As he rested the bottle on the table, he raised his hand to his chin and began to rub it with his palm, “Them exact words. And get this. Motherfucker looks at McCreary, and McCreary says Cambio Todelli. Toad. When did you see him last? Now fuck, I don’t even know what you’re fuckin’ name is for sure, so I’m shittin’ razor blades at this point, and I look up at the ceiling of the garage and act like I’m thinkin’ real hard, and I look down and nod my head a couple times. I say oh, Toad? Fuck fellas, I seen him just the other day.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Fuck me. Was it about the bank?” He raised his index finger in the air. “Hold up, almost there, Brother.” My insides felt all jumbled, and my mind was going in about ten different directions. As I battled with my nerves, considered what I might have done to deserve a Government investigation, and attempted to drink my beer, Biscuit nonchalantly sipped his beer and held his free hand in the air to silence me. After he finished his beer, opened another, and took a sip, he continued, “So he said was it the day of the Rock Road Bank Robbery? Now I look at this McCreary fella and I blink a couple of times and I respond fuck I don’t know, when was the robbery?” “And this little ATF or DEA fella with the tats starts squealin’ cuff him, let’s take him in. We’ll pick up the others later. And McCreary says no give me a minute with him and he takes me off to the side. That’s when the good-cop-bad-cop shit really starts. McCreary’s askin’ questions, and ATF boy’s hollerin’ to round up the entire bunch of us and haul us in. Say’s somethin’ about the girl, Sydney, and how you got her out of there so she wouldn’t talk. Said he thought the Sinners orchestrated the whole bank robbery deal. Now about this time, I’m just done listenin’ to this little prick, and he don’t know much about ol’ Biscuit if he thinks I’m gonna drop a dime on the fellas, and I turn to this little sawed off cock sucker and I say shut the fuck up you sawed off little midget, you’re making my head hurt. And I didn’t realize it until McCreary starts pulling on my arm, but I’m steady walkin’ toward little ATF man with my hands doubled into a couple of fists. I’m about two seconds from droppin’ this little fucker right there in the garage, and he pulls out his government-issue Sig Sauer 40 cal. and points it at me. I stare him in the eye, and say shoot me you gutless worm. Just like that. Hell, everyone starts screamin’ and I’m screamin’

and this little fucker starts shakin’ like a dog shittin’ peach pits. Fucking pussy. So, I’m screaming for him to shoot me, and steady walkin’ toward him, six other fuckers are hollerin’ for him to holster the piece, and McCreary starts pullin’ on my leg, tryin’ to get me to stop. And he’s pullin’ on my leg, and pullin’ on my leg, and pullin’ on it. And…” He lifted his beer bottle and began to laugh. “Just like I’m a pullin’ on yours.” He raised his bottle in the air and grinned. I widened my eyes and stared. “Huh?” “The whole story, I was pullin’ your leg,” he said. I raised my hands in the air and stood from my seat. “What? What happened? What did you do? What did they say about Sydney? The club?” He raised his bottle of beer and tilted it toward me. “I was pullin’ your leg. ATF didn’t stop by, brother. I was shittin’ ya. I just wanted a beer and to see if you wanted to roll with me back to Wichita. I stopped in the shop to talk to Brother Slice, and I was bored. We was out of beer at the shop, so I thought I’d stop in and see what ol’ Toad was up to. Heard you got your cams in, and wondered if you wanted to try her out, you know, take her out on the highway.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shook my head. I should have known, the club practical joker, playing jokes and having fun at my expense. Feeling as if I was a few seconds form a heart attack, I picked up my bottle of beer and drank the remainder of it. “You prick, I about had a fucking heart attack,” I snapped as I slammed the bottle of beer onto the table. “So you fuckin’ that girl yet?” he asked as he stood. I shook my head. “Nope, and I won’t. She’s too civil for me.” “Oh, she don’t like havin’ shit poked up her ass or a rope around her little neck? Damn shame, she’s a looker. Cutest little bitch I seen in a bit. Damn shame about her brother, too,” he said as he opened another beer. “Sure is. No, I think she’s going to make me a good waitress, though. People have been commenting about her already, and it’s all been good. Still can’t believe you came over here to get me all

pissed off with that bullshit story,” I said as I picked up the empty beer bottles and walked toward the trash. “I come over for free beer, dumbass. Let’s roll,” he said as he tilted his head toward the door. “Fuck it, let’s do it,” I said as I walked back toward the trash can and removed the liner and twisted it closed. I followed Biscuit through the door and onto the porch. As I turned to lock the house, my mind drifted to thoughts of Sydney and I began to wonder how she was doing. “You know, we need to get Sydney’s brother’s address and information so we can get some money on his books. Anybody’s guess what his club’s doin’ for him,” he said. “I’ll get on that,” I said over my shoulder as I carried the trash to the container beside the house. As soon as I made sure my cams were going to provide the power and torque I expected them too, I knew I’d do just that, see Sydney. All I needed was a reason to do so. And now I had one.

SYDNEY Absorbing the sun’s rays had always been a guilty pleasure of mine. When I sunbathed, it was never for a short period of time; but became an event in itself. Generally I baked in the sun, checking my watch every fifteen minutes or so, rotating in thirty minute increments. Every half hour I would tell myself just one more thirty minute session, and I’ll stop. Typically it turned into a four hour long period of wasted afternoon. Afterward, I felt guilty and spent the remaining portion of the day doing things around the house to make up for my lack of accomplishments during the availability of the mid-day sun. In the last year or so I hadn’t been able to sunbathe much. Something about seeing a homeless woman in a bikini lying on the sidewalk or in between cars in the parking lot didn’t appeal to the Wichita police. I opened my eyes at the unmistakable sound of a Harley coming down the block. After introducing me to my new home, surprisingly Toad hadn’t reappeared. Not that I necessarily expected him to, but I hoped at some point in time he’d simply stop by to check on me. The fact he hadn’t so much as peeked in the door left me wondering if he had no interest in me whatsoever or if he was simply being polite and giving me space. Either way, as much as I appreciated him allowing me to live a life of solitude, sharing his company would have been enjoyable. It seemed no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t force myself to associate him with a 1% motorcycle club. His boyish good looks, Marine haircut, and his lack of prison tattoos made me think of him as more of an attractive actor than an attractive biker. As the sound of the exhaust got increasingly closer I closed my eyes, recognizing it as not being the sound of his motorcycle. I’d been around enough Harley baggers to know the unmistakable sound of the low steady rumble of the exhaust. This one seemed louder and more along the lines of a performance model. As I decided it was probably one of his brethren in the neighborhood on an old school chopper, the sound echoed through the space between the neighbor’s house and mine along the fence separating the front yard from the driveway. I sat up, pulled off my sunglasses, wiped the sweat from my eyes, and tiptoed to the fence.

The small home I was renting from Toad had no garage, only a short concrete driveway leading from the edge of the house to the street. A new wooden privacy fence encompassed the entire back yard, allowing me to sunbathe in the back yard without feeling like a total skank. With the added privacy I was able to walk out the back door to little corner of the yard without the neighbor’s seeing me, which made sunbathing in my yard an acceptable option. I may have been an orphan and homeless, but I was a far cry from Whiskey Tango. As if my footsteps could have been heard by the visitor, I tiptoed to the fence and peered over the top into the driveway. Toad’s bike sat behind my car. Shit. I crouched down behind the fence and hid. As I considered my options of presenting myself to him, I remembered I had left the front door of the house open. Earlier in the morning while eating breakfast and drinking a cup of coffee, I had enjoyed the cooler morning breeze in the front room. Now, the wide open door would be an invitation for him to walk in. It was, all things considered, Toad’s home and Toad’s investment. I peered through a small knot hole in the fence and watched as he walked up the drive, looked in my car, and turned toward the house. Dressed in a white tee-shirt, baggy jeans, boots, and his cut, he looked identical to the way he did the day we met – with the exception of a light, very sexy beard. Soft core biker porn. After a short pause, he placed his hands on his hips and looked around the yard. I smashed my face against the fence and stared as he began walking toward the front door, eventually disappearing in front of the house. I heard his muffled voice echo through the house. “Sydney, you home?” The back door was also open, and the front and back door were in line with each other; allowing someone to potentially stare in one door and out the other. If Toad was standing at the front door, he’d be able to look right out the back door and into the yard. Although I was at the side of the house and out of sight of the doorway, if I attempted to walk into the house he’d immediately see me if he remained anywhere close to the front door. Shit. I stood from my knot hole and ran to the rear of the house, standing to the side of the back door. If anyone were to see what I was doing, I would no doubt appear to be some psychotic oil slathered maniac

in a bikini. I’d grown up around bikers, so I didn’t feel threatened at all by his biker persona, but Toad was intimidating to me. More than likely not only was he intimidating to me, but to every other woman who had an opportunity to admire him - as long as she had blood pumping through her veins. His strong jawline and high cheekbones helped make him a very attractive man, and his muscular body didn’t make him any less appealing. His dark complexion caused his muscles to appear even more pronounced, and it was difficult not to survey his body attempting to find a fault. To see him walk was interesting in itself. Undoubtedly an extension of his Marine Corps training, his walk was methodical and his perfectly paced. It seemed in watching him that he had a detailed plan on where he was going, how he was going to get there, and exactly how many steps it was going to take in doing so. He didn’t have a swagger, nor did he saunter; his walk had purpose. Not only did it propel him, it was a portrayal of his discipline. He was a walking aphrodisiac; an approaching reminder it was time for me to masturbate. “Sydney?” The sound of his voice came from the front of the house. I crouched and ran back to my knot hole and peeked through the fence. Nothing. I squatted down and attempted to make myself as invisible as possible. After a short pause and an unsuccessful attempt to quiet my labored breathing, I pressed my eye to the hole and gawked as he stood in the driveway rubbing his bicep as if it were sore. Jesus. Is that really necessary? I watched in a trance-like state until he released his bicep and began walking toward his bike, temporarily disappearing behind my car. I slowly stood and peered over the fence. My mild curiosity immediately turned to shock. He stood a mere twenty feet in front of me, walking in my direction. Startled, I immediately ducked down behind the privacy of the fence. After realizing I looked like an idiot, I stood and smiled. “Oh wow, I must have fallen asleep out here in the sun; I didn’t even hear you pull up. You on your bike?” I asked with an exaggerated tone of curiosity, trying not to sound like a complete liar. He nodded his head as he approached the fence. “Surprised you didn’t hear it. It’s loud as fuck

now. I put in new cams and removed the baffles from the exhaust.” On my tip-toes and stretched to my vertical limit, my eyes barely cleared the top of the fence. He stepped to the edge of the fence and rested his elbows along the top. Without the need to hide behind the cover of the fence any longer, I stepped back and sighed lightly. “I’m anxious to hear you fire it up,” I said. I raised my hands slightly and shook my head. “Not that I want you to leave or anything. I just meant I’d like to hear it. I love bikes and the way they all sound a little different.” “You look a hell of a lot different now than you did at the bank. Damn, you work out a lot?” he asked. I glanced down at my glistening thighs. “No. Well, yeah. Kind of, but not so much lately,” I responded as I looked up. He narrowed his eyes and stared. “You look like a gym rat.” “I’m a runner,” I said with a nod. He leaned away from the fence and inhaled a shallow breath. As he exhaled, he raised his hand to his chin and smiled. “You know, I’ve always said people who run are running from something. What are you running from?” “Cellulite, high gas prices, the cops, outlaw bikers, and…” I looked down at the ground and paused. “And the reality that after each day passes I don’t get a chance to redo it, live it over, or make any changes.” Be it a strength or be it a weakness, it really had never mattered to me who was in my presence, I acted the same way around everyone; as if I were alone. I was a true take me or leave me type of woman, and there was no place in my life or my routine to try and be someone or something I wasn’t. So, I acted like myself at all times and held nothing back. People could see me for what and who I was and either accept me or cast me aside. The advantage, if there were one, was if someone accepted me they generally did so because they truly found value in me. As he moved his hand from his chin, his mouth curled into a smile. “You talk fast. Actually, you don’t talk fast, you respond fast. You’re a quick thinker, aren’t you?”

“Quick thinker, quick runner, quick learner…” I quickly responded as I looked down at my thighs again. “And quick to burn in this hot sun. It’s been too long since I’ve been outside, I’m fried. Want to come in?” I asked as I motioned toward the rear door. “Sure, if you don’t mind,” he responded. “It’s your house,” I said. He shook his head lightly as he stepped away from the fence. “No, it’s yours.” After he disappeared, I ran to the back door, into the house, and took two long strides to the bathroom door – hoping to get there before he made it to the front door. Quickly, I dried off with a towel and pulled on my shorts. As I was pulling a tee-shirt over my head, the doorbell rang. I have a door bell? “Come in,” I shouted in a high pitched voice. Although the front door was open, I recalled the outer screen door was locked. I opened the bathroom door and leaped the three steps to the front door, bouncing into place and unlocking the door. Toad watched intently as I pushed it open slightly and smiled. I stood in front of him feeling like the little girl I never had an opportunity to be. The look on his face confirmed it really didn’t matter to him how I acted. After stepping into the front room, he simply stood and grinned as I pulled the screen door closed. “Do you drink tea?” I asked as I turned toward the kitchen. “Sure,” he responded. As I walked to the kitchen, I realized it had been almost a month since I had moved in, and he was probably coming by for one reason and one reason only – he was hoping for the rent. I sighed as I pulled the refrigerator door open and reached for the tea. “It’s funny. Unless you’re in the country, houses don’t have screen doors. Hell, most of the new ones don’t even have windows you can open,” he said flatly. As I placed the pitcher of tea on the counter and pulled two glasses from the cupboard, I thought about his statement. I’d never lived in a house that didn’t have a screen door; at least not that I could

remember. “Really?” I said over my shoulder as I filled the glasses with ice and poured them full of tea. “Absolute fact,” he said. “Sugar?” I asked. “No thank you, I try to stay away from the stuff,” he responded. I should have known. I couldn’t choke down a glass of tea without sugar if I had to. As he walked up beside me I poured about two inches of sugar into the bottom of my glass. “The only place to sit is the little table,” I said as I nodded my head in the direction of the table he so graciously left in the home. “Otis and I sat there and solved the world’s problems while we were working on this beast,” he responded. The home was small and had an open floor plan, one bedroom, a utility room, a bathroom, and the main body of the house which consisted of the dining area, kitchen, and living room. If I was a guy, I’m sure I could stand on one side and piss to the other. It was small, but it was perfect for me. “You need to get some furniture,” he said as he sat down. “I know. I need a lot of things. I’ve only been working a little more than a month. A little at a time,” I said as I stirred my tea. He raised the glass to his mouth, took a small sip, and raised his eyebrows as he did. My tea making abilities were apparent. Eyebrows still raised, he downed half the glass. I noticed as he relaxed into his chair he had a small skull patch on the bottom of his cut. Motorcycle clubs have assorted patches for various accomplishments and goals, and although each club was different, most had similar patches for certain achievements. A skull or skull and crossbones meant one thing in most any club. The patch holder had killed for the club. Some clubs added a knife or a gun under the patch to indicate how the killing was done. I couldn’t decide if I was much less impressed with him or only a little less. I decided as I looked over his cut I would have to know all of the details to make

an accurate decision. For now, I decided I didn’t like it. “Damn. That’s good tea. Oh, and another thing. Your four weeks comes up in the middle of the month, so let’s just go to the beginning of the following month for rent. Say, the first of next month, how’s that sound?” he said as he lowered the glass to the table and smiled. Killer or not, you are gorgeous, aren’t you? “How’s that sound?” he asked again. “Oh, uhhm, yeah. Sorry, I heard you, but that’s like six weeks without paying rent. You’re saying not to pay rent for six weeks?” I asked. He shook his head as he surveyed the empty home. “Nope. I’m a fucking weirdo. I like even numbers and shit like that. I’m kind of a neat freak, and paying in the middle of the month on a random day seems sloppy to me. So, let’s make it the first day of September. And then the first of the month every month after that; it makes it easy to remember,” he said as he smelled the glass of tea. “Okay, sounds great. Is there something wrong? Does it smell funny? Taste funny?” I asked. “No, it’s really fucking good. Like really good. I’m trying to decide what it is I taste in it,” he responded as he licked his lips. I had received very few compliments in my life. When I did, I remembered them for a long, long time. Having spent the majority of my life with nothing, compliments included, allowed me to truly appreciate each and every thing I obtained or achieved in life. To me, a compliment was similar to payment for a job well done. Slowly, Toad was making up for his little skull patch. “It’s my special recipe, half Lipton, half Golden Monkey Organic Black. Two ounces of water to one gram of tea. Add half an orange peel to the pitcher. Let it sit for four hours in a glass pitcher. Not three, not five. Best tea ever,” I said. “No argument from me, that’s for sure. I’m not much for hot tea, but I sure like the cold stuff. My mother drinks tea and my father hates it and detests the fact she even drinks it. He’s old school Italian. He drinks espresso before bed,” he said. “So you’re Italian?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Cambio Todelli. It’s where the name Toad comes from.”

“Are you really Italian? Do you speak Italian?” I asked. “Yes, I’m real Italian, and I speak Italian,” he said. “My great-great grandfather brought my great grandfather here as a baby in 1887. He fought in World War I, my grandfather in World War II, my father in Korea, and me in this war. I come from a rich Italian heritage and a long history of Marines. You know it’s funny. Everyone else was coming here before the Italians. If you look the Italian immigrants before 1887, they came at a pace of about 10 people a year. Some years there was like 30 or something. This went on for almost the entire century. Then, in about 1887, there was like 50 thousand. After that, the numbers increased every year until there was a quarter of a million per year starting in around 1900.” “I didn’t know that. That’s interesting. What caused the initial influx of Italian immigrants? You know, once they started coming in droves,” I asked. “Poverty. Most came from the mezzogiorno, or southern Italy. A man in southern Italy would make roughly $2 a week in wages. In the US, the same man would earn $20. It may not sound like much of a difference in dollars, but that’s 10 times the pay to come here. It made good economic sense for families to migrate here,” he explained. Although I hadn’t had similar feelings in the past, I felt a little jealous that Toad knew his family history and had actual parents. He knew about my being homeless, and I had explained to him how I met the man in the bank, but I failed to tell him of my being an orphan. Generally speaking, it wasn’t something I liked to make common knowledge or brag about. “Okay, I’ve got a question,” he said. Oh Lord. Fine, ask. “Okay,” I said. “So when we were outside, what did you mean about not getting to redo your yesterdays? Do you have regrets?” he asked. Grateful that he hadn’t asked about my family, and that he was actually paying attention to what I said - and remembered it - I grinned like a cat eating a canary. I’m not going to completely forget about the skull patch, no matter how nice you become.

“Well upon the arrival of tomorrow, today, which is the most important day of all of them, will be just another yesterday. I will only have the memory of it and I’ll either toss it in the satisfaction pile or regret pile when I look back on it,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and narrowed his eyes. “Regret pile?” “Yes. The regret pile. I see life like this. The days, after we’re finished with them, build a big puzzle. I mentally snap them into place after I’m done, making a huge puzzle depicting my life. You know, where we’ve gone, what we’ve done, things we’ve seen, some days are filled with pride, and some with regret. Individually, none of those things are earth shattering. Looking back at a day and saying I wish I would have, or better yet, I wish I wouldn’t have isn’t that big of a deal. But as a whole, if you have a few thousand days in your regret pile, it makes for a lifetime filled with regret. I don’t want that,” I explained. He raised his hand to his face and stared down at the table as he rested his chin in his hand. “Interesting concept,” he said as he shifted his gaze upward. “It’s not a concept. It’s the truth. A day of regret is like a coin; a quarter for instance. Individually, so what? Right? But what if you have four of them? It’s a dollar. And what if you have three solid years of shit days? That’s $250 bucks. You see? They add up. I don’t want any. I’ve made a few mistakes and a few bad choices, but I’ve learned from them. I won’t make the same ones again.” With his chin still in his hand, he studied my face for a long moment. “You have any days you regret?” he asked. I grinned and nodded my head. “Individually, yes. But so far I’m building a pretty awesome puzzle.” “Hopefully this little job will help you keep you tossin’ your days in the right pile. You enjoy working there?” he asked. “I love it. I really do. And Junior? He’s the best. He makes the good days great with his humor,” I said. “He’s a good kid. I’m going to have to talk to him again though. Fancy went in for ribs and one of the ribs on his rack had a huge bite taken out of it. He saved the rib and brought it to me. I had it in the fridge at the shop until today. You know there’s really only one way that rib could have had a bite taken

out of it,” he said as he stood. “You mind if I get a little more tea? I’m sorry, but it’s addictive.” You keep being sweet, and I’m going to completely forget about that patch. “Not at all please do. And please tell me I didn’t serve that rib,” I said as I stood from my seat. “Nope, it wasn’t you. It was Sarah. I’ve already had a talk with her. And I’m going to see Junior when I leave here,” he said over his shoulder as he poured his glass half full, drank it, and poured another full glass. He turned around and started walking toward me. As he looked up and noticed I was standing, he stopped as if startled. Gripping the glass of tea in both hands, he smiled and continued. “The main reason I stopped by was to tell you there’d be a group of us heading to Austin for a few days. Maybe a week, I don’t know. We’ve got a chapter in Austin, but most of ‘em will be going on a mandatory run that weekend. A new club is trying to start up down there, and they’re having a meeting with the local clubs to get permission. Axton needs to be there and he wants me and Otis to go. Anyway, so I won’t be around the restaurant if there’s anything that goes to hell. You know Junior’s been there the longest, and he kind of runs things, but if you really need anything my number is posted on the wall in the kitchen.” “Okay, I’ll remember that,” I said as I looked down and realized I hadn’t so much as taken a drink of my tea. I silently wondered how much time had passed since he had shown up. More often than not when I was enjoying myself, time escaped me at an extremely rapid rate. The company of a gorgeous Italian biker made matters much worse. “Do you know what time it is?” I asked, not wanting to try and find my inactive cell phone. “I was just getting ready to leave. It’s 1:00. You want to ride to the restaurant with me?” he asked. “I’d love to,” I responded. “Do you have an apple?” he asked. I shook my head. “Sure don’t, why?” “I need one. We’ll have to stop and get one on the way,” he said as he finished his tea. “I’m not even going to ask,” I shrugged.

“Oh and one other thing before we go. Can you write down that recipe for the tea? My mother will love it,” he said. Okay, so you have a skull patch on your cut. What does that even represent, anyway?

TOAD The quickest way to get to the bottom of something is to dive in headfirst. The rate of descent is determined by the resistance of the matter between your point of entry and the final destination. In this particular situation, I was dealing with an extremely thick and variably resistant substance. “I don’t remember taking no bite of a rib I didn’t go on and finish eatin’, Mr. Toad. Sure nuff that don’t sound like me. You know how Junior loves them ribs, Mr. Toad. No sir, sounds like someone else mighta done that.” Junior’s eyes widened to the point they looked like white orbs against his black skin. I stood on the edge of the kitchen holding the grocery sack containing the apple I had purchased and the half-eaten rib Fancy brought me. After Sydney went into the dining area to talk to the other waitresses, I had started questioning Junior regarding the rib with the teeth marks in it. I wasn’t angry with Junior, but I was disappointed one of my customers had received a partially eaten rib. It was fortunate for me, Junior, and the restaurant that the rib was served to Fancy - and not some local customer who was blabbing to everyone else in the small city. Even though this seemed like an isolated event, I couldn’t help but wonder who else this may have happened to. “So you’re thinking it wasn’t you who nibbled on the rib?” I asked. “No sir, Mr. Toad. I ain’t so much thinkin’ that at all. No sir, I’m knowin’ it. Yessir, sure nuff I’m standing here knowin’ it,” he said. I stood for a long moment holding the sack. I consciously changed the tone of my voice from an accusatory one to one of curiosity. “Junior, do you like apples?” “Apples, Mr. Toad? Likes the kind that grows on trees?” he said. I nodded my head as I lifted the sack. “Yes, Junior. Apples.”

Junior rubbed his hands together and smiled. “Oh I love me some apple pie. And you know what the doctor man says about them apples, Mr. Toad.” “What’s that?” I asked. He grinned and widened his eyes as if he were revealing some loosely known medical secret. “An apple a day keeps the doctor man away.” “Well, I’ve got one left here, do you want it?” I asked as I pulled the apple from the sack. Junior shrugged and nodded his head once. I tossed the apple in the air and couldn’t help but grin as Junior caught it mid-air and took a bite before even looking down at it. I expected considering his constant state of hunger he wouldn’t be able to help himself. I attempted to make myself seem preoccupied, and began walking toward him. As soon as I was within a few feet of where he stood, I looked down at the apple he held. “Damn Junior, you flat took a bite out of that poor apple didn’t you?” I chuckled. “No need in beatin’ around the bush, Mr. Toad. I knows I’m gonna eat this here apple, so taking me a little nibble don’t make good sense. Fewer bites I take, the quicker I can get back to work.” He smiled and slowly lifted the apple to his mouth. I studied the apple curiously and slowly reached for it. As I did, he tilted his head to the side and shifted his gaze to meet mine. “Do you mind?” I asked. His face filled with wonder, he released the apple into my hand. I turned to the prep table, placed the apple on the table and removed Fancy’s half-eaten rib from the sack. I placed the rib beside the apple and stared. Junior stood in awe as I compared the two identical bite marks. “Junior, it looks like we have us a match. Those were your teeth that took a bite from that rib my friend was served,” I said as I pointed down at the prep table. Without complaint or explanation, Junior walked toward the table and stared down at the rib. After a few alternating glances between the rib and the apple, he looked upward with his eyebrows raised.

“Oh that rib. I recognize it now, Mr. Toad,” he exclaimed. I chuckled. “You recognize it?” I purchased my meat from the same butcher every week. Consistency is one of the key elements to the success of a barbeque joint. Every rack of ribs looks the same, and after trimming them into individual ribs, every rib looks the same. To identify a particular rib would be impossible. “Sure nuff,” he said with a nod. “You see. I’d cut a whole bunch of ribs that night. It was rib night. I was cuttin’ ‘em like wildfire. Girls was sellin’ ‘em and I was a cuttin’ ‘em. Goin’ out of this here kitchen like hot cakes. And after the dinner rush, I looks down. One lone rib was sittin’ there lookin’ back at me. The kitchen was a mess, and you know how I hates me a mess Mr. Toad. So I commence to cleanin’ this here kitchen, just like you taught me. Cleanliness is right next to Godliness, Mr. Toad. So when I gets the kitchen spotless, I looks over at the prep table, and I realize ole Mr. rib is still sittin’ there. Now I know I done messed up. I can’t serve that poor rib to a customer, because he’s done cooled off.” He paused as he shook his head and raised his hands in the air. I stood, attempting not to smile, and waited for the remainder of the story. “It gets mighty hot in this here kitchen, but it sure nuff ain’t 140 degrees, Mr. Toad. Meat gots to stay at 140 degrees to keep them bacterias from developin’. You taught me that too. So I looks down at that poor Mr. rib, and I knew I couldn’t sell it. But my big belly is like a trash can, I don’t get sick from no sammy-nilla or no bacteria. So, I stares down at the rib, knowing I can either throw him in the trash or I can just eat him instead. It’d sure make me sad to toss it in the trash can, so I picked it up and took me a bite. As soon as I did.” He paused and pointed toward the door leading into the kitchen. He tossed his hands in the air as if he were shocked. “Miss Sarah comes in with a dag nabb rib order.” “So, I pulls me a rack, fills the order, and sends ‘em out of here right fast. But when I looks down at the prep table after Miss Sarah was gone, ole Mr. rib was gone too. I remember thinkin’ at the time I musta ate him and clean forgot. But seein’ him layin’ there now, I know I done made me a mistake, Mr. Toad. I sure nuff did, didn’t I?” I bit my lower lip slightly to keep from laughing and nodded my head.

“I’m powerful sorry Mr. Toad. Is you gonna fire me?” he asked. I shook my head slowly. I’d already given the rib incident and the previous problems with Junior’s eating habits much thought. Considering my continual rising cost of meat and Junior’s physical size, I was going to make him an offer which would help me and could potentially help him considerably. The presentation of my offer was crucial to his accepting it. “No Junior, I’m not. You know…” I paused and raised my hand to my chin. “Right now I have other things on my mind. You’re a problem solver, aren’t you?” I asked. “Yes sir, Mr. Toad. I try and nip them problems in the bud,” he said. “Well, you know Mr. Greely at the corner? He sells the used cars?” “Big white fella with the long hair on the side of his head he flips over to the top. Yessir, I knows Mr. Greely.” “Well, he has a truck for sale. And old farm truck. It has a flat-bed trailer beside it. He took the truck and trailer on trade. I was thinking about buying it and starting a grass cutting business. You know, like a lawn service? Maybe have two men working on cutting grass, trimming shrubs, and cleaning yards. And they’d be working for the third man, the boss. I was thinking he could name the business after himself. Or whatever he wanted to call it. In a sense, it would be his business. He’d run it, he’d keep the profits, and he’d be the big boss man. All the man would have to do was pay me back for the truck, trailer, and lawn equipment. Say, oh I don’t know.” I hesitated, lowered my hand from my chin, and let Junior chew on what I had said. “Maybe a year or two to pay it off,” I said. “So you needs you a big boss man?” he asked. I nodded my head as I lifted my hand to my chin again. As I rubbed my chin between my thumb and forefinger, Junior appeared to have a revelation. “You needs you a problem solver, Mr. Toad. Sure nuff do. A boss man ain’t gonna do it for ya. You needs you a problem solver, and a big boss man; just like a hog needs slop,” he said as he rubbed his hands together and smiled. I shrugged my shoulders. “You got any ideas?”

“I don’t have me an idea, Mr. Toad. I done solved you a problem,” he responded. “Oh you did? How so?” I asked. He reached down and grabbed the apple off of the prep table and took a huge bite. As he chewed the apple, he explained. “I’ll be that big boss man for ya, Mr. Toad. I’d do that for ya. I’d call the business Junior’s Lawn Service.” I rubbed my cheeks in my hands and gazed his direction as if I were contemplating his offer. “Damn, Junior. I never thought of that. Hell, you’d probably be able to make a damn sight more money doing that than working here. I know a guy who has a business with two men working for him, and he makes about four grand a week. Pays his help a grand a piece, and keeps two grand for himself.” “Whoooeeeee,” he shouted. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Two grand a week? Lord have mercy.” “I could solve me some problems with that, Mr. Toad. I could buy the young uns some new clothes and all kinda stuff with two grand a week.” “What the fuck would I do about this damned kitchen, though?” I asked. Junior rubbed his chin with is hand and stared up at the ceiling as if in deep thought. “Mr. Toad, anybody can take care of this old kitchen. Say little Franky, the boy who works on the weekends when I’m off work. He could sure nuff take this kitchen and make it shine. You’d need to get you a weekend man though.” I turned and walked toward the kitchen door, paused and turned around. “I can find someone; maybe one of the girls would step in for a while. You think you want this lawn business?” “I sure nuff do, Mr. Toad. When would we start it?” he asked. “Junior, we aren’t starting anything. I’m going to buy all the stuff and get a man started. It’s not my business. It’s my equipment. Once it’s paid for, the business and the equipment is the property of the owner. I’ll need to set the company up with the city, register the business with the state, and list the new owner. Probably set up a Limited Liability Corporation. So, have we got a deal?” I asked as I extended

my hand. “Junior’s Lawn Service. I likes me the sound of that,” he said as he shook my hand. “I like the sound of it too. I tell you what, let me take Sydney home, and we’ll just go buy that equipment this afternoon. You and me. How’s that?” “I’d like that Mr. Toad. Now Miss Sydney, is she one of them, you know…” He paused and stared down at his feet. As he looked up he narrowed his gaze. “Is she one of them women you uhhm. You hits? Is you hittin’ that Miss Sydney, Mr. Toad?” “Am I fucking her?” I asked. “Yes, Sir,” he responded. “No Junior, I’m not. She’s just a girl I met a month or so ago. Kind of like you. She was down on her luck, and I gave her a job. She’s digging herself out of a financial rut. Hopefully here pretty quick she’ll be able to see a light at the end of the tunnel,” I responded. Junior reached for the rib, picked it up, and dropped it into the trash. As he wiped the prep table with a kitchen towel, he looked up and smiled. “I can see mine, Mr. Toad and she’s as bright as the sun. You know something, Mr. Toad?” “What’s that, Junior?” I asked as I turned toward the kitchen. “Well, you never smile unless you and me’s a talkin’, and then you can’t stop. With your leather vest and that scruffy beard and your tattoos and such, you look like the devil himself ridin’ that motorbike through town. For them what don’t know you, you’s an angry man who sure nuff shouldn’t be crossed. Mean as a snake is what they say, you know. But when a fella gets to know you, and you let loose of that mean Marine look what’s always on your face, you’s a damn fine man. And you do kind things for folks who you don’t even know. I just wanted to tell you that,” he said. “Thank you,” I said as I grabbed the handle of the kitchen door. I stood at the door, holding the handle and thinking of what Junior had said. He was probably right; I’m sure most who saw me through the course of a day considered me to be the devil. In public, I rarely showed emotion, unless a stern look was considered emotional. It was as if there were two of me;

the Marine who was trying to duplicate the atrocities of war, and the thoughtful Catholic boy my parents raised. In a constant battle, the two fought for control of my soul. The Marine constantly seeking confirmation the violent acts and murder he committed during war were necessary and just; and the Catholic boy attempting to lend a helping hand and right the wrongs of his past. It seemed the Marine stood the clear victor. I guess I shouldn’t have ever expected otherwise. Once a Marine, always a Marine. I pulled the door open and peered into the empty dining area. As soon as I saw Sydney, I realized I had totally forgotten to ask her about her brother. I stood and gazed at her admiringly as she told a story to Sarah and Kate. I continued to watch as she talked to the two girls, laughing and waving her arms as they listened intently. She was a beautiful woman and had a fantastic personality. For having very little she was extremely pleased and seemed content with what she did have. In some respects I became envious as I watched her, wishing I too could find the happiness she seemed to naturally possess. As the three girls began laughing at what appeared to be the end of a story Sydney had told, I recalled something my grandfather explained to me as a teenager. Cambio, we all have a goal in life, an objective. If you surround yourself with people who share your passion and ambition; your desire will soon be at your fingertips. If you surround yourself with those who have different goals, yours will slowly become out of reach. Choose your friends wisely, Capisce? As I stood and watched the girls continue to laugh, I decided spending more time getting to know Sydney just might be in my best interest.

SYDNEY The sound of a motorcycle coming down the block caused me to jump from my seat and run to the window. After pulling the blinds slightly to the side and peeking outside, my suspicions and hope converged. Shit. I ran to the bathroom, grabbed my compact, and frantically began dabbing powder on my face. After a good dusting, I stood back and looked in the mirror. For a thirty second make-over, I looked pretty damned good. Except for my… Hair. Shit. I pulled the hair tie from my hair and shook my head. A few seconds into teasing my hair with my fingers, and the doorbell rang. Eager to see Toad again after just having seen him three days prior, I took one more glance in the mirror and grinned. Here goes nothing… I tossed my compact into my makeup bag and threw it under the sink. After tip-toeing to the door, I turned, tiptoed into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and rattled a few dishes around. As I began to close the cupboard door, the doorbell rang again. “Coming,” I shouted. “Sorry, I was putting up the dishes,” I said as I opened the door.

Expressionless, Toad stood on the porch and stared through the screen door. I leaned forward and pushed it open. As I held the door and slowly shifted my gaze upward, I noticed his cut was covered in blood and he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath it. “You alright?” I asked as he stepped inside. I knew better than to ask too much. His business as a Sinner was his business and the club’s business, it certainly wasn’t mine. Regardless, I was human, and so was he. The woman in me wanted to help him with whatever he needed, but the sensible side of me argued to leave it alone and keep my mouth shut. As always, the woman in me prevailed. “Your cut’s got a little blood on it. If you want to take it off, I’ll clean it real quickly for you,” I said as he walked to the table and sat down. Without speaking, he stood, removed the cut, and held it in his hand. Oh dear fucking God. I really wasn’t ready for this. His body was that of a male underwear model. Without his cut, and standing shirtless, he looked like an Italian Abercrombie and Fitch model. Easily passing for ten years his junior, he could have told me he was in his early twenties and I sure would have believed him. Although I told myself not to, I couldn’t help but stare at his abs as I reached for his cut. As I stood and gazed his direction, as if to make matters worse, he turned to his left. Revealing the Marine Corps Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo, and several tattoos on his left forearm sealed the deal in the Toad’s sexy department. Now gawking at his tattooed left side, his pronounced rip cage, and washboard abs, I knew I better speak or I’d forever look like a fool. As I swallowed heavily, my racing heart confirmed the lack of a male companion in my life, and just how well Toad checked all of the applicable boxes of my mental application for employment. “Yeah, I uhhm. I’ll just be right here in the kitchen where you can uhhm…” Oh dear Lord don’t turn away. As he faced the window, I turned toward the kitchen and continued. “…see me, I know you can’t let me take this anywhere. No worries,” I said over my shoulder as I walked into the kitchen. Did he have a really pronounced chest? Killer pecs?

I quickly glanced in his direction. Now facing me and staring blankly at the table, I felt as if he was inviting me to take another look. Yep, sure does. I turned toward the kitchen sink and grinned. “Should just take me a few minutes. If you want to just stand there, I’ll be done in a minute,” I said cheerily as I reached into the cabinet. After laying the cut flat on the counter, I realized most of the blood was on the lower left side. I poured vinegar over the bloodstain and allowed it to become soaked. Dabbing it with a clean kitchen towel removed the majority of the blood immediately. A second application removed all of the red stains I could see, but left discoloration on the leather. More than likely, this was as good as it was going to get. Somewhat distracted by my desire to clean the cut, I forgot he might still be standing beside the table behind me. I nonchalantly peered over my right shoulder. Yep. Still there, still shirtless, and still looks ahhhmazing. “Pretty tough stain, I may need to treat it with cornstarch. We’ll have to wait for it to dry,” I said. “I don’t have to be anywhere, just wanted to hang out for a while,” he mumbled. After mixing cornstarch with water and making a cornstarch paste, I smeared it over the entire left lower side of the cut and carefully carried it to the table. Now standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest, he watched as I placed it flat on the table. “After it dries, we can wipe that off of there. I think it’ll be just fine. Happened a few times with my brother and some of his friends,” I said as pulled a chair away from the table. “You can sit,” I said as I sat down. He uncrossed his arms and sighed. The “V” shape in his lower abdomen that every man wants but select few ever obtain drew my eyes to it like a moth to a flame. I stared with my chin in my lap as it slowly disappeared below the table. Or you could stand back up. “I’d offer you a shirt if I had one that’d fit,” I said, glad that everything I owned was much smaller than he possibly could wear.

“Normally keep some clean ones on the bike, but not today,” he said flatly. “So, you want something to drink?” I asked. “I’m alright,” he responded. “So, you don’t have an Ol’ Lady?” as the words escaped my lips, I realized what I had said and wished I had worded it differently. “Nope,” he responded. I nodded my head. He turned to face me and rested his elbows on the table. After studying me for a long moment, he rested his chin in his hand and grinned. “And you’re single?” he breathed. “Sure am,” I said with a smile. “How can that be? You’re gorgeous, cool as fuck, and…” He paused and pressed his forearms onto the table as he leaned forward. Officially melted. As his gaze met mine, he grinned. “Well, you’re just fun to be around.” Oh dear God. “Well, I’ve been in a few shitty relationships. You know, guys beating on me and that type stuff. I told myself I’d never be in another relationship that wasn’t what I wanted,” I responded. “What do you want?” he asked as he relaxed into the back of his chair. As much as I wanted to tell him what I suspected he wanted to hear, I refused to do so. The complications of my past relationships needed to stay where they were, in my past. In my future, I needed to make sure whatever I decided to do, and whomever I decided to do it with was for all of the right reasons and with all of the best of expectations. “Me? Well, I want a man who will treat me properly. I don’t want flowers and some romantic

courtship, but I want to be as close to an equal as I can be. I know I’m a woman, but I’m human, not a dog. And I want a guy I can be friends with, that’s really important. And I guess especially after what I’ve been through, I don’t want any rough stuff. I love sex more than most women, but I don’t like being slapped around, beaten, choked, or having some asshole try and see how far he can shove his cock down my throat. I just want a conventional relationship with an unconventional man. If I can’t get that, I’ll settle for nothing.” I waited for a reaction. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. As he lowered his chin into his hand, he smiled a soft smile. “You’ll get it. You’re too damned perfect to have to settle for anything less.” I stared blankly at his face, absorbing what he had said. An immeasurable amount of time passed. I may or may not have drooled on my hand and immediately came back down to earth to wipe it off. “I hope so,” I said. He glanced over each shoulder, and began looking around the room. As his eyes became fixed on me, he began to speak again. “Listen, I’m feeling pretty exhausted. I just, well I don’t want to go home right now. You know? I uhhm…I was wanting to know if I could just hang out here…kind of relax. You mind if I uhhm…if I rest here for a bit?” he stammered. I nervously glanced around the room. “Uhhm, no. Not at all. I don’t have a couch or anything yet, but you can lie down on my bed if you want.” “You sure?’ he asked as he stood. I gazed up at his shirtless body and nodded my head. “Quite.” “Just for a bit,” he said. “As long as you need it,” I said as I began walking toward my bedroom. After following me into the bedroom, he removed his boots and sat down on the bed. A quick survey of the room later, and he turned to me and smiled. “I like what you’ve done with this room. The paint looks great.”

“Thank you,” I said. He lowered himself onto the bed and covered his eyes with his forearm. Although it wasn’t much past mid-afternoon, within a matter of seconds, he was asleep. In gazing down at him as he lay on the bed, I didn’t see a biker or a shirtless Italian model. I saw a man who desperately needed rest, comfort, and no one to judge him for what he may have been involved in. I turned to the door and pulled it closed behind me. After a few hours, I dusted the cornstarch from his cut. A light brushing and it looked as good as a ten-year-old leather cut ever could. Quietly, I tiptoed to the room and opened the door. Still asleep on the bed, it was apparent he was exhausted. I softly placed the cut beside him, closed the door and cooked dinner. After opening the door and wafting the smell of my pasta primavera and baked chicken into the room for several minutes - to no avail - I decided he needed to continue sleeping. After almost three hours had passed, I tiptoed to the room and opened the door. His light snoring confirmed what I had expected. Two hours later, after putting up the dishes and cleaning everything in the house at least twice, I needed some rest myself. I tiptoed to the room, opened the door, and walked to the edge of the bed. After kicking my flats off to the side, I raised my legs onto the bed carefully, scooted in beside him, and relaxed. The warmth of his body and the light buzzing of his breathing provided a level of comfort I had forgotten even existed. When I woke the next morning, he was gone. I walked to into the living room, and immediately noticed a folded sheet of my stationary on the table. I reached down, picked it up and unfolded it. As I stared down at the perfect penmanship, I smiled and read what he had written. Sydney, Thanks for everything. And don’t worry about finding your man, one day he’ll find you. Cambio I folded the paper, hesitated, and unfolded it again. After re-reading it, I folded it and placed it on

the table. I hope you’re right, Cambio. And I hope he’s just like you.

TOAD Otis took a drink from the bottle of beer, extended his arm, and stared at the label. “You know he doesn’t act like it’s a big deal, but I can see a huge difference in him. What the fuck is this shit, anyway?” “I don’t know, waitress recommended it while you were pissing. How much of it do you think is her, and how much is just that he’s getting laid?” I said as I studied the label on my beer bottle. Otis tipped up the beer and took a long drink. As he lowered the bottle, he scrunched his nose and shook his head. “Don’t order any more of these if I live long enough to piss again.” He stared at the bottle again. “Says Founders Breakfast Stout. I feel like I’m drinking mashed potatoes and fucking gravy. This is the thickest fucker I’ve ever tried to drink. Why’d you order this nasty shit?” I choked down a swallow of the dark beer and shook my head at the taste. “Waitress recommended it.” Otis tipped up his bottle and finished the beer. As he slid the empty bottle to the end of the table, he rolled his eyes. “I swear, men do some dumb shit sometimes to impress women.” “I didn’t do it to impress her,” I said as I sniffed the mouth of the bottle. “Smells like it tastes, doesn’t it? Like shit. So tell me, would you have agreed on a bottle of black beer that said breakfast on it if some dude would have recommended it?” he asked as he waved in the waitress’ direction. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you might not, but I sure as fuck do. You’d have told him to fuck off and ordered a couple of Budweiser’s. Some chick asked you if you wanted to try it, or better yet.” He paused and leaned his forearms onto the edge of the table. “I’m going to guess it went something like this. She walks up and says, What can I get you? You don’t want to sound like a basic biker so you respond, Oh, hell I don’t know. What have you got? She names fifty different types of beer. You look up at her with a confused look. Not because you’re trying to look cute, but because you ain’t so much as heard of half the shit she names off. So you say, what do you recommend? How am I doing so far?” “I’d say pretty good,” I said as I slid my half full beer to the edge of the table. “She responds, I like the…” He grabbed the empty bottle and turned the label to face him. “I like the Founders Stout. And you respond, Sounds good, bring us a couple. Now she didn’t tell you to try ‘em because they’re a crowd favorite or even that they taste good. She either did it because they’re ten bucks a bottle and she wants to rack up a high tab, or because they only have two of them fuckers left in the cooler and they’re getting rotten because no one will drink those nasty fuckers. Now let me ask you something, Toad. You ever had a bad Budweiser?” He leaned away from the table and slid to the end of the booth, waiting on my answer. I shook my head. “I guess not.” He coughed a light laugh. “You guess not?” “Well, that’s what we do for women, we drink beer that tastes like it came out of the ass of an elephant. It’s instinctual behavior for a man to try and impress them. Drinking the shitty beer is the result.” I leaned back in the booth and stared down at my boots. As I shifted my gaze upward, I attempted to salvage my manhood. “I wasn’t trying to impress her. I just agreed to try the beer.” “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “Where were we earlier?” “Axton and Avery,” I muttered as I turned toward the approaching waitress and grinned. “Oh, yeah. How much of it’s because of her and how much is because he’s getting laid. I’d say part of it’s her and part of it’s the fact he’s happy for the first time in his life. None of it’s because he’s getting laid. Slice don’t give half a fuck about sex. Avery’s a good damned woman. As far as Ol’ Ladies

go, she’s as good as it gets.” He paused and turned to face the waitress. She smiled and cocked her head to the side. “Hey. You want two more Founders?” Otis smiled and shook his head as he slid the two bottles to the edge of the table. “It was all I could do to choke the first one down and my buddy couldn’t even finish his. How about a couple Bud’s?” “Bottle or draft?” she asked. “Bottle,” Otis said. She grinned. “Be right back.” Otis shifted his gaze to meet mine and raised one eyebrow. “See?” “What?” I asked. “Well, I told her mine tasted like shit, and you couldn’t finish yours. She didn’t respond with oh, wow I can’t believe that, everyone loves them, or that’s hard to believe. She didn’t say shit, because she knew they were nasty fuckers. Now, let’s get back to what we were talking about, women. We all want a woman. I don’t give a shit who you are. A man wants a woman in his life. Some of us don’t want to admit it, and others keep ‘em at bay like they’re trying to preserve their feelings or keep from hurting ‘em. Deep down inside we want one that suits us, Slice included. Hell, he’d been ten or fifteen years without a woman, and I ain’t so sure, but I think he’d gone the same amount of time without even getting any pussy. That motherfucker hated women. Look at him now.” He paused as the waitress walked up with the two bottles of beer. “Here you go,” she said as she placed the beers on the table. “Appreciate it,” Otis said with a nod. As he slid a beer across the table he grinned. “Answer this. Don’t look at her or turn around, just look at me and answer. What color is the waitress’ fingernail polish?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Fuck I don’t know.” “Grey. Eye color?” he asked. “Got no idea,” I responded as I grabbed the beer.

“Green with brown specs. I bet without turning around you don’t even know her hair color,” he said. “Blonde,” I responded. “Good guess. It’s dark brown. You know for a motherfucker who pays attention to everything around him, you sure as fuck aren’t paying attention to her. Want to know why?” he asked as he raised the bottle of beer to his lips. “Sure,” I responded as I took a drink. “Right now she doesn’t interest you beyond the normal instinct you have to try and impress her. Right now, you’ve got that cute little bitch, Sydney, on your mind,” he said. “Bullshit,” I snapped back Otis slid to the back of his seat. “You’re full of shit. For the first half hour we were here, you mentioned her four times.” “For fucks sake, I mentioned her once,” I said. Otis shook his head, released the bottle of beer from his grasp, and raised his fist in the air. As he spoke, he extended his index finger. “We no more than sat down and you said she made the best tea you’ve ever tasted.” He extended his middle finger. “Later, after we’d talked for fifteen minutes about whether or not beating a man’s ass was a sin, you said she was a runner and asked if I thought she had a good body.” He extended his ring finger. “Then, right after we finished the first beer, that fucking apple cider bullshit you made me drink, you told me about Junior’s rib, taking her to the bar, and that she had a great personality and was always happy. Then you started asking about Avery and Axton, and right before I went to piss…” He extended his pinkie. “You said she was a natural on the back of your bike, and bragged on how well she rode back from Wichita and how well she rode to the restaurant.” “That was one long conversation not four separate ones,” I said. “Again, tell yourself whatever you want to, brother. You know…” He paused and situated himself

in the back of the booth, against the wall. “Here in the last week or so, something with you changed. I ain’t trying to say it’s Sydney, because it might not be. Maybe it was that trashy assed Sloan, I don’t know. But something happened. Slice and I were talking about it yesterday. You know I asked you to come in here to have a few beers. I did it because I wanted to talk to you about this. As soon as we sat down, you started asking about Slice and his Ol’ Lady. How he’d changed and seemed happy…” “Hold on, motherfucker,” I grumbled. Otis held his hand in the air. “You hold on. Let me finish what I’m trying to say.” I shifted my body lengthwise in the seat of the booth, facing the bar instead of facing Otis. As I stared blankly at the bar, I lifted my boots into the seat in front of me and leaned against the back of the booth. “Whatever. Go ahead,” I said as I grabbed my beer and relaxed into the seat. “You know Toad, normally you’d be a hard motherfucker for someone to figure out. You fill your day with dumb shit to do. You don’t really have anything you have to do, but you’re all over the fucking place. Going here. Going there. You stay busy doing nothing. With the fellas you laugh and joke and you’re an all-around good motherfucker to be around. But you have these mood swings. Slice and I always figured it was the war. When you get mad, you get mad. I’ve seen you beat a motherfucker’s ass a damned sight more than it needed beat on more than one occasion. I’m the biggest motherfucker in the club, but who’s been in the most fights in the last five years that you’ve been around?” I looked over my left shoulder and raised my eyebrows as I tipped up my beer and took a sip. I knew he would tell me, but I lacked a little interest in hearing where the conversation was headed. “You. Without a fucking doubt. You’ve probably been in ten or twelve fights in five years. Actual fights. Not bullshit or shoving a motherfucker, but fighting. Closest motherfucker to you, short of Slice, has probably been in one or two. I ain’t callin’ you out, I’m just saying you’ve normally got a lot of anger inside of you, brother. Something. And whatever it is, you normally run from it. Hell, even the women you fuck with, you don’t just fuck ‘em. You choke ‘em and slap ‘em and tie ‘em up. I know you ain’t raping these bitches, but you’re like a fucking sadist or something. I mean really brother, who wraps a bitches head in Saran Wrap and fucks her? I’m guessing it’s a short fucking list,” he said. He lifted his beer, took a long drink, and continued. “So again, normally you fight with yourself. You know; the entire good and evil thing. You always want to do what’s right, what’s justified, and what’s good in the eyes of God in your opinion. Somehow, you justify your actions. And I guess what I’m saying

is that here recently, something’s changed, or it’s damned sure changing. It’s not that you’re getting soft, but you’re acting different. You gave Sydney the house. You said you bought Junior a truck, trailer, and lawn equipment. And as far as I know, you ain’t fucked anyone since you took Sloan to Corn Dog’s place; or at least you ain’t said anything about it if you have,” he hesitated and shrugged his shoulders slightly. I shook my head and shifted my gaze to my boots. As I studied the laces, I began to feel uneasy. I took another sip of my beer. My eyes began to feel itchy. I blinked a few times and took another sip of beer. I didn’t realize anyone could see a difference in me, but if they could, maybe it was… I stared down at my boot laces, realizing I was roughly one breath away from snapping. “I’ll take that as a no. It just confirms what I was thinking and why I wanted to come here and talk. So anyway, the week or so you’ve been a little more concerned with what you’re doing. You’re being more of a do-gooder, asking questions about what people think, even arguing with Slice about a woman’s place in a man’s heart. So, did something happen? Is the war gettin’ to you? Brother, if you need to take some time and go to the VA for therapy, or whatever it is, you know you can talk to me, Toad. It’ll stay here.” He motioned toward me with his hand and then pointed to himself. I looked over my shoulder, shifted my gaze to meet his, and opened my mouth. As much as I wanted to speak, I knew if I did, I’d lose my composure. The entire thing just seemed childish. To talk to one of the fellas about it would make me seem weak, incapable, and unable to effectively act as their Sergeant at Arms and protect them. I glanced down at my boots. After a long moment of staring at my boots, I looked up and nodded my head once. I felt as if I needed to say something, but my throat told me otherwise. I swallowed heavily as I felt my eyes well with tears. I shifted my gaze slightly to the left. “Don’t matter what it is brother, we can get through this,” Otis said. I swallowed a lump the size of a golf ball and stared. “I uhhm. I was riding out by the lake. He’d been shot. Twice. Well, actually three times. I tried to save him. I really fucking tried. I uhhm. I did everything I could. It was…” I paused and took a sip of beer. My eyes felt like they were on fire, but I knew better than to touch them. For Christ’s sake, I was a grown man, and I knew I should be able to do this without losing control of myself. I gripped the cool bottle in my hands and continued.

I shook my head. “It was the other day, maybe a week or so ago, I don’t know.” I hesitated and nodded my head repeatedly, knowing I was right. At the time, I dismissed it, but it had been eating on me ever since. One fucking nibble at a time. “What happened?” he asked. Still staring down at my boots, I raised my beer and drained the last small sip from the bottle. My mouth felt as if I had swallowed a handful of sawdust. I looked up and nodded my head once. He asked, and I needed to be a man and tell him what happened. I gazed down at my boots, inhaled a choppy breath, and responded. “It was a puppy. An innocent little fucking puppy,” I said. “What? A puppy?” he asked. I nodded my head and attempted to swallow, but the dryness in my throat prevented it. I shifted my gaze toward Otis, opened my mouth to speak, and instead began to softly cry.

TOAD One week earlier. Nothing on this earth could compare to the freedom I felt while riding. If there was one thing people associated with living in the United States of America, it was freedom. The only time I felt free of all of life’s constraints was when I was on the open road. Those who have never ridden would never know, and those who had would never find anything to replace it. I rolled the throttle back and listened to the sound of the unrestrained exhaust bellow from the rear of the bike. As the warmth of the mid-summer sun beat down on my face, the unoccupied stretch of highway begged me to explore it. I unconsciously inhaled a breath, almost tasting the prairie hay the team of kids in the pasture on my right were picking up from the freshly cut meadow. As they neatly stacked the hay on a trailer, one of them looked in my direction. I pulled in my clutch and revved my motor. Future Sinner, no doubt. As I came into a wide sweeping corner, I leaned the bike deep left, dragging to the toe of my boot on the pavement as the force of the aggressive turn pushed against me. A little more throttle, and out of the turn I shot, slightly faster than I had entered. Fuck yes, this is living. To my right I noticed a group of crows gathered on the side of the road. Two or three were in the street, in my lane. As I downshifted and slowed to a safe speed, I noticed two down in the ditch. More than likely, I suspected a farmer or unsuspecting motorist had hit a deer, and the crows were picking at the flesh. As hitting a crow on a bike at 80 miles an hour would be the end of my riding career, I pulled in the clutch and revved the throttle to scare the birds from the side of the road. Although the noise seemed to

shift their attention, it did little to scare them from whatever it was that had captured their interest. As I slowly passed, I stared down in the ditch out of curiosity. I twisted the throttle slightly and began to speed up. Was that a bloody dog? I applied the brake, turned around, and pulled alongside the gathered crows. After kicking down the kickstand and shifting the bike in neutral, I stepped off and walked over to the side of the ditch. As the crows reluctantly fluttered a few yards away, I peered down into the ditch. A small Pit Bull puppy attempted to lift his head. Exhausted, covered in blood, and clearly dying, he held his head an inch off the ground for a few seconds before collapsing. I hustled down into the deep ditch and stared down in disbelief at what I saw. Covered in dried blood and still bleeding, the poor puppy appeared to be close to death. As I carefully turned his body to inspect him, I noticed one bullet wound entered his shoulder and exited his upper back. Another bullet wound in his hind quarters appeared to not have an exit wound. Fucking heartless cocksuckers. His body, face, and legs were covered in old cuts and scars, undoubtedly from fighting. More than likely he had either lost a fight, and the owner was disappointed with his performance, or he wasn’t as aggressive as the owner had hoped. Either way, someone had shot him twice and left him for dead. “Hold on you little devil dog. I’ll get you some help,” I said. I turned toward my bike. A quick recollection of what I had in my saddlebags turned up nothing to wrap him in. Frustrated and knowing time was of the essence; I quickly removed my cut and flipped it over my shoulder. After reaching down in the ditch and carefully picking up the pup, I ran across the highway to my bike. Still holding the bleeding pup, I unlatched the left saddlebag and peered inside. A small tool kit was all that lay inside the bag. Cradling him in my arm, I grabbed my cut and wrapped the dog inside the leather vest. “I’m wrapping you up in this cut, it’ll keep you from going into shock. And although I don’t know for sure, I’m thinking it’s got special powers. Hold on, I’m going to get you to the vet. You’ll be just fine. After he gets you stitched up, you can be this old Devil Dog’s little devil pup,” I said out loud as I

lowered him into the enclosure. I carefully placed the pup in the saddlebag and hopped on the bike. The closest competent veterinary office was in Wichita, almost fifteen miles away. I knew if the highway was as unpopulated at this short stretch, I could possibly be there in eight to ten minutes. I looked over my shoulder and into the bag. The pup blinked his eyes a few times and then they fell closed. Devil looks after his own, little man. You’re my little devil pup, and I’m a former Devil Dog. Hold on, ‘cause I ain’t going the speed limit. Ten minutes or so of speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour, a few traffic signals I didn’t stop for, and an all-out run down one of Wichita’s major streets at 60 miles per hour, and I was in the parking lot at the vet’s office. I kicked down the kickstand, reached into the bag, and cradled the puppy in my arms. “I’ve got a puppy, he’s got two gunshot wounds!” I shouted as I approached the receptionist’s desk. “Oh, uhhm. Give him here,” the receptionist said as she held her arms outstretched. I handed her the bloody pup. As she curled her arms to her chest, I realized I had just handed her my cut. “I can’t let you take that cut, hold on,” I half-shouted as I pulled off my bloody shirt. Standing shirtless, I reached toward her and lifted the pup from her arms. After removing him from my cut, I carefully wrapped him in my shirt. As I handed the whimpering puppy back to the startled girl, I forced a smile. “I’ll be right here,” I said as I pointed toward the waiting area. After filling out the necessary forms, waiting for thirty minutes with three angry caged cats, and answering two mid-twenties housewives’ questions about the life of a biker, I began to wander through the office and look at dog collars and tags. A one inch wide camouflaged collar with a quick release fastener caught my eye. “This is about the right size for him, isn’t it?” I asked as I held it in the air for the receptionist to see. She smiled and nodded her head.

“Does it snap apart like this to keep him from being choked?” I asked as I pulled the collar apart. She nodded her head. “It’s a safety collar. If they get hung up on something, it’ll break loose, and keep them from choking.” We’ll get you this one, I don’t want you choking on anything. I nodded my head once and looked around the rack for anything else which looked better. I wanted something that would fit the pup’s aggressive stance and both of our personalities. “Are you the gentlemen who brought in the Pit Bull Terrier mix?” Holding the collar in my hand, I turned to face the voice. A man in his early forties was wearing a lab coat and holding a clipboard. His face was covered in hair and he smelled like chemicals. “Sure was. How’s he doing?” I asked. “I did everything I could for him. He didn’t make it,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.” I narrowed my gaze. “Little guy with two gunshot wounds?” He nodded his head. “I’m sorry. One of the wounds was pretty invasive. His intestines and both kidneys were in pretty bad shape. He’d lost a lot of blood. I’m sorry.” “Motherfuckers,” I grunted as I shook my head. “Pardon me?” he said. “Whoever shot that pup. I’d like to just…” I stared down at the floor and clenched my jaw. “Did you find either of the slugs?” I asked as I looked up. “Strange question. Actually he’d been shot at least three times, and yes. I recovered one of them,” he responded. “I want it. And I’ll pay you for whatever you’ve done, don’t worry about that,” I said. “I didn’t doubt that. Hold on, let me see if I still have it,” he said over his shoulder as he turned and walked away.

I slowly walked to the display area and hung the collar up on the rack. After a few minutes, the man in the lab coat walked from the double doors and into the hallway. With an outstretched hand he offered a small zip-lock bag containing a lead bullet. Although distorted, I could tell the caliber. “Nine millimeter,” I nodded as I studied the bag. “Pardon me?” “It’s a nine millimeter slug. I know I never will, but I’d like to find the motherfucker who did this,” I growled as I stuffed it into the front pocket of my jeans. “Just between you and me, I hope you do. The punishment under the provision of the law is insufficient, in my opinion. And, for what it’s worth, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said. “It was just some pup,” I sighed. As I looked down at the front of my blood soaked cut, I knew better.



TOAD “No, it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. One more innocent life lost at the hand of evil. That, and the fact I couldn’t do anything to save the poor fucker. Hell, I did all I could, and it wasn’t enough. I’m just tired of it all,” I complained. “Seems strange.” Otis paused and peered over both shoulders. “You know, you cut that fucking child molester, and it didn’t seem to bother you one lick. Now, some puppy dies, and you’re shaken up pretty damned bad. Killing a human being is okay, but a dog dies and it rips you to shreds.” “The dog was innocent,” I growled. Otis nodded his head and stared blankly. “It was damned sure unnecessary for someone to shoot that pup. I said it then, and I’ll say it again now…” I paused and looked over my shoulder. It was mid-week in Wichita at eleven in the morning, and the bar was empty. I turned to face Otis, kicked my legs over the edge of the seat, and gripped the side of the table with my hands. “That child molester needed to die. There wasn’t anything evil about what we did to that son-of-abitch. Line up fifty motherfuckers like him, and I’ll kill each and every one of ‘em, and stand before God at the end of the day. Think about this; I know you don’t have kids, but some of the fellas do. Imagine if one of the Sinners Ol’ Ladies got a call from the cops, and they tell her that they have this child molestation case. They say they need her to come in and confirm or whatever. So she goes into the station house and they play a DVD for her. Has her son sucking fat boys cock and he shoots a load all over the kids face. Makes the kid jack him off…”

“Just stop, God damn it,” Otis growled as he held his hands between us. “I let you finish earlier, you let me finish. You brought it up,” I grunted. He nodded his head and waved toward the waitress. “So, she watches and her kid jacks him off or whatever. They raid the house, arrest the guy, and the deal goes to trial; all the way to the jury. The jury finds him innocent, even though he’s on the film with the kid. Some clerical error or whatever. They say they’ve got to let the guy off. The fat prick goes home and that’s that.” I finished my beer and continued. “Now let’s say she sees this fat child molesting cock sucker behind the laundromat one night and she’s got a knife or a pistol, or whatever. You trying to tell me she wouldn’t do the same thing? Or better yet, what if the cops called her in and they showed her the film, and then said, there the motherfucker is, and they point him out in the interrogation room and hand her a knife. What’s she gonna do?” “She’d gut that fat bastard. Cut him from stem to stern,” Otis breathed. “You damned right she would. So comparing him to my puppy is a bad comparison,” I said flatly. “Point taken,” Otis said. “I’ll tell you like I told Slice. I only do what I can justify. Might be bad in your mind, but in mine it’s always justified. It may be contrary to law, society’s belief, or the Bible, but in my mind it’s the only answer. I’ll never do what I believe to be evil or contrary to what I think God wants. If God didn’t want me to kill that fat child molesting prick, he wouldn’t have put him in front of me. It’s no secret to God that I have the capacity to be one mean motherfucker. He knows it. I know it. I don’t keep secrets with God, I make peace every night before bed.” “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the pup,” Otis said. “Appreciate it. I got the slug that killed him from the vet, and I’m going to find this prick,” I said. “In case you don’t know, Avery is working for a Federal attorney in Wichita as a legal secretary. He’s some big deal. I don’t remember his name, but he does Federal appeals, gun cases, and specializes in shit that includes firearms violations. Get this, one hundred percent of the cases he’s taken to trial, he’s won. One hundred fucking percent. So, if he agrees to take a case to trial, odds are you’ve got a pretty good case.” Otis paused and leaned onto the edge of the table.

Half pissed off he offered this tidbit in the middle of the conversation, I responded in an irritated tone. “I’m not headed to federal court, but if I end up catching a case, I’ll let you know. In case you forgot, we were talking about that fucking prick who shot my puppy.” “Well, I was going to make a point, but I got off fucking course. Just settle the fuck down Toad, and let me finish. So anyway, this guy’s got connections in law enforcement, FBI, ATF, and so on and so forth. Well, Slice and Avery and I were talking about shell casings and bullets the other day, and this is really strange you mentioned this, but check this out.” He leaned away from the table and took a drink of his beer. “Everyone thinks they can trace a shell casing back to you, or trace a bullet. They can and they can’t. Even if the gun’s registered to you, they can’t trace a casing or a bullet to your gun, unless they have the gun in their possession. There’s no computer system in place to do it. They were trying to get a Federal database they could just plug the ballistic report into and bam, but the NRA threw a fit. So, they’re fucked. If they get your gun, they can match it to a casing or bullet, but only if they have it. But here’s the deal, or my point.” He hesitated and leaned against the table again as he rubbed his hands together. “When we were talking about it, Avery said the attorney turned down defending someone who was being tried on Federal charges of fighting dogs, primarily Pit Bulls. He said he didn’t give a fuck if the guy was innocent or guilty, just being charged was enough for him to not want to take the case. And, it sounds like the guy was a local.” He raised his hands in the air as if he’d completed an impossible task. I shrugged my shoulders. “Since when do the Fed’s give a fuck about dogs?” Otis shook his head, pushed himself away from the table, and tipped up his beer. As he placed the empty bottle onto the table, he leaned forward. “If you cross state lines, or if they can prove the dog has crossed state lines, it’s a Federal case. But you’re missing my point.” “This attorney might have the name of a local guy who fights dogs. He could be your guy, or he might know him,” he said. “Well, see what Slice’s Ol’ Lady can find out,” I said. “Two more?” the waitress asked. “No thanks, but you can bring me the tab,” Otis responded.

“Be right back,” she said as she turned to walk away. “Here,” I said as I tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the table. Otis pressed his fingers onto the bill and slid it across the table. “Keep it. You just bought a truck, trailer, and lawn equipment for Junior. I’ll get this one, you can get the next.” “Here you are,” the waitress smiled as she handed Otis the tab. Otis looked down at the tab, looked up at me, and grinned. “I fucking told ya.” “What?” I asked. He turned the receipt around and shook it in the air. “Those two nasty assed beers. They were nine bucks a piece. When we go to Austin, you don’t get to order the beers, you’re too easily manipulated.” Maybe Otis was right and I was becoming easily manipulated and soft. For some reason, the puppy was definitely a turning point for me. The poor dog’s death came at a time in my life when I either really needed it, or I really didn’t. I had yet to decide which one it was.

SYDNEY After living for a considerable amount of time with nothing, I now looked at all life offered me and truly appreciated everything, being careful not to take even small things for granted. I learned in my time of misfortune that a friendly voice or a smile can be as valuable as anything else life has ever had to offer me. “If you don’t get another piece, Miss Sydney, I be likely to eat all of it,” Junior said as he looked down at the remaining pizza. “You go right ahead Junior, I’m full,” I said as I pushed my chair away from the table slightly. “Ever see you a pizza sandwich, Miss Sydney?” Junior asked. I had an idea of what he planned, but I tilted my head slightly and narrowed my eyes. “No, I don’t guess so.” He picked up a slice of pizza and laid it flat on the palm of his hand. “You takes you one like this, but he’s got to be cheese up.” After removing another slice and holding it over the top of the first, he looked up and smiled. “And you lays you one down on top of it, but you got to go cheese down on the top slice.” “Now,” he said as he held the two pieces of pizza together, twisting the assembly back and forth. “You can eat it like a sandwich, and as long as you keep you a tight grip, nothin’ falls on the floor. It’s pizza, but it’s a sandwich.” “That’s a good idea,” is admitted.

Junior’s hands were like everything else, huge. His fingers were as large as hotdogs, and his hands the size of small saucers. The size of a slice of pizza at the local pizza place was huge, but dwarfed by the size of Junior’s hand. As he lifted the pizza sandwich to his mouth, he closed his eyes and moaned. After a few bites, he opened his eyes and lowered what little was left to his plate. “You know the best thing about eatin’ pizza sandwiches, Miss Sydney?” he asked as he wiped pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth with his finger. “What’s that, Junior?” “You can eat a whole pie twice as fast. It gives you more time to do other things,” he explained. “You don’t like eating? Don’t you enjoy it?” I asked. He picked up the makeshift sandwich, took a few more bites, and as he finished chewing, responded. “When I was a young un, I used to eat and eat and eat. Momma says I wouldn’t stop ‘till my jaw got tired. I loved me some food when I was a boy. But now, I just eats to stay alive, Miss Sydney. If I still liked to eat like when I was a boy, I’d be a might bit bigger than I am now.” “I like to eat, I just don’t eat very much,” I said. “You ain’t much bigger’n a minute, Miss Sydney. But most white folk don’t be quite as big as us black folks,” he said with a laugh. I shook my head and laughed. Talking to Junior was always a joy, regardless of what the subject was. It seemed most of the time when we talked, we talked about food or work. Now that he had another job, I hoped we would expand our conversations a little and get to know each other better. After he finished his pizza sandwich, he wiped his hands and took a drink of tea. “I’ll have to invite you over for some of my momma’s cookin’. You’d eat like a little pig if you got a taste of some good southern food. My momma come up from Alabama. Her momma and grandmomma taught her how to cook just like the southern folk cooks. Ain’t nothin’ she can’t cook, so she just cooks it all. You like macaroni and cheese, Miss Sydney?” I grinned and nodded my head as I reached for my tea. “I suppose so. Yeah, I like macaroni and cheese.” He rubbed his palms together and grinned. “Well, my momma bakes it with crumbs on top. If

you’re lucky enough to get a corner piece, you can get some of that baked hard cheese; and whoooeeeee, that baked hard cheese is some good eatin’.” “It sounds good,” I said. He widened his eyes and shook his head from side-to-side. “Talkin’ about it sure nuff ain’t the same as having a helpin’. You know what a man ought to do, Miss Sydney?” “What?” I responded. “Make him a cookin’ pan what has eight corners instead of four. And eight cornered pan. Then everyone could have ‘em a corner piece. Cause if you ain’t eatin’ a corner piece, you ain’t really eatin’,” he said as he rubbed his hand against his stomach. “Sure sounds like you enjoy your momma’s cooking,” I said. “Sure nuff do. So, what’s your mommas specialty? What’s your momma’s best food, Miss Sydney? The one you always have a hankerin’ for?” he asked. I knew at some point in time one of our conversations would have ended up heading in this direction. In time, they always do. The most difficult part for me was trying to be genuine while accepting all of the sympathy and sorrow when people expressed their condolences. I had learned in my short time on the earth that acting as if something was insignificant, in some respects, made it seem far less profound. Often I wished people would merely say I’m sorry instead of going on and on about my not having parents. After taking a shallow breath and exhaling I responded. “Both of my parents passed away when I was really young. I never got to know them,” I said as I studied my fingernails. “I don’t rightly know what to say Miss Sydney, other than I’m powerful sorry. What about your ‘stended family? You got you some ‘stended family, don’t ya?” I looked up from my fingernails. “It’s okay. And what? My what family?” He stretched his arms wide and smiled. “Your ‘stended family. You’re aunties and uncles and all of them.” “Oh, yeah. My extended family. I guess there’s a few out there, but I don’t know them. They didn’t want us when we were little, so my big brother and I grew up in foster homes. I think it’s crappy of them,

so I haven’t tried to get to know them, even now,” I said. “Well, if’n you ain’t got you a family, you can just go on and act like my momma’s your momma. She likes her a big ‘stended family,” he said. “It’s okay, Junior,” I said. It’s always nice to know when someone is sincere. So many times, people say things and you never really know if they’re genuine or not in what they offer. Junior was sincere, and there was really no need to question him, his facial expressions confirmed it. As his eyes widened drastically, he reached for the last slice of pizza. Holding it in front of his mouth, he smiled and continued. “My little brothers and sisters ain’t even my momma’s babies. They’re my aunties. She went off to the big house for smokin’ that crack.” He paused and took a bite of pizza. “So is my brother. He’s in prison,” I said, chuckling lightly as I spoke. My brother being in prison wasn’t funny by any means, but the thought of all of it was, at least at this point. Junior’s aunt in prison for crack, and his mother raising her children was admirable. Sometimes it seemed I couldn’t catch a break, but regardless, I kept my chin up and was grateful for what life offered me. “Prison makes me mad. For one man to lock another man up in a cage because he did something wrong. You know, when we was kids, my momma would slap our backside with a belt. That made us learn what to do and what not to do. She coulda locked us up in some cages, I suppose. But it shure nuff wasn’t necessary. I don’t think it’s necessary for a man to lock another man in one of em, less maybe he killed somebody. Your brother didn’t kill nobody, did he?” I shook my head. “No, but they say he wanted to. A government agent asked him if he’d kill a member of…” I hesitated and thought of how to word things. I wasn’t ashamed of my brother’s involvement in the motorcycle club, but I didn’t want Junior to associate Toad’s club with the actions or beliefs of my brother’s club. I decided to simply call it a gang. “…say, kind of like a rival gang. So, after discussing it for a few years, one night in the bar after several beers, he said he’d kill a member of the rival bunch if they were around. Or something like that.”

He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “So the po-lice talked to him and fed him some beers till he said he would, then they put him in the big house just for saying it?” I nodded my head. “Pretty much.” “Well, they ain’t lookin’ to keep him for long, is they?” he asked. The thought of it made me want to cry. What he got and what he deserved were two totally different things. I wasn’t one to complain, so I simply accepted it as what it was. I took a deep breath and exhaled. After a drink of tea, I shifted my gaze toward Junior and responded. “They gave him life, Junior. He’s in a federal prison in Kentucky. He doesn’t ever get out.” Junior poked the remaining portion of pizza into his mouth. After chewing it and taking a drink of tea, he looked down at his shoes for a moment and closed his eyes. At the end of a lengthy awkward silence, he looked up. “I said me a prayer for your brother, and for you, Miss Sydney. Sometimes tryin’ to figure things out makes me want to just take off and scream real loud. Did I tell you ‘bout the screamin’ tree?” I shook my head as I laughed. “No, you sure didn’t.” “Well, I used to spend me some time out there when I was little. Now, I just goes out there once in a blue moon. She’s a big tree north of town, by the river. She’s old and mighty big and has branches reachin’ for the sky.” He hesitated and reached upward with both arms. “One of her big bottom roots come up out of the ground and makes for a real nice chair. So, you can sit on that there root and scream all you want, and nobody hears ya, ‘cause it’s north of town. You go screamin’ in town and folks think you’s crazy, so it ain’t a good idea. But screamin’ makes me feel good sometimes, so I go’s to my tree. It makes me a pretty good thinkin’ tree too,” he said. I wasn’t sure if I had ever screamed for nothing more than the sake of screaming. Something about it sounded fun. One day maybe I’d go to Junior’s screaming tree and let out a lifetime of frustrations and anger. “I’d like to see it sometime. I probably could use a good scream,” I said. “Well, as my momma always says.” He hesitated and stood from his seat.

“There’s no better time than right now. She says, don’t talk about it, be about it,” he said. “I don’t really have anything to scream about,” I said. “You can always scream about what you’s happy about,” Junior said. “Well, in that case, let’s go.’ Because I’m about as happy as I’ve ever been.

SYDNEY The screaming tree proved to be therapeutic. My yelling about the good things seemed like so much fun, I decided to scream about the bad things as well. After a few short bursts about my imprisoned brother, my parent’s death, and my non-existent extended family, I was exhausted. After returning home I felt cleansed, relieved, and far less frustrated. Having a friend in general is always nice, but having one as genuine as Junior was a totally different type of blessing. For some reason, the majority of my friends since childhood had been male. I felt more comfortable with boys, and it never seemed I was in a competition with them for anything. With women, it was always a struggle for me. I always dismissed my reluctance to befriend women to lacking a father in my life and growing up with a brother as a best friend. Whatever the cause, I naturally migrated toward men for friendship and subconsciously avoided women. After I sketched the final touches on the chalkboard, I leaned back and admired my work. Not bad. I stood, took a few steps back, and looked at the design for symmetry. Everything seemed pretty well placed. Even as a little girl, drawing and sketching had been an outlet for me. It seemed to provide a means of escaping reality back then, and now provided tremendous self-satisfaction. Although I hadn’t done it for years, I purchased an old wood framed window from a local antique store, painted the frame, and painted the glass with chalkboard paint. After it dried, I used colored chalk and sketched a design on the board. Now I could hang my first piece of art on the walls proudly, knowing it was created with my hands and my mind. I blinked my eyes and took another step backward. Happiness is a friend

who doesn’t judge Each portion of script was encompassed in a banner, separated by various flowers and a leafy arrangement. The top banner was curved upward into the shape of a smile. It was perfect. I turned to walk to the utility room to get a screwdriver from the tools Toad had left, and was immediately startled by the doorbell. I hadn’t heard a motorcycle, and from what I understood, Toad was going to Austin. I glanced down at my chalk covered sweats, grinned, and wiped my hands on my tee shirt. I quietly tiptoed to the door and pulled it open. A woman holding a large cardboard box stood on the porch. Dressed in a vibrant blue dress, blue hat, and smiling from ear to ear, she spoke. “You must be Sydney. I’m Junior’s momma, Shirley.” I grinned and opened the door. “Come in.” “Thank you, Baby. This darned weather can’t decide whether to rain or just drizzle. Now grab this box if you can, it’s killing my arms. I’ve got bad elbows from carrying all my babies around the house,” she said as she extended her arms. I reached out and took the box from her hands. The top was covered with cloth, so I wasn’t able to see inside, but I assumed it was food of some sort. One easily identifiable smell was that of apple pie, one of my all-time favorites. As I moved aside, she stepped into the house and quickly took a look around the room. She raised both hands to her mouth and screeched. “Oh Lord have mercy, you get robbed, Baby?” “No, Ma’am,” I said with a laugh. “I just moved in. Well, kind of.” “Is this all of your belongings?” she asked as she motioned around the empty house. I nodded my head. “Yes, Ma’am, this is it. I’m grateful for what I do have, a roof over my head, and a bed to sleep in.” “Well bless your little heart. I do like your cute little table,” she said as she pointed to the table Toad had left. “Thank you. It’s not mine, the landlord left it,” I said. She nodded her head toward the table. “Now put that box down on that table before it stretches your little arms out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I walked toward the table. As I carefully placed the box on the table, she walked over and pulled a chair away from the table. After wiping the seat with her hand and inspecting her fingers for dust, she sat on the chair and grinned. “Now let’s have us a seat, shall we? Like I said when I come in the door, my name’s Shirley, but my friends will just call me Bee,” she said. “And I’m Sydney. Nobody calls me anything but that,” I said. She smiled, removed the small towels from the box, folded them, and placed them on the table beside the box. One by one, she lifted the items from the box, placing them on the table carefully. As she did, she explained what they were. “This is one of my apple pies. I won the spring contest down at the river with that exact pie. 1st place if I do say so myself. And this is sand hill plum jelly. Junior picked the plums, and I made it fresh last spring. And this here’s a jar of my pickled eggs. They’re good for a snack or to eat with a sandwich, but you need to be mighty careful, Sydney. They’ll make you pass gas.” She paused and held the jar in the air. I nodded my head and grinned. “This is a jar of dill pickles, and this is a jar of sweet pickles. I don’t mark the lids, but you can tell the difference because the dill pickles has a little red hot pepper inside, see it there?” she asked as she pointed to a very small red pepper in the side of the jar. I nodded my head and grinned. “Yes, ma’am, I see it.” She pulled a Tupperware container from the box and placed it beside the pie. “This is my macaroni and cheese casserole. Kids cut all the corners out of it as quick as I took it out of the oven, so I couldn’t get you a corner piece, but the middle’s just as good. Now, Baby, you have to listen to me…” “I’m listening.” “Don’t you dare take a bite of this casserole if it’s cold. Promise me that,” she said. I giggled. “I promise.”

“And when you heats this up, you can’t do it in one of them microwaves; it’ll ruin it. You’ve got to heat it in the oven at 350 degrees. Now be sure and pre-heat your oven, and about ten or twelve minutes is plenty. Now don’t dare heat it in my Tupperware, put it in a casserole dish or a metal cake pan. It’s the only way to get it back to right. Understand?” she asked. I nodded my head eagerly. “Yes ma’am.” “Oh Lordy, you don’t have you any dishes, do you?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am. I have dishes and silverware. I’m just a little short on furniture,” I said. As she carefully placed each item back in the box, she began to speak. “Now Junior tells me your momma died when you was a baby. And your daddy too. I’m downright sorry that happened, Baby. I know I can’t ever replace your momma, but I can sure be here for you when you need me. A little girl needs to have her a momma to talk to. When you grow up, you’ll understand. Now how old are you, Baby? About eighteen?” “No, ma’am, I’m not eighteen, that’s funny. I’m uhhm, I’m thirty. Well, I’ll be thirty on October 1st . And yes, my parents both passed when I was young.” “Well, just because you’re a grown woman don’t mean you can’t use a little lovin’. Like I said, if you ever need me you just give me a call or come on by. My phone number is in the bottom of the box. I wrote it down with my recipe for the casserole. Now I’ve got to get out of this hard little chair. My hind end is a killin’ me,” she said as she stood from the chair. I grinned and stood from my chair. “I appreciate all of the food, and just I love apple pie. From what Junior said, I’ll love it all. As soon as I’m finished with them, I’ll bring all your dishes back to you.” “Whenever you’re done. Oh my, now did you make that? That’s cute,” she said as she pointed to the chalkboard leaning against the wall. “Yes, ma’am, I just finished it,” I said as I tilted my head toward the wall. “Happiness is a friend who doesn’t judge. Oh, Baby, that’s precious. Happiness is a friend who doesn’t judge, amen to that,” she said as she raised her hand to her mouth. “I like it. I made it after Junior took me to his secret tree,” I said. “When he was a little boy, well now let me tell you, Junior was never little but when he was a

boy, if I couldn’t find him I always knew where he’d be. Out at that darned tree sittin’ and thinkin’. Junior’s a thinker for sure. And Junior sure don’t judge. No, Baby, he sure don’t. I raised him different than that. I can tell you had good upbringing, you’re respectful and polite, and you don’t judge either. Cute little white girl bein’ friends with Junior. We don’t see that too much, especially in this small little town. Junior’s boss is a blessing too,” she said as she clasped her hands together. “He saved me from the mess I was in, that’s for sure. He put me up in this house, gave me a job, and asked for nothing in return.” “I love what that man has done for Junior, I just don’t like his name. Toad. Now you know a toad is the warted frog, the one that’ll put warts on your fingers if you touch him. You know that don’t ya?’ she asked. I grinned and nodded my head even though I knew it wasn’t necessarily true. “It’s short for his last name. Todelli, I think.” “Well, I knew it was something like that. But yes, he’s a good man. He’s proof you can’t judge. Townfolks call all those boys names; the ones on the motorbikes. Ain’t never been nothin’ but friendly to me. This little old town is like a step back in time. I guess it’s both good and bad. Now I better get to gettin’, I’ve got some errands to run,” she said as she turned toward the door. “Thank you again,” I said as she turned around. “Don’t even mention it, Baby, and you let me know what you think about the pie,” she said as I opened the door. I grinned as she stepped onto the porch. “I sure will. Bye, Bee.” She raised her hand and waved as she cautiously stepped off the porch. I watched as she walked out to the street and got into her car. After she pulled away, I closed the door and turned toward the table. The smell of apple pie filled the house. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, wishing I was at the old tree again. To scream about the good things.

TOAD The ride out of Wichita was a reminder of what being a biker was all about. Although it wasn’t raining when we left, Oklahoma produced a horrendous thunderstorm. Now riding through one of the hardest rainstorms I had ever seen, the drops felt like needles pressing into my skin. Riding without a helmet might not be the most sensible thing a man could do, but for me it was another way for me to thumb my nose at society, rules and regulations. As Slice, Otis, Biscuit and I cut a path through the wet stretch of highway I could see a hint of sunshine off in the distance. Regardless of the ninety degree summer temperatures, the fact I was soaked from head to toe and not wearing any more than a tee shirt, my cut, jeans, and boots left me feeling uncomfortable. I began thinking of the day I met Sydney, her wrinkled blouse, and how cute she looked otherwise. Lost in thoughts of her kind nature, good attitude, and smart mouth, the next thirty miles passed in what seemed like a matter of minutes. Finally, sunshine. Slice released his left grip and pointed at his gas tank. I nodded my head and pointed down at my gas tank. Biscuit, riding to my left, looked down at his fuel gauge and grinned. As the warmth of the summer sun began to suck the moisture from the highway, we took the next exit and pulled into a gas station. “Glad that shit’s over. Hell of a storm,” Slice said as he pumped gas into his tank and looked off to the north. “Raindrops felt like fucking razors,” I said.

“Try riding this motherfucker with no windshield and fucking ape hangers,” Slice grunted. “the only thing to stop that shit is my face.” My motorcycle was equipped with a fairing, windshield, cruise control, and a CD player. The rain, although not eliminated, was diverted by the small windshield. My head, clearly above the windshield, caught road debris, rain, and bugs no differently than anyone else’s, but it was fractionally less direct. “Not interested. I’ll keep this bagger,” I said. “Fucking raining like a cow pissin’ on a flat rock,” Biscuit chuckled. “I’m going inside, need to get some Red Bull in me, I’m dryin’ out.” Biscuit drank Red Bull energy drinks by the case. He kept a refrigerator in his home stocked with them, and drank roughly eight or ten a day. We all assumed they helped with his sharp wit and fast mouth, but we had no means of comparison because he was always drinking them. As Slice followed Biscuit inside the gas station, I turned toward Otis. As I took off my cut and hung it on the handlebars, I spoke over my shoulder. “I’m thinking when we get back to town I’m going to see if Sydney wants to go out. I’m tired of following her around wondering if she’ll say yes or no.” He scrunched his nose and narrowed his eyes. “Go out?” “Mmmmhmmm,” I said as I pulled off my wet tee shirt. “Like out? You’re going to go on a fucking date?” he said. As I leaned over and unlatched my saddlebag, I responded. “I can’t tell you the last time I took a chick somewhere. Maybe I’ll see if she wants to go eat or something.” Otis crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. “A date? That’s funny as fuck, brother.” “Now I’m funny as fuck. Thanks, O,” I said as I pulled a clean tee shirt from the saddlebag. “Nothing wrong with it, hell I hope everything works out. You’ve been talking about her for a month and a half. It’s just funny, seems like just the other day you were Saran Wrapping Sloan into a ball and butt fucking her and now you want to ask little Miss Innocent on a fucking date,” he said.

“Who’s going on a date?” Biscuit grunted as he took a sip from his can of Red Bull. Oh Jesus, here we go… Otis continued to gaze in my direction, raised his eyebrows and waited. I pulled the tee shirt over my head and grabbed my cut from the handlebars. As I slipped my arms through the cut, I responded. “I was telling Brother Otis I was going to ask Sydney out when we got back.” “The girl with the stinky twat from the bank? Well isn’t that cute,” Biscuit said sarcastically. “She doesn’t have a stinky twat,” I snapped back. “You smelled it? I’m just going off what she told us. She said if you were gonna tap that shit you needed a warm washrag and soap. Sounds like a stinky twat to me,” Biscuit said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sinners don’t fuck girls with rotten pussies. We fuck princesses,” Slice said with a laugh. “Who’s fucking a nasty bitch?” “Toad’s gonna fuck the girl from the bank with the stinky pussy. He’s gonna ask her on a date as soon as we get home,” Biscuit said as he finished the can of Red Bull. Axton knelt down and pulled his dipstick, checking his oil level. As he wiped the dipstick and pushed it back into the engine case, he peered over his shoulder. “Girl from the bank’s got a stinker does she? Hell, I saw her at your barbeque joint the other night; she looked like she was clean. She didn’t wait on me, so it’d be hard to say for sure, but I didn’t smell anything. Guess a man can never tell.” Biscuit hooked his thumbs into his front pockets and tilted his head toward Slice. “Her rotten twat ain’t the topic of this discussion, Slice. Topic’s this, Toad’s going to ask her on a fucking date. You ever seen Toad on a date?” Slice stood and crossed his arms. After studying Biscuit for a short moment, he turned to face me. “You going on a date with one of your employees? That’s probably not the best plan a man can come up with, but I’m pleased in your progress, Toad.” Biscuit laughed. “Stinky twat girl’s gonna be fuckin’ the boss.” Otis, as always, was the only one not commenting. Generally, Otis kept his mouth shut during

situations like this. He didn’t want to encourage Biscuit, and as long as someone was speaking, Biscuit would continue. If no one else spoke, he’d persist as long as everyone would listen. Personally, I was done listening. “I’m going to piss,” I said. “If the next stop’s Wichita Falls, I better take a piss too,” Otis agreed. As we walked into the gas station, Otis didn’t say a word. I could always count on him to provide useful feedback on a matter I was willing to discuss, and maintain silence when I wasn’t willing to speak. Other than Axton, there wasn’t another member of the Sinners who was as solid and caring as Otis. Second guessing myself wasn’t something I did often, but as I walked out of the bathroom and through displays of snacks, I began to wonder if asking Sydney out was a good idea. While I stumbled along the dingy tile floor thinking, Otis stepped from behind an aisle and extended his arm. “Here,” he said as he handed me a box. I looked down at the pink box. Massengill Country Flowers Disposable Douche. “You might need it,” Otis chuckled. I tossed the box into the display of corn nuts and sunflower seeds. “You know I was just thinking how much I appreciated you not acting like an asshole earlier. Good lookin’ out, Otis.” “I thought it was funny. You want to know what’s funnier?” Otis said as he slapped me on the back. I shook my head and opened the door. “What’s that?” As Otis walked through the door, he turned and looked over his shoulder. “That this shit-hole gas station carries douches.” “Maybe there’s a plague of twat funk down here. Hell, we are in Oklahoma,” I said as I walked out to the bikes. “Enough said,” Otis said. “You ready to hit the road, lover boy? Or you want to text your girlfriend and tell her you’re

alright before we go?” Biscuit growled as he lowered himself into the seat of his bike. “No, I already sent her a text, while I was taking a shit,” I responded. “Let’s roll,” Axton said as he started his bike. Spending a week with Biscuit after his finding out about my interest in Sydney could prove to be irritating. I reached for the hand controls and flipped the ignition on. As the engine started, I grinned at the sound of the high performance cams. The engine had a definite don’t fuck with me rumble to it now. “Race to the entrance on the highway?” Otis hollered. I nodded my head as I pulled my sunglasses down from my brow. “I thought you’d never ask.” Slice and Biscuit followed as Otis and I pulled our bikes onto the road leading to the highway. After pulling his bike to the side, Biscuit stepped off and stood in front of us with his hands up. After Otis and I both acknowledging our state of readiness, Biscuit dropped his hands. I released the clutch and twisted the throttle to its limit. After shifting through three gears, I was fifteen feet ahead of Otis and traveling 80 miles per hour. As I slowed down to enter the highway, I began to wonder if Otis allowed me to win, or if I did so because my bike was truly faster. Either way, it was exactly what I needed when I needed it.

SYDNEY Every time I had moved into a new home or apartment, I felt out of place for a period of time; almost like an imposter. Waking up and realizing I was in an unfamiliar place made me feel uneasy. Dishes in a different cupboard, the dresser in an odd location, or a new route home from work acted as a reminder I was in a new location. The uneasy feeling lingered for various lengths of time, but inevitably a day would come when I felt like it was truly my home, and I belonged there. Today was that day. “No, I don’t ride, but I’m going to take the course and learn,” she responded. “Some more tea?” I asked as I stood. “Sure,” she responded as she lifted her glass. I carried our glasses to the kitchen and filled them with ice and tea. Avery had been visiting for almost an hour, and as much as I disliked females, I couldn’t help but like her. She was a no nonsense woman, and seemed to have no issues whatsoever with speaking her mind. After meeting in the restaurant, she explained she was the Ol’ Lady of the President of the Selected Sinners. Discussions of my brother being a biker followed, and I later shared with her how I was renting a house from Toad. We immediately hit it off, and I invited her to come over, talk, and get to know each other better. “Here you go,” I said as I slid the glass of tea across the table and sat down. “I really like that, you made it?” she asked as she tilted her head toward the chalkboard.

“I sure did. I got an old window, painted it with chalkboard paint, and just scribbled on it,” I responded. “Well, I like it. You’ve got talent. And you know, a friend who doesn’t judge is like an impossibility to find,” she sighed. “They’re rare, that’s for sure,” I said. “You know, I had this friend, Sloan. Well, I guess I still have her. We went to college together. We were best friends. And when I started seeing Axton, she became kind of jealous. She started hitting on him, and walking around the house half naked hoping he’d come over. When he and I started seeing each other seriously, she became more jealous. Then, it was almost like she became obsessed with finding a Sinner to fuck just to compete with me. I guess it’s not really judging, but jealousy. You ought to make another that says happiness is a friend who doesn’t get jealous,” she said with a laugh. I nodded my head as I took a drink. As I swallowed the tea and placed the glass on the table, I shook my head slightly. “That is why I don’t have many female friends.” “I’m not big on people who are dishonest; male or female. And jealousy seems like dishonesty to me. It just causes people to act differently, and sooner or later, someone is doing something shady,” she said. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. So did your friend, Sloan, ever find her Sinner,” I asked. “No, not really. She hung around Toad for a while, but she irritated him, so he told her to kick rocks,” she said. Strangely, the thought of Avery’s friend being with Toad made me feel uneasy. In some respects, I suppose I felt jealous, no differently than what she and I had been discussing. I had no right to feel the way I did, but I felt it nonetheless. After a short pause to collect my feelings and come to terms with the fact I may be more attracted to Toad than I wanted to admit, I smiled and spoke. “Kick rocks. My brother says that a lot in the letters he writes me. I don’t know if it’s a prison saying or a biker saying, but he sure says it a lot,” I said. “I picked it up from these guys. Did your brother do time?” she asked.

“Doing time now and forever, he’s doing life,” I said flatly. “Life? Oh wow. I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s okay. It’s just kind of frustrating. If he actually did something, I’d probably accept it more. He was in a club, like I told you earlier, and there was this ATF agent.” I paused and reached for my tea. As I twisted my tea glass in a circle, I continued. “This ATF agent infiltrated the club. He acted like a biker, grew a two foot long beard, shaved his head, got tattoos, and really looked the part. He started hanging around, and then became a Prospect. After he was patched into the club, he began asking about a rival club and what they’d do if they encountered anyone from the other club in their territory. This went on for two years. One night in a bar, after he was half drunk, my brother said he would kill them if he saw them. The sad thing is my brother didn’t offer to kill them; he was kind of coerced to say it. The ATF agent kept asking him would you kill them, would you kill them, would you kill them?” She stared at me with wide eyes. “Eventually, my brother said yes.” She sat up in her seat and pushed her tea aside. “Holy crap. They set his ass up. Like a reverse sting.” “Exactly,” I said. It was always nice to have someone share my opinion about my brother’s lack of involvement in the crime he committed. It acted as confirmation he didn’t deserve the punishment he received, and provided me reassurance I didn’t feel the way I felt simply because he was my brother. Later, it always seemed to make me feel a little more saddened by the fact what happened actually happened. Avery’s eyes filled with excitement. “Sounds like a classic case of entrapment to me. I don’t know how RICO plays in with entrapment, I’ll have to look. I hate to ask, but I kind of have to, did your brother ever kill anyone before this ATF agent approached him?” “No, you might have misunderstood. He didn’t kill anyone. Not before, during, or after. He’s never killed anyone,” I explained as I stared at the ring of moisture my glass was leaving on the table. “As far as you know, had the club ever been to trial at any other point in time for murder or conspiracy to commit?” she asked excitedly.

I looked up from my glass of tea. “You sound like an attorney. And I don’t know if they had ever been in that kind of trouble before, why?” She quickly stood from her chair and raised her hands to her face. As she rubbed her temples and stared toward the chalkboard, I began to wonder why she was asking all of the questions. After a long silence, she looked down and spoke. “Sorry, no I’m not an attorney. I majored in Criminal Justice, love law, hate cops, and now work for an attorney who specializes in Federal Appeals. I was trying to think of a case we studied in college. It was an entrapment case. I can’t think of it now, but it starts with an S. Fucking hell,” she said as she began to pace the floor. Sometimes it took me a minute to realize exactly what Avery had said. She talked a hundred miles an hour, and often it seemed I had to wait a moment and really think of what she was saying after she was done saying it. It was pretty obvious she was intelligent and her mind worked as fast as she spoke. I stood from my chair. “So what’s the case say, whatever it is?” “Well, the law says this. The defendant, your brother in this case, must be predisposed to commit the crime charged in the indictment prior to being approached by government agents,” she blurted. “Okay, what does that mean?” I asked. As she continued to pace the floor, she responded. “Okay, listen carefully. If I was an ATF agent, and I wanted to arrest a killer without having him actually kill someone, I’d have to do it in this order. First, prove he was a killer. Second, approach him. Third, get him to admit he was planning to kill again. If the first step isn’t met, and it must be met first, the law says the ATF agent can never approach the man. Entrapment is against the law. And, entrapment is when a government agent coerces or induces a person who otherwise lacked the predisposition to commit the crime to commit a crime. So, if he hadn’t killed anyone before or wasn’t advertising the fact he wanted to, they couldn’t as a matter of law ever approach him.” “I think I’m still lost,” I admitted. “Okay, how about this. It’s against the law for the ATF to ask your brother if he wanted to kill someone if they can’t prove he was already a killer, and they knew that fact before they ever walked up to him and said hi,” she blurted.

“Oh wow. Really?” I asked “Really,” she said excitedly. “Did he appeal the conviction?”. I shook my head. “No.” “Did his attorney mention entrapment or try to introduce it as a defense?” she asked. “No,” I responded. “You sure?” she asked as she raised her hands to her mouth. “Positive, I sat through the entire trial,” I responded. “Did he have a public defender? A free attorney provided by the government?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Yes, he sure did. I hate to say it, but the guy was a lazy fat prick.” “Fuck yes! Might be an Ineffective Assistance of Counsel claim right there. It’s enough to get our foot in the door, anyway,” she shouted. “I really hate to get my hopes up. He can’t afford an attorney, and I know I can’t either,” I said. She stopped pacing and turned to face me. “I’ll talk to my boss. He may take the case for the exposure alone. If he won’t, fuck it. I’ll do this motherfucker myself.” “But you said you weren’t an attorney,” I said. “I’m not. But if we have to we’ll file the shit pro se. One way or another, we’ll get something filed and see if we can get a new trial,” she said as she clapped her hands. “So you could actually do this yourself?” I asked. She nodded her head. “Hell, anyone can do it, but you don’t want some dumb ass doing it. It has to be someone who knows their shit. It’s called pro se. It’s Latin, it means on one’s own behalf. Because you only get one shot, and you must reference good law in your legal motions, you don’t want to make a mistake.” “Sounds complicated and time consuming,” I said.

“It is, and it’s right up my alley. I’ll get copies of all of the court records and start reading as soon as I get them. I’ll keep you posted on what I find. I’ll need his name and the case number if possible,” she said as she walked toward me. “I’ll get it all gathered up and let you know. Now that I’ve finally got a phone, I can do things like that,” I said. As she opened her arms and stood in front of me, I was surprised. I barely knew her, and she was offering to do something like this. I doubted it would really make any kind of a difference, but it sure seemed like she was going to try. Hugging an almost stranger seemed awkward, but considering the circumstances, I opened my arms and embraced her. “Okay, I’m going to go get started reviewing law,” she said as she released me. “It’s ten o’clock at night,” I said. “I’ve got inferiority issues. I need to do shit like this to prove to myself that I’m not worthless,” she responded. Avery’s visit made me feel great. She was genuine, intelligent, full of energy, absolutely gorgeous, and not a typical female. It was almost as if she was a man trapped in the body of a woman. So far she was proving herself to be a great person, and if things continued the way they were, I could see myself becoming very good friends with her. “You’re not worthless,” I said. “We’re about to find out,” she responded as she walked to the door. I held my hand to my chest and grinned. “I already have. I enjoyed this. Thanks for coming over.” “Well, my man’s out of town, and I need something to do anyway. Maybe I’ll see you again tomorrow,” she said. “I’d like that,” I said. After she drove away, I closed the door and turned toward the table. The chalkboard on the wall behind the table was becoming more applicable as the days passed. For Avery to volunteer to do what she was going to do without knowing me, my brother, or the Hell’s Fury club, she was truly a person who didn’t judge.

I picked up the glasses of tea, dumped them in the sink, and got ready for bed. As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I realized since the day I met Toad, my life had slowly began to fall into place. The silly chalkboard I had made could really be applied to all of the people I had met through Toad. Biscuit and Otis were both willing to hand me money upon learning of my being homeless. Toad, without a doubt was nonjudgmental. Junior, his mother, and Avery were the same. Still staring at the ceiling, I closed my eyes and did something I hadn’t done since I was a very small girl. Thank you, Lord, for introducing me to my new friends. Please keep them from harm. In your name I ask these things, amen.

TOAD Axton slid his arm through his cut, began walking toward the bathroom, and glanced over his shoulder. “I think I cut my fucking ear shaving. What did you fuckers decide? Are you going downtown or are you going to just wait in the lot?” Axton and I had stayed in the adjoining room, and Otis and Biscuit had stayed in the other. After a good night’s sleep and a shower, we were ready to go to the meeting and get our day of relaxation in Austin started. The temperatures in excess of 100 degrees were perfect for riding and enjoying the sun. Additionally, Austin was a place for everyone, bikers included. The cities motto was Keep Austin Weird. “Doesn’t make good sense to go downtown if the meeting’s only going to be thirty minutes or so, we can wait outside,” I responded. Axton had explained that the meeting was to include only one spokesperson from each club. The existing clubs in the area would meet with the spokespersons from the new club, and after finding out the potential new club’s anticipated membership, intent, and claimed territory would vote on whether or not the club posed a threat or would be allowed to assemble in the territory requested. The fact the club asked for a meeting spoke highly of the founders of the club, as many MC’s start up every day without so much as understanding the proper protocol. Starting a club and wearing colors with rockers claiming territory without the permission of existing clubs is a sure fire way to get killed. Texas was not only a Bandido state, it was the Bandido state. 1%er clubs in Texas were rarely given the right to even fly a rocker claiming the state as their own. The Bandidos refused to give permission. Being established in 1966, they were the original Texas 1% group. A great club with equally great men, but they had no interest in sharing the claim to their state. A non 1% club would have no problems starting up, though. At least this club was starting out on the right foot. After a short meeting, we, as well as all other clubs in attendance, would know their intent or

interest in territorial claim. . “Whatever you fellas want to do,” Axton said as he walked out of the bathroom holding his ear. “I don’t know that it’s a good idea for you to be running across town alone. I’d feel more comfortable with the four of us. One Sinner is an easier target than four,” I responded as I looked toward Otis. Otis chuckled. “I agree with the Sergeant at Arms. Fuck, last one of these I went to in Wichita lasted about twenty minutes, shouldn’t be a big deal. We’ll sit in the parking lot, out of sight so we don’t intimidate anyone.” “All you got to do is show up, Otis and you intimidate people. Point taken, Toad. We’ll roll out there, I’ll go in the meeting, and when it’s over we’ll all go out and you fellas can have some beers. Hell, maybe some of the other clubs will want to go,” Axton said as he removed the bloody tissue from his ear. “I’m going to go into this deal looking like an idiot who doesn’t even know how to fucking shave,” Axton said as he wiped his finger along the bottom of his ear. “These are the richest, snottiest, brattiest little bitches I ever seen, but I can’t stop watchin’ this shit,” Biscuit said as he stared at the television. “You’re the only motherfucker I know who doesn’t have a television, Biscuit. What the fuck are you watching?” Axton asked. “What is it, Otis?” Biscuit asked as he continued to stare at the T.V. “Keeping up with the Kardashians, he’s been watching it for three hours,” Otis said. “This is some good shit. One of ‘em just dropped a $75,000 earring in the ocean, and she’s throwin’ a fit. Who wears $75,000 earrings anyway?” he asked. “Shit, I bet that bitch wipes her ass with $75,000 toilet paper,” I said. “Big basketball player boyfriend just found it. Ain’t that some shit? You know they found that sum bitch when they was on a commercial. He probably handed it to that big dumb prick and told him to claim he found it when the commercial was off. God damn, these girls are hot,” Biscuit howled. “You do realize that they edit this shit, right?” Otis asked.

“What do you mean?” Biscuit shrugged. “Nevermind,” Otis said. “Alright. Jesus fucking Christ, enough about the Kardashians. Good God, men. I feel like I’m in a room of high school girls. Let’s roll. My ear can air dry. It’s already 105 degrees in this God forsaken place,” Axton growled. “Rollin’,” Otis said as he pointed to the door. Biscuit, still standing with his eyes glued on the television, held his finger in the air. “Gimme just a minute.” Frustrated with Biscuit, Axton shoved the hotel room door open and burst out into the parking lot. “I swear, I wonder if you motherfuckers don’t just do shit to piss me off.” He hopped on his bike and immediately started it. After the engine warmed, he began revving the motor, blowing the loud exhaust against the building. “Poor fucker doesn’t have a T.V. at home,” Otis yelled. I nodded my head as I started my bike. Within a couple of minutes of coming outside, we were all revving our motors loudly. It sounded like a bunch of children had been given control of the throttle of our bikes. As the deafening sound of our exhaust echoed against the wall of the brick building, Biscuit came through the door. “Sorry fellas. Had to see how it ended,” he yelled as he hopped on his bike. “It doesn’t,” Otis laughed as he released his throttle. “That one you’re watching is a few years old.” “I don’t even want to know how you know that,” Axton hollered over his shoulder. “Meeting is at some warehouse two miles south of here. Two abreast, and maintain distance, who’s up here with me?” Axton asked. I raised my left hand. Axton nodded his head, released his clutch, and slowly began to move forward. As we rolled out of the parking lot and onto the access road which ran parallel with the highway, the sound of the bikes echoed against the concrete structure supporting the elevated highway.

Being in the club provided a sense of brotherhood, but something about riding in a group always provided me with a feeling of brotherhood and power. As we merged into traffic, our positioning and ease of riding with each other reminded me of Marines marching. When the Sinners rode in groups, we were always synchronized. After a few miles, Axton’s left arm shot upward, indicating a right turn. As we exited the highway, it was immediately apparent which building we were going to. A few hundred feet from the intersection was a metal building with a small concrete parking lot out front. Twenty bikes perfectly positioned in the small lot stood as proof the riders were in tune with club practices. Axton tossed his head in the direction of the building. I nodded my head in affirmation as I pointed toward the building. As we pulled into the lot, we situated our bikes at the end of the row of motorcycles already parked. A quick check of time by Axton indicated the meeting was probably underway or close to it. Now even more frustrated, Axton stepped from his bike and turned toward Biscuit. “You and that fucking Kardashians shit,” Axton growled. “Can’t help it boss, that girl turns my fuckin’ crank. I’d like to fuck her until she couldn’t even walk,” Biscuit said. Axton shook his head and turned to face his bike. “Don’t imagine Kanye West would appreciate that,” Otis said. Biscuit turned toward Otis and shrugged his shoulders. “Who the fuck’s Kanye West?” “Alright, you three can stay out here and talk about rappers and millionaires, I’m going in. Don’t be dicking around out here making a bunch of noise or racing up and down the street like a bunch of fucking kids. Just stand here and enjoy this weather. I’ll be back in thirty minutes or so,” Axton said as he looked at his ear in the rearview mirror of his bike. “Got it, boss,” Otis said with a nod. “I’ll keep it civil,” I said flatly. “Do that,” Axton said as he turned and walked toward the door. Biscuit stepped toward Otis and me, pushed his thumbs into his front pockets, and grinned. “So, when we were headed toward Temple and that truck kicked that fuckin’ rock up and hit my windshield, it

got me to thinkin’. What’s the biggest thing you ever had to dodge on the road? And I don’t mean some deer on the side of the highway that startled you. I mean you had to take the ditch or hit the shoulder or the other lane or somethin’? Biggest object or whatever?” “You all know my story. When we were headed to Sturgis in 2006. On that two lane highway when a truck in the other lane lost half a tire. I was riding sweep, and keeping my distance, and this motherfucker lost a tire. I watched that fucker roll toward me thinking it was going to miss me. Next thing I know, boom! I hit that motherfucker, blew out a front tire, and rode on the rim for a half mile before I got stopped. Damn near shit my pants,” Otis responded. “Don’t count. I said dodge. You didn’t dodge shit, brother. You hit it. What have ya missed?” Biscuit snapped. As Otis stood and thought, I stared blankly across the street. The building where we were parked was in what appeared to be a residential area. The adjoining streets were filled with small poorly taken care of homes. A street perpendicular to the street in front of the building intersected a few feet beyond the far side of the lot the building was on. Close to the intersection of the two streets, a man sat in an old Ford Taurus. An intermittent puff of smoke indicated the car was running. The manner in which he was positioned in the seat indicated he was either half asleep or he didn’t want to be seen. “Guess it would have to be a dog. Had one run out in front of me chasing a cat or squirrel or something. Motherfucker got in my lane, stopped, and just fucking stared at me. Hell, I was east of Wichita, coming in for a poker run. We stared at each other like we were both in a trance. At the last minute, it was pretty obvious he was either too stupid to move, or stubborn as fuck. I took the other lane and missed him by about five feet,” Otis said. “That’s a boring as fuck close call. What about the Toad man? Whatcha got Toad,” Biscuit asked. I shifted my gaze from the car to Biscuit. Although the car and the occupant made me uncomfortable, I didn’t dare say it. Spending many years in Iraq, I learned to study people, their patterns of behavior, and their body language. Seeing someone nervously walking toward a car in Iraq typically indicated the vehicle was loaded with a bomb or the person was in route to plant an Improvised Explosive Device. How a person held their arms as they walked or what they were wearing may indicate they were hiding a weapon. In previous wars, our troops were fighting a force of resistance who were in uniform, and clearly identified as the opponent. Encountering a person in civilian clothes provided our soldiers and Marines with comfort the person was in fact a civilian, and not a threat. In Iraq and Afghanistan, the opponent was incapable of being labeled a civilian or a threat by their dress alone.

Anyone, at any time, could be a threat. As a result, we learned to identify a threat based solely on their behavior. Upon returning from the war and becoming a Prospect for the Sinners, I repeatedly made verbal note of anyone who made me uncomfortable. The constant replies of you’re not at war anymore, Toad, no one’s out to get ya caused me to stop revealing my thoughts. My nervous attention to detail, however, never ceased. Biscuit’s fast talking brought me back to a conscious state of awareness. “Where’d you wander off to, motherfucker?” “Huh?” I responded as I attempted to focus my eyes on Otis. “Over here,” Biscuit said as he snapped his fingers. “You alright, Brother? You go back to Afghanistan for a minute?” Biscuit chuckled. “No, I was…I was just thinking,” I responded. Biscuit looked down at his feet as he kicked a rock from the concrete lot toward the street. “About stinky twat?” “She doesn’t have a stinking fucking twat, and no. Just, I don’t know, thinking. Why the fuck are you fucking with me?” I snapped. He looked up with widened eyes. “Whoa. Settle down, killer. Did ya get enough sleep last night? Maybe you need to take a little nap.” “Fuck off, I’m fine,” I said. “Damn, take it easy. We was talkin’ about dodgin’ shit in the road. What’s your best?” he asked. I glanced toward the car. The occupant was still slumped in the seat. After a few seconds, a puff of smoke from the exhaust provided proof the car was still running. After staring blankly for some time, I shifted my gaze to Biscuit. “A wheelbarrow,” I responded. “No shit?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said. “Already heard this, it’s a good one. Tell him, Toad,” Otis said. “Well, I was on the highway headed up to Newton. I’m behind this guy in a truck. The highway’s a two-lane at that point, headed north on 35. So, I’m behind this prick, and there’s a string of cars on my left, and cars behind me for a mile. It’s rush hour, if Wichita has one. It was like 5:15, just after everyone’s getting out of work.” I paused and glanced toward the car. As I shifted my gaze to the fellas, I continued. “So I’m behind this fucker, and his tailgate on the truck is down, and the back is full of construction shit: tools, shovels, a tool box, and this fucking wheelbarrow. I’m behind him about twenty feet, following pretty close, and I’m studying this wheelbarrow. It’s bouncing up and down, and I’m thinking is this motherfucker tied down?” “So I study it, and I watch it wobble around for a few miles. Now you know how when you see something like that you try and decide if it’s a threat or not?” I asked. Biscuit reached into his saddlebag. “Red Bull anyone?” I shook my head. As Biscuit took a drink, he nodded his head eagerly. “I sure as fuck do. I pay attention to all that shit. Hell, Brother, you gotta keep your eyes peeled.” “Okay, so we hit this expansion joint or whatever, and this fucking wheelbarrow flies out of the back of his truck. Now I’m tooling along about 80 miles a fucking hour, and this motherfucker comes out and right toward me. Fucker’d have killed me if I didn’t react,” I said. Biscuit’s eyes widened as he took another sip of Red Bull. “So?” “Well, I grabbed a handful of brake and laid on the back brake, car behind me damn near hit me. Let off the brakes and immediately swerved right, into the fucking narrow part that has the drunk bumps on it. Came to a complete stop and collected my thoughts.” I hesitated, knowing there was more to the story, and Otis had heard it a few times. Biscuit waved his free hand toward me. “Holy shit, that’s a good one. Better’n mine, for sure.” “Tell him the rest,” Otis said. “There’s more?” Biscuit asked. I glanced toward the car. The man sat up in the seat slightly, looked our direction momentarily, and

lowered himself back down into the seat. I glanced toward Otis and considered saying something about the car. “Uhhm, yeah. When I pulled off the side of the road, the fucking wheelbarrow immediately smacks the car behind me in the front, he hits his brakes, and the fucking thing flips over the top of his car and lands in the windshield of the car behind him. The fucker with the wheelbarrow in the windshield hits the car in front of him; which was the guy behind me. I sat and watched this shit like it wasn’t even real. After about thirty seconds, there’s a ten car pile-up, one of which has a fucking wheelbarrow stuck in his windshield.” “Jesus jumped up Christ. Did ya run down the cocksucker in the truck?” he asked. “No, I stayed and helped out with the accidents. Filled out police reports, and bullshit like that. But they caught the guy,” I said. “Serves the dumb fuck right,” Biscuit said as he stomped his boot on the empty can, smashing it flat. “Tell him how they caught him,” Otis said. I looked at Otis and rolled my eyes. Otis slapped Biscuit on the shoulder and began to tell his version of the story. “Ol’ Toad here knows the tag number. After all that bullshit, car wrecks, and such, the cop asks if anyone got the plate number of the truck. Hell, it’s been an hour after the shit goes down. Toad says yeah, I got it memorized; it’s BR549 or whatever the fuck it was. Fucking guy pays attention to all kinds of stupid details, but this time it paid off.” “He’s a nervous acting fucker sometimes, that’s for sure. Yeah, I notice shit too, motherfucker, I been noticing you starin’ at that car across the street since we got here. What the fuck’s wrong with you today?” Biscuit asked. “Nothing’s wrong. Fucker just makes me nervous. We’ve been here about twenty minutes, and the fucker’s been sitting over there waiting,” I snapped. He chuckled and shook his head from side to side. “Yeah, parked cars freak me out too.” “Fuck you, Biscuit. I’d rather have my shit wired tight then get blindsided,” I hissed.

Biscuit carried the smashed can to his bike and dropped it into the saddlebag. As he glanced up, he continued. “Yeah, Austin is full of ISIS and Al Qaeda.” Fuck you, motherfucker. You wouldn’t make it ten minutes in combat. I turned to face Otis. As I shook my head and lifted my shoulders slightly; the sound of people coming out of the building shifted my focus to the door. Several men walked out, got on their bikes, and left. Others lingered, standing by their bikes talking. As Axton walked out talking to a man dressed in cargo shorts and a wife beater, I laughed to myself at his choice of attire. He looked like a big, bald, musclebound weight lifter wearing tennis shoes. Knowing he either had to walk here or ride one of the bikes parked, I assumed he must have rode one of the bikes. More than likely, considering the fact he wasn’t wearing a cut, he was one of the potential members of the new club. . What a fucking idiot. “Couple of these fellas are going to roll with us to the bar. Said we ought to go to the Red Shed Tavern.” Axton turned to face the big idiot as he finished speaking. The oversized bald guy nodded his head as he walked in our direction beside Axton. I stared down at his shoes and shook my head in disbelief. As he approached, he pulled his right hand from the pocket of his shorts. You better not even try, you wannabe motherfucker. Although most people don’t realize it, there’s an unwritten rule regarding shaking a 1%er’s hand. Most outsiders perceived the standoffish nature as arrogance, but in reality it was more a precautionary measure and a means of not affiliating ourselves with someone who didn’t measure up. If an outsider ever approached a 1%er and introduced himself with an outstretched hand, most would be met with a blank stare. Not many 1%er’s would be willing to shake the hand of a man they didn’t know. If another 1%er introduced that person, however, it would act as a reassurance of the outsider being a stand-up guy and confirmation he was worthy of a formal introduction. At that point, if the fellow 1%er didn’t shake the hand of the outsider, it would be disrespectful to the man introducing him. I wasn’t in any way willing to shake the hand of this oversized bald headed motherfucker covered in a combination of garage and free world tattoos. As I pressed my palms into my armpits and crossed my arms over my chest, I noticed a few more men walk from the building. One, in particular, immediately caught my attention. I shifted my gaze from the big bald idiot toward the door.

Can’t be… You’re dead. I blinked my eyes in disbelief. As Axton and the oversized bald-headed fool stopped in front of the three of us, I stepped around Axton without speaking and stared toward the two men standing by the door. Seeing one of the two men caused me to immediately feel a flood of indescribable emotion. The man, dressed in jeans, desert boots, and a white tee-shirt, stood talking to another man who wasn’t wearing a cut. The man he spoke with was wearing an oversized black hoodie and looked nervous. I wiped my eyes, shook my head, and stared. This was impossible. As I stood filled with skepticism and stared, the man gazed at me. As our eyes met, the look on his face confirmed my suspicion. But you died…

TOAD After the explosion of a roadside bomb severely injured several Marines in our small convoy, myself included, we were removed from what was left of our Humvees, and the more seriously wounded were treated by a Corpsman while waiting on a medevac chopper. The entire area immediately took tremendous fire from insurgents in the small village, primarily from the rooftops of surrounding buildings. As every one of the vehicles in the convoy was damaged, all we could do was wait. Wait and hope. A highly decorated Staff Sergeant who was in our convoy took a large piece of shrapnel to the hip, and was bleeding profusely. Refusing treatment, and with only one useful leg, he drug himself to a position of cover, propped himself against the rear of an abandoned car, and began returning fire. I attributed my having survived for the amount of time it took to be medevaced out to his bravery and courage. As I was literally being carried to the chopper, I watched in horror while he was shot twice as he attempted to crawl away from the cover of the car. I later learned upon returning to my battalion that he had died while being treated for his wounds. Now, I stood in sheer disbelief as I either stared at his twin, or was simply losing my mind. It can’t be… “Staff Sergeant Jacob!” I yelled. The man immediately straightened his posture and turned to face me. For a long moment, he stood and stared. As he slowly walked away from the man in the hoodie, his mouth began to curl into a smile.

“Sergeant Todelli? The fucking Toad? Holy shit, Brother, I thought you were dead,” he exclaimed as he approached. “Fuck, I got medevaced out, treated, handed a Purple Star, and went right fucking back. But I watched you get killed,” I said as I stretched my arms outward. “Holy shit, I thought you died from that wound. I was out damned near six months with mine, but far from dead. Longest six months of my fucking life. Had to beg those bastards to send me back; when I got to battalion they said you were dead,” he said. “Far from it,” I said. “The medevac chopper flew out, and I laid in the fucking street returning fire until a Corpsman drug me behind that building. Cocksucking sniper shot me twice, but your chopper hadn’t made it out yet. Hell, I had to stay and make sure my Marines got out of there safely,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me and slapped me on the back. “Ready for anything, counting on nothing,” I said, reciting the motto of the 2/7 Marines. “Isn’t that the truth. Damn, it’s good to see you,” he said as he leaned back and studied me from head to toe. “Good to be seen,” I said. “And fuck it’s good to know you’re alive.” My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest. Full of emotion, adrenaline, and memories of the battle, I looked down at my hands. Shaking almost uncontrollably, I was filled with the excitement of being reunited with a Marine who I was certain was dead. Not only was he a 2/7 Marine and a true brother, he was someone I perceived as a modern day hero; a man who risked his life in an effort to save the lives of many others who were in much better condition to fight than he was, including myself. On many occasions and many nights, I recalled the battle in Haditha and his heroism. I also attributed my having lived through that particular day of combat to his act of selflessness. I lived my post-war life filled with the deepest feelings of regret; knowing I could never repay him for saving my life. Standing before him now, I began to wonder how much of my PTSD, and more particularly, what portion of my Survivor’s Guilt could be attributed to my belief that he gave his life in exchange for mine on that memorable day. As I gazed upward, I noticed all of the men gathered in a circle around the few bikes which remained parked. The man in the shorts and the man in the hoodie stood by Otis. Axton stared in the mirror of his bike as he pressed his index finger against his ear. As Axton glanced in my direction, he

grinned. “I’m guessing you two fuckers don’t need an introduction?” he growled. “Not at all,” I said with a laugh. “So what the fuck are you doing here?” “Trying to start a new chapter for our club. Just trying to make sure we don’t step on any toes,” he responded. “One percent club?” I asked. “I’m not a one percenter, no. We don’t claim territory, and we don’t have any hustle. We just ride and have a deep brotherhood. It’s a nationwide group of firefighters, military, and friends of. We can talk about it at the bar. Damn it’s good to see you. Let me introduce you to the soon to be Vice President and Sergeant at Arms. Two of the best motherfuckers to ever grace this earth.” He hesitated and held out his right arm. As the big bald headed man in the tennis shoes approached, Staff Sergeant Jacob patted him on the shoulder. “Big bastard here is Mike Ripton, but just call him Ripp. Ripp, this is Toad, a Marine brother of mine. Toad, this is the one and only Ripp,” he said. I looked at the man dressed in cargo shorts and a wife beater. As I held out my hand, I chuckled. “Nice to meet you. Do you ride in those fucking tennis shoes?” “It’s a pleasure to meet ya, but these ain’t tennis shoes, Brother. They’re fuckin’ Chuck’s,” he said as he lifted his leg, grabbed his foot, and held it at chest height. “And fuck, yes, I ride in ‘em. Hell, I even keep ‘em on when I fuck.” God damn, that big son-of-a-bitch is limber. “Ripp’s going to be the SAA. And this fella here…” He paused and pointed toward the man in the hoodie. Holy fucking shit. “You’re Shane fucking Dekkar,” I shouted.

He rolled his shoulders, extended his hand, and smiled. “Sure am. Pleasure to meet you, Sir. And call me Dekk.” “You’ve got to be fucking shittin’ me. You’ve got the Heavyweight Champion of the fucking World as your Vice President?” I chuckled. “Otis, did you see this?” “Sure as fuck did. Already met the man while you were zoned out,” Otis said. “Pleasure to meet you Mr. Dekkar, call me Toad. And that fight a while back, against Brock? Best fucking fight I’ve ever seen. We all watched it in our clubhouse. Son-of-a-bitch that was a good fight,” I said excitedly as I shook his hand. “Thank you, Sir, I appreciate it. He was a tough opponent,” he said with a smile. Humble prick. As we all stood between the motorcycles and the building, I stepped away from the men and turned to face Staff Sergeant Jacob. Otis, Biscuit, Ripp, Shane Dekkar, and Staff Sergeant Jacob stood to my right behind our bikes. The bikes they were riding were several feet away, closer to the door. Axton stood to my immediate right, beside his bike and in front of the rest of the men, still fucking with his ear. With all of the men facing me except Axton, I proudly raised my hands. “Fellas, I want you to meet Staff Sergeant Jacob. Known by his Marine brethren as The A-Train, because when he’s coming, not a fucking thing can stop him,” I shouted as I raised my hands in the air and pointed toward Staff Sergeant Jacob. “Well, if all you fuckers are done swapping spit and hugging each other, maybe we should head out to the bar,” Axton growled as he continued to study his ear in the mirror. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Ford Taurus from across the street slowly rolling into the narrow parking lot through the entrance on my far right. “Axton, my two o’clock,” I said. Axton lifted his blood soaked finger from his ear and stared at it. The car was slowly approaching behind him. As the Taurus began to speed toward our position, Staff Sergeant Jacob instinctively turned to face the car. “Axton, behind you,” I said as the car began to approach more rapidly.

Everyone turned around except Axton, who continued to fuck with his ear. Standing to my right, Staff Sergeant Jacob narrowed his gaze as he studied the driver. As he made eye contact, he bent his knees slightly and raised his hands as if preparing to fight. I didn’t like what I was seeing. I glanced toward the car. The driver slowly raised a pistol into sight. “Remember me, motherfucker?” the driver asked as he raised the weapon and pointed it in the direction of Axton and A-Train. As the muzzle of the pistol tilted slightly, I realized he was going to fire the weapon. I instinctively jumped between the car window and where Axton and A-Train stood. The deafening sound of the weapon being fired filled the air, immediately followed by a crushing pain in my chest. A burning feeling slowly washed over my entire upper body. Incapable of standing, and certain I was knocking on death’s door, I collapsed into Staff Sergeant Jacob’s arms. As the noise of screaming and screeching tires became faint and indistinct, I heard the dull sound of a motorcycle start and speed away. Slowly, everything around me started to fade into a faint, fuzzy black and white. I began to feel as if I was being forced down through a tunnel of water, and to survive I needed to swim to a surface far from my reach. Paralyzed from moving a single limb, I continued to sink deeper and deeper. I realized all I could do was attempt to speak. I’m coming to see you, Nonno. I’ll be there real soon. “God damn it, Sergeant, hold on. Open those eyes for me, Todelli. Talk to me…” a muffled voice said. “Get a fucking ambulance; we don’t have a way to get him out of here!” I opened my eyes and stared blankly at Staff Sergeant Jacob. Regardless of my desire to do so, I couldn’t seem to force myself to talk. Eventually, as my eyes fell closed, the words began to roll from my dry tongue. The blood vibrated in my lungs as I attempted to speak. “We’re…you and me…we’re…” “Hold on Sergeant Todelli. Medevac’s en route. You hear that chopper, brother? It’s almost here,” the voice said. As much as I realized I was dying, I felt I needed to say it. It was crucial to my recovery from a life I had lived for almost a decade; running from the fact I survived while others had lost their lives. I dug deep within my being and fought against the pain in my chest.

The blood filling my lungs gurgled as I struggled to force the words from my lips. Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. I pray that you may give me the strength to speak one last time. Cradled in his arms, I stared upward and attempted to focus on Staff Sergeant Jacob’s eyes. Although I knew what I wanted to say, forcing the words from my lungs required more strength than I was capable of gathering. Channeling every bit of energy I could muster, and pushing against the pressure building in my lungs, I heard myself begin to produce audible sounds. “We’re…even,” I eventually muttered. And slowly everything turned to black.

SYDNEY Living is a combination of choice and chance. The path our life travels upon is by our own choosing. Similar to playing poker, life is a complex game which requires decisions on our part; the choice. The chance comes after we make the decision, as we wait for life to deal us a card from the deck; each one potentially having a varying effect on the outcome or end result. We make a choice and reserve hope the chance we have taken is the one which might make all of the difference we had hoped for. Sometimes, the change we see from the card we were dealt is not what we expected, but something we are forced to accept. “Unexpected visitors are like gifts,” I said as I opened the door. Upon taking a good look at her, it was obvious; Avery was very upset and had apparently been crying. Her eyeliner was smeared all over her face, and her hands appeared to be shaking. Someone I would have expected to be stable at all times, I wondered what had happened to make her feel the way she felt. She stepped into the room and immediately placed her hands on my shoulders. After inhaling a choppy breath, she began to cry as she attempted to exhale. I slid my arm behind her back and began walking toward the table. After lowering her into a chair, I sat down beside her and reached for a napkin. “What happened?” I asked. She continued to sob. “You want something to drink?” I asked as I handed her the napkin. As she dabbed the tears from her eyes, she slowly began to regain her composure. Her breathing improved from every breath faltering to steady shallow breathing. Knowing women tend to overreact to

almost everything, I eagerly waited for her to reach a point where she could explain what had happened. I suspected more than likely Axton had done something in Austin she didn’t totally agree with. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen,” I whispered as I reached for her hand. She nodded her head and took a shallow breath. “I’m just going to say it really fast. I’m afraid if I try to explain, I’ll lose it,” she said. Avery spoke faster than I could possibly listen, so to have her say it really fast would be pretty much normal for her. A few seconds after she said whatever it was she had to say, I’d process it and respond appropriately. I nodded my head as I clutched her hand in mine. “Okay. Just say it.” “Toad was shot he’s barely alive with collapsed lungs and they’re operating on him now it’s really bad and he saved Axton’s life by jumping in front of the bullet…I think I need to throw up,” she blurted. Toad was shot and he was dying. I fought against the bile rising in my throat. I reached for the napkins, picked one up, and held it in front of my face. One of the kindest men I ever met had made a choice, and taken a chance. For whatever reason, the card he was dealt wasn’t what he had hoped for. My mind fought for answers. I quickly came to the realization maybe it was what he had hoped for. Knowing his knack for performing selfless acts and his willingness to help others, the choice he made and the chance he took probably produced an outcome he was prepared for and totally expected. “How far is Austin?” I asked. “Ten hours,” she blubbered. Strangely, I hadn’t cried. Maybe the severity of everything hadn’t sunk in yet. Quite possibly, I was in a mild state of shock, and unaware of the depth of my inner feelings. Either way, I was oddly comfortable and relatively stable. I began to wonder if Toad meant as much to me as I tried to tell myself he did. I stood from the chair and walked toward the kitchen. “I’m going to call in to work and see if I can take a few days off. I’m going to go down there and see him.” “Can we…”

“Can we go…together?” she stood from her chair and wiped eyeliner across her face with the napkin. I nodded my head as I dialed Sarah’s number. “You’ll have to drive, I’m a wreck,” she said as she tossed the wet napkin on the table. “Let me see if I can get off work,” I said. “I already took off work, my stuff’s in the car. We can take it, but you’ll have to drive,” she said. As Sarah answered the phone I nodded my head. “Sarah, this is Sydney. I’ve got an emergency out of town, and I need to take off for a few days. Can you and Kate pick up my shifts?” “I’ll be fine. No, maybe three or four, I’ll keep you posted,” I said. “Thank you. You too,” I said as I hung up. “It’s all set. Let me grab a few things. We’ll need to stop at two places before we go,” I said over my shoulder. As I walked to the bathroom, a rush of emotion washed over me. After I gathered my makeup and essentials from the shower, I braced myself against the sink. A quick glance in the mirror revealed the reflection of a scared little girl, fearful for the loss of yet another loved one. Holding the edge of the sink for stability, I stared blankly into the mirror and tried to accept what Avery had said. Toad had been shot and he was dying. My lips began to quiver. My hands started shaking. Eventually my legs finally gave way, and I collapsed onto the floor. I grasped my knees in my hands and pulled my thighs against my chest. Without thinking, I began to hum an unknown tune as I pulled against my knees with my hands. As I rocked back and forth on the floor, the humming eventually turned to tears. Slowly, the crying became more intense. In no time, I was a blubbering mess. As I felt an arm wrap around my shoulder, I tilted my head to the side. Avery sat down beside me, released my shoulder, and clasped her hands around her knees. My entire life, I grieved alone. I never had anyone to comfort me, assist me, or help me understand why I felt the way I felt. Now, as I began to feel

helpless, incapable, and as if I was cheated out of the best man to ever enter my life, someone was right beside me through it all. As we both rocked back and forth on the bathroom floor, humming and crying; I glanced at Avery and realized two things. For the first time in my adult life, I was not alone. And girls can be the best of friends.

SYDNEY We tend to find comfort while embracing whatever it is we place faith in. The presence of faith provides reassurance, and with it comes comfort. As true faith isn’t something we simply obtain by want or wish, those of us who possess very little faith must first find a place of comfort and hope that faith soon follows. “Before you go, Miss Sydney.” Junior paused and wiped his eyes. “You ever felt pain this deep? Before now?” he asked. I considered what he had asked. I knew my answer ought to be a simple one, but I was quite shocked by what I felt my response should be, considering how I felt. As if he knew how much pain I was in, he stood and waited for me to respond. “It seems weird saying it, but I don’t think so. I really don’t. At least not that I can remember,” I responded. “Me neither. And, it’s because Mr. Toad has touched our lives with a hand more kind than we ever expected anyone to. He’s a very special man, Miss Sydney, he sure nuff is. My momma says this.” He wiped his eyes with the tips of his fingers and inhaled a deep breath. Junior rubbed his hands on the thighs of his pants and gazed upward. As if he was reading from a banner in the sky, he recited his mother’s words of wisdom. “God uses our deepest pain as the first stepping stone to our greatest reward.” “Holy cow, that’s good. I like that,” I said. “I likes it too. Now you go on and tell Mr. Toad when he wakes up that I’d come on down there

and see him, but I gots to stay here and make him proud,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be sure and tell him,” I said. “Give me a hug, then you and Miss Avery better get to getting’,” he said as he stretched his arms outward. As he held me in his arms, I realized I wouldn’t have ever met Junior if it wasn’t for Toad. Grateful for having both Avery and Junior in my life, I gazed in the window of the car at her as I hugged Junior. “Alright, we better go. It’s a ten-hour drive, and we won’t be there until tomorrow morning the way we’re going,” I said. “Drive safe,” he said. I nodded my head. “I will. And I’ll tell him what you said.” As Junior turned and walked toward the lawn mower, I reached for the door handle. After a short hesitation and reflection of his mother’s opinion regarding the pain I was feeling, I opened the car door and sat down in the seat. “Just one more place,” I said as I pulled the door closed. Avery turned to face me and nodded her head. She looked like warmed over death. As I started the car, I closed my eyes and hoped she could obtain a little satisfaction from our last stop. If nothing else, I knew it would provide me enough strength to make the trip without falling apart. I reached for the gear shift and pulled the car into gear. As I released the brake and pulled forward, I nervously gripped the gear shift lever in my hand. As Avery clasped her hand over mine, I turned to her and smiled. As she smiled in return, I came to realize whatever happened, we could get through this. Together.

SYDNEY I stood on the root of the tree and stared up past the branches and into the sky. The longer I gazed off into the sea of blue, the more relaxed I became. I released the trunk, crossed my arms, and took a deep breath. “Don’t…” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I took another shallow breath and bellowed toward the sky. “You…Dare!” I sat down on the tree’s large root and closed my eyes. As much as I felt I could say, I decided those three words summed up my feelings. I opened my eyes and stood. “Is that it?” Avery asked. “Yep, that’s all I’ve got to say,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. “You?” As I stepped from the tree’s root and turned toward the car, Avery walked past me and climbed onto the base of the tree. I stopped and gazed her direction. After wiping her eyes and tossing her hair over her shoulder, she cupped her hands to her mouth and tilted her head back. “What she said!” she screamed. As we walked toward the car together, I began to feel as if she was the sister I never had; but always wanted. Regardless of the outcome, if we continued to lean on each other, we’d be twice as strong as if we were alone. “I think he’ll be alright,” Avery said.

Without speaking, I turned to face her and raised my eyebrows. She shrugged her shoulders. “Devil looks after his own.” For that moment in time, I wondered just who it was who had possession of Cambio Todelli’s soul. Regardless of the outcome, and even if he fully recovered, I realized I may never know the answer.

SYDNEY “The bullet impacted his left clavicle, causing a group III fracture on the medial third. It then took a downward path and in doing so, grazed the top of the left lung. The resulting collapsed lung was treated by releasing the pressure in the chest cavity, allowing the lung to expand. Although the tear in the tissue of the lung was small, we weren’t pleased with his immediate recovery from the pneumothorax, or collapsed lung. After consultation with several of the doctors, a chemical pleurodesis was performed. This procedure introduces chemicals through a chest drain, and is typically an extremely painful one. The chemicals cause irritation between the parietal and visceral layers of the pleura; which closes off the space between them and prevents further fluid from accumulating. In a sense, we’re attempting to force the hole in his lung to heal from a result of the chemical irritation.” “I see, so a broken collarbone and a collapsed lung. Is it typical for a patient with these types of injuries to be comatose?” I asked. He sighed heavily. “I’ve learned in my many years of practice that nothing is typical.” “Having said that, to provide you with an answer, I’ll offer this…” He paused and glanced down at his clipboard. “Sometimes our mind, body, or spirit needs a well-deserved rest. Everyone reacts differently to the same exposures or injuries. Am I surprised in his condition? Yes, and no. I would say a more accurate answer will be able to be given within a few days. He’s a former Marine, and from what his friends have shared, he’s a true fighter. Let’s allow him to continue to fight, and see what changes we see in the next few days.” “Anything more?” he asked. I looked up from the floor and shook my head. “No, Sir. Thank you for taking the time to explain.”

He nodded his head and turned away. The smell of the sterile hospital reminded me of the nurse’s station at the orphanage. As uncomfortable as the facility made me feel, I turned toward the corridor and began walking down the hallway and toward Toad’s room. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally stood outside his room. I stared at the number on the wall beside the door. 724. Unlike other hospital rooms I had been in, the room’s wall facing the hallway was glass. Curtains were partially drawn across the glass wall, but the open door allowed me to see inside. Otis, Avery, and who I assumed was Axton stood beside the bed. The nurse explained three people were the maximum amount of visitor’s allowed, and although their policy included only family as approved visitors, they had and would make an exception for Toad and his family. I drew a shallow breath and walked through the door. Immediately Otis turned to face me. “Hey Syd, I’m glad you could make it.” “Me too,” I whispered as he reached out and gave me a hug. Something about Otis was extremely comforting. As big as he was, and as intimidating as most probably perceived him, I saw right through the façade and into a heart of gold. As he held me against his side with one arm, I exhaled and leaned against him, pressing my face into his side. As Avery turned to face me, so did the man beside her. The name on his cut and the President patch revealed he was in fact who I suspected. Axton nodded his head. “Avery and I will go on down, she needs to get something to eat. I’m glad you’re here, Sydney. I appreciate you coming with Avery.” It was immediately apparent why he was the president of the club. His mere presence and the fact he looked mean even when he smiled would deter the earth’s toughest men, causing them to think twice before crossing him. A few days growth of beard did little to hide his well sculpted face and natural good looks. His eyes and aura advised me to keep my distance. With her arm around Axton’s waist, Avery nodded her head as they walked past. I smiled at Axton and patted her on the back as they stepped around Otis and me. After they exited the room, I released Otis, walked toward the bed, and looked down at a man who appeared to be dead or awfully close to it. With tubes in his chest, throat, and each arm, he appeared to be more mechanical than human. After a few

seconds of studying him, I turned toward Otis. “So what happened?” I whispered. “Well,” he paused and began rubbing his temples. “We uhhm, we went to this meeting…he told you what that was about, didn’t he?” I nodded my head. He lowered his hands and gazed down at my feet as he began to speak. “So we were all out in front of the building standing by our bikes and waiting on Axton to come out. Toad spent the entire fucking time we were out there staring across the street at some car. Biscuit starts giving him shit, calling him paranoid for worrying about whatever this guy in the car was doing; but there was something about this car and the guy in it that made him uncomfortable. I don’t know if you know it or not, but the man has some kind of sixth sense about shit going down.” Although Otis had yet to make eye contact, I nodded my head as I continued to listen. “So, we’re all just standing and talking, and Axton and some other fellas come walking out. It ends up one of these local fellas of this new Austin chapter is an old Marine friend of Toad’s. So when he walks out of the building and Toad see’s this guy, he all but loses control. Ends up this guy saved Toad’s life in some epic battle in Iraq, and all these years Toad thought he was dead. After Toad gets introduced to everyone else, he turns and makes an announcement to the fellas on who this guy is.” He hesitated and took a few steps to his left. “So Toad’s standing here,” he said as he pointed down at his feet. “And we’re all standing about where you are, kind of in a line by our bikes. And all of a sudden the car from across the street pulls in the fucking parking lot. Hell, I didn’t notice it, but I heard Toad. He’s starts saying shit to Axton, trying to…trying to uhhm…he was trying to get him to move…you know…move out of the way.” He shook his head as his voice began to convey his emotion. He shifted his gaze up from the floor and looked around the room for a moment. As his eyes met mine, he continued. “You know, it uhhm, it all makes sense now, but all this shit went down pretty fucking quick, Syd. And at the time…” He raised his hands to his head again, and began to almost frantically rub his temples. “At the time

I wasn’t really paying fucking attention. I don’t know, it was hot and I was ready to get the fuck out of there.” As I stood in the uncomfortable silence and waited for him to continue, the sound of the monitor beeping became more and more prominent. “Okay, so this car pulls up, and uhhm….he pulls up, and Toad’s trying to warn Axe…he’s saying shit to Axe, and I uhhm. I’m standing there and it’s all slow motion. Like slowly coming into focus, fuck I don’t know how to describe it. So the fucking guy pulls…he uhhm, he pulls out a…” Seeing Otis in this condition did me no good whatsoever. For the entire 10 hour drive to Texas, I reserved hope Toad wasn’t really as bad as Avery had indicated. Now seeing Otis, and having him in an emotional state where he was almost incapable of speaking made me realize just how delicate of a situation this actually was. I stared down at his boots as I waited for him to continue. “Okay. So he pulls out a piece, you know, a pistol, and points the motherfucker out the window…” “Oh my God,” I interrupted. “Yeah. You got it. So Toad’s trying to warn Slice and his Marine buddy, A-Train. And this prick says hey motherfucker, remember me? So it’s still slow motion like. And I watched him….I uhhm watched…so Toad see’s the piece, and he jumps between the gun and Axton and the A-Train fella, and then there’s this explosion…” I felt as if I was going to vomit. Hearing him say it made everything seem all too real. I realized I was crying. Without speaking I reached for my cheeks and wiped the tears with my index fingers. Eventually Otis continued with the most gut wrenching part of the story. “So it ends up the guy….he uhhm…he and the Marine had a beef a while back, but no one realized this was the guy until it was too fucking late.” As he finished speaking, I realized my mouth was covered with my hands. I moved my hands to my side, turned toward Toad, and exhaled a breath I had no doubt been holding for the entire conversation. “And the guy? Did they catch him?” I asked over my shoulder. “Well, one of the fellas with this Marine buddy of Toad’s was some big mean bald headed son-ofa-bitch. He boxes and street fights for a living; the cat’s name’s Ripp. So this Ripp fucker hops on his bike

and shoots out chasing after this bastard before we even know what the fuck’s going on. Hell we’re all in shock and trying to keep Toad from…you know…from bleeding…from uhhm bleeding to death…” He reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Okay, so we find out later this crazy fucking Ripp chases the guy down until he gets caught in Austin’s afternoon traffic. When he does, Ripp dumps his bike on the highway, jumps off, and busts this guy’s window out with the butt of his fucking pocket knife. Then, he pulls this fucker out and beats on him till the cops get there. Only reason Ripp doesn’t get shot, is because this dumb fuck tossed his piece out on the highway.” “But they’ve got him?” I asked. “What’s left of him. Apparently Ripp didn’t do him any good. Cops were up here earlier taking statements. Said the guy’s a career criminal. Some guy on the highway saw him toss the piece, and they’ve got it. So they said he’ll probably get life in prison in this state, Texas doesn’t fuck around. Anyway, the cop said he actually saw this guy and he looked like he’d been in a head on collision with a train.” “Holy shit, this is just crazy. So Toad got shot on purpose? He literally jumped in front of the gun to save his Marine friend?” I asked. Otis nodded his head as he rubbed his temples. “There’s uuhm, there’s more.” As he began to speak, his blank stare warned me of the significance of what he was about to say. When he continued, my eyes became unfocused as I listened to his voice. “So, we’re waiting on the ambulance, and Toad’s uhhm, he’s uhhm…he’s sinking fast, Syd. He’s uhhm…he’s going in and out of consciousness. Fucking A-Train’s holding him in his arms, telling him a chopper is on the way. Medevac’s en route he tells him. Fucking medevac’s en route. So Toad opens his eyes and looks up at the Marine, you know, the one who saved his life in Iraq, and he…he uhhm…he opens them again, and we’re all standing there…knowing he’s fucking dying, Syd. We uhhm, we could see it. We could…we could hear it. His…oh fuck…his lungs…they were full of blood…and he’s trying to just say something. The motherfucker…” He hesitated, lifted his hands to his face, and wiped his eyes. “He was trying to talk. And he’s uhhm gurgling. And he keeps trying. And he finally opens his eyes again and he uhhm…”

“He uhhm, he opens his eyes and looks at A-Train and says…we’re even…” I couldn’t face Otis. Not in the condition he was in. As big and as tough as he was, he’d reached his limit in telling me his version of what happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn to face the door. I turned toward Toad and began to cry. His heroic act, and the statement he made to his Marine friend, at least in my opinion, summed up just exactly who Cambio Todelli was. A man long since removed from war who continued to fight his own inner battles with what he believed was good, what was evil, and where specifically he should stand. To me his choices were clear. He stood precisely where he believed he should; in between evil and the unsuspecting or innocent recipient. “Can I uhhm. Would you give me a minute, you know, alone with him?” I asked as I stared down at the bed. “Sure, Cafeteria’s on the uhhm, it’s on the first floor. Take this elevator down, go left then left again, can’t miss it. I’ll head down there. We’ll all wait for you,” he said as he gripped my shoulder softly with his hand. I glanced around the empty room and wiped the tears from my face. After moving to the left side of the bed, I gazed down at Toad. I cupped my hands around his. I rubbed my hands softly along his palm and fingers, attempted to warm his cold fingertips as I began to whisper. “My entire life I wanted one thing and one thing only, to have a family; but all I ever had was a brother. My brother was taken from me, leaving me nothing. I met you, and as strange as it may seem, you offered me a family. You, Junior, Junior’s mother, the girls at your restaurant, Avery, and even Otis. All of these people are in my life because of you. I’ve never been happier than I was yesterday. Not that I can remember. And today, I’m in more pain than I have ever felt.” I stood, looked around the room, leaned over, and rested my face beside his. I placed my hand on his shoulder, and my mouth against his ear. “I need you to do something for me, Cambio,” I whispered into his ear. “Not for you, for me. I need you here. Here in my life. Your time here is not done. Not even close. I need you to come back, Cambio. Not for you, for me, Capisce?” I said as I nervously patted his shoulder. I didn’t speak Italian, but I knew one word; the same one everyone else did from watching any mafia movie. I thought it might make him comfortable hearing something in his native dialect.

I stood and wiped the tears from my eyes. Looking at him lying in the bed was difficult. Filled with tubes and covered in a mass of wires, he appeared weak. Nothing could be further from the truth. Cambio Todelli laid before me as a war hero, a hero to his friends, his brothers, and a hero to me. Without hesitation, he had forfeited his life to save the life or lives of his brothers. Regardless of his rugged exterior and tough façade, he was truly an unselfish man, always willing to give. Feeling as if I had done all I could do, I leaned down and kissed his forehead. After lingering for a long moment, I raised my head and gazed down at his face. Much to my surprise, his cheek twitched. Then it twitched again. And slowly, his eyes opened.

SYDNEY Whatever we are currently feeling will naturally be compared to feelings we’ve had in the past. Our previous feelings are used as a baseline or means of comparison. As we live life, we experience more, and inevitably feel throughout the process. Based on what experiences life offers, and what we feel as a result of this exposure, our baseline is constantly moving. The most pain and the greatest joy I had ever felt was a result of having met Cambio Todelli, and both feelings were felt in the same day, within a few minutes of one another. The severity of the pain felt caused the joy I was now feeling to be that much sweeter. “Oh my God,” I gasped. I raised my shaking hands to my face. Past my quivering lips I began to try to explain. “Okay, oh God. They’ve got your arms tied down, so you can’t move. And there’s a tube down your throat, so you can’t talk.” “Uhhm. Let’s see. Uhhm. Can you hear me? Blink your eyes if you can hear me,” I babbled. He blinked once. I almost peed my pants. “Okay, once for yes, twice for no. Do you know where you are?” I blurted. After a short pause, he blinked twice. “Do you remember what happened?” He blinked twice.

“Do you know who you are?” He blinked once. “Do you know who I am?” He blinked once. Thank God. My mind was racing, and my thoughts were all jumbled. I realized I needed to call for a doctor, and let all of the fellas know he was awake, but I deeply desired at least a few seconds alone with him. I wanted to be the one who told him what happened. I wanted to be the first person he actually spoke to, even if it was in a manner that was unconventional. For this particular moment, I was selfish, and I needed to be alone with him. “You were at a meeting, and a man pulled up in a car with a gun. He had a beef with a former Marine friend of yours. He pulled the gun, and you dove in front of it. He uhhm, he shot you. But you saved the life of your Marine friend, and probably Axton too,” I softly sobbed. He stared at me for a considerable amount of time, and eventually blinked his eyes once. “I should probably get a doctor,” I blubbered as I wiped the tears from my cheeks. He blinked twice. “Uhhm, everyone’s downstairs in the cafeteria. You want me to call them up here?” I whispered. He blinked twice. “Okay…uhhm.” I stood nervously and considered what to say. Instead of speaking legibly and intelligently I simply began babbling. “I know this might sound weird or creepy, but I hope not. I realize you’ve only been gone for two days, and I don’t really see you every day anyway, but knowing you were actually gone, like out of town gone, I uhhm. I’ve missed you. Like a lot.” He blinked once.

He must be delirious. “You missed me too?” I asked as I pointed to my chest. He blinked once. How quickly things change. I now had a new best feeling I had ever felt. And I was feeling it at that moment as I stood and admired one of the most interesting men I had ever met. Without speaking, and full of emotion, I stepped to the edge of the bed, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. As I slowly stood, I gazed into his eyes. And he blinked once.

TOAD As we all must have something to believe in, it comes as no surprise that the majority of people on this earth believe in a God of their choosing. And, as humans, at some point in time we develop doubt. An event or situation in our life which we feel is beyond acceptable for a higher power to place before us causes us to question his very existence. I no longer wonder, I know. For an immeasurable amount of time, in a place words can’t accurately describe, I existed. In his presence, and under his care, I remained until I was released back through the tunnel onto earth. There was no fear, no feelings, no time, and no material existence. Not certain if I would ever describe it as a spiritual existence, I felt strangely comfortable. I was there. Not a spirit, apparition, or ghost, but me. When I returned, I returned with knowledge and an understanding that I had either lived a life acceptable to God or he was far more forgiving than I would have ever imagined. “How’s the pain today?” A-Train asked. “Unbearable, but I’ll manage,” I responded. “Well, the doc said it’s a pretty painful recovery.” “He’s sure as fuck right, this is awful,” I said. “Be a lot better if you’d take your pain medication,” he said.

I shook my head and sat up in the recliner as I ratcheted the back into a more erect position. “I’m not getting strung out on that shit. It’s been two weeks, I don’t need it. I’ll be fine.” “Well, only you know how much pain you can stand. If you need it, I’ve got it in the kitchen,” he said as he placed a bowl of oatmeal and some ham on the table beside the chair. I looked down at the plate and nodded my head. “Appreciate it.” “Eat that shit. The fellas will be over here before long, maybe we can sit out on the back deck and enjoy the sun for a while before it gets too damned hot,” he said as he walked toward the large glass doors that opened onto the back deck. As he parted the blinds, the sun filled the room. I turned toward the windows and shook my head. “It’s too fucking early for all that light, Brother. Damn.” “The sun’s up. Anyone sleeps past sunrise is either a lazy motherfucker or a criminal. Get up and eat your chow,” he grunted. Leaving me in A-Train’s care was probably the best choice the fellas could have made. Without a doubt, he wouldn’t cut me any slack, would make sure I ate properly, slept plenty, and didn’t get depressed about my slow recovery. To be honest, I knew I would never become depressed. I did, however, look forward to the arrival of the upcoming weekend. If for some reason it didn’t happen, I may slowly sink into a mild state of aggravation. Not having my phone left me without a means of communicating with all of the people who were important to me. Knowing Sydney was scheduled to spend the weekend with me kept me sane, at least for now. “So, what day is it,” I asked as I reached for the oatmeal. “It’s fucking Friday. Yesterday was Thursday, remember? You sure you don’t have mild brain damage?” he said over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen. “I couldn’t remember, I was hoping it was, though,” I said as I spooned the oatmeal into my mouth. “Slow down, you’re eating that shit like a starving hostage. You know it doesn’t matter when you get done with it, Sydney won’t be here until late tonight,” he said as he sat down on the couch. “I know, I just need to eat and get showered before the fellas get here. I can’t believe you three live next to each other,” I said as I placed the empty bowl on the table and grabbed a piece of ham.

“Dekk’s as good of a fella as any Marine you’ll ever know. Hell, after he got his first big paycheck, he built a new fucking gym and these three houses. Crazy fucker donated the money to build a school too, right behind us. It’ll be a while before his son’s ready for school, but when he is, it’ll be right there,” he said as he pointed toward the back deck. As I bit into the ham, I heard the lock on the front door turn. Surprised, I turned to face the door. It opened, revealing Ripp, a drop-dead gorgeous brunette, and a little girl. After the door was wide open, and they were inside the house, Ripp turned around and knocked on the door. “Time to wake the fuck up,” he hollered. “Michael Allen Ripton,” The brunette snapped as she nodded her head toward the little girl. “He never knocks,” A-Train explained as he stood from the couch. “Toad, this is my wife Vee, and my little girl Jessie,” Ripp said as he slowly walked into the house with the little girl holding his hand. “Nice to meet you,” I said as I stood. I wiped my hand against my sweats and began walking her direction. As she gripped my hand and shook it, she nodded her head and smiled. “Pleasure’s mine. And thank you for your service. After getting to know A-Train, I’m a softie for a Marine. I’m just glad you’re finally out of the hospital,” she said. “So am I,” I agreed. “And if it wasn’t for your husband here, the guy who shot me would still be running around shooting people.” “Oh, believe me,” she said, coughing out a laugh as she spoke. “Pulling that guy out of the car and beating the crap out of him was nothing…” “Why do you say that?” I asked. “Believe me, he’s done far worse,” she said. “Mind if I tell him?” A-Train asked. “Not at all,” Vee responded.

I lowered myself into the recliner and grabbed my half-eaten piece of ham. As I relaxed into the chair, Ripp sat down beside A-Train and sighed. “You see, you and Ripp are a lot alike.” A-Train paused and exchanged glances between Ripp and I. “What I’ve learned about Toad since he’s been here is that you two are damned near twins.” “How you figure, Bro?” Ripp asked as he propped his right sneaker onto his left thigh. “Well, Toad’s lived his life as a whore, just like you. He’s spent his days fucking women and has never been in a relationship with one. Swears he doesn’t mistreat them, because they sign on for his sexual punishment when he gives them some long stretched out speech about how he’s only fucking them, and never going to actually love them.” A-Train paused and glanced in my direction. I rolled my eyes. “Sound familiar?” A-Train asked as he glanced toward Ripp. “I’m taking her onto the deck,” Vee sighed as she picked up the little girl. “Ain’t no shame in fuckin’ bitches. I spent a long time fuckin’ a whole bunch of ‘em,” Ripp said. “But when I met Vee, it was all over.” “That’s not exactly what I was going to tell him,” A-Train interrupted. Ripp’s face contorted and he threw his hands in the air. “What the fuck was you gonna tell him?” A-Train stood and walked to the loveseat across from the couch. As he sat down, he responded. “I was going to tell him about your court battle. You know, how you had a life changing experience, and after it, how you recovered.” Ripp shook his head and pointed at me. “He got fucking shot, dude. I just had some asshole pull a gun on me.” I took the last bite of my ham and waited anxiously for the story. “Let’s hear it,” I said as I relaxed into the recliner. “Well, this is kind of personal, and I know it goes without saying, but this stays here,” A-Train explained as he leaned forward on the couch.

“Did you forget who the fuck you’re talking to?” I snapped. “Just had to say it, Brother,” A-Train responded. “My girlfriend, Katie, is Ripp’s sister. She got raped a while back.” He hesitated and took a shallow breath. “Damn, I’m sorry did…” I began. He raised his hand in the air. “Just let me finish.” I nodded my head and swallowed heavily. To me, the thought of someone raping a woman wasn’t much different than what the child molester did to the children. I’d line up every rapist and do the same thing to them I did to the child molester. There was no place on the earth I lived in for anyone who did those types of things to women and children. Frustrated at the thought of A-Train’s girlfriend and Ripps’ sister being raped, I sat quietly and waited for the rest of the story. “So this was before she and I were seeing each other seriously. Ripp finds out what happened, and he takes off in his car damned near like he did the day you got shot. Hell, we had no idea what was going on, because although Katie told him, she hadn’t told anyone else. Ripp goes to this guy’s house, and knocks on the door. At this point, he’s got it in his mind he was going to toss this asshole in the trunk and haul him to the police station.” A-Train paused and turned toward Ripp. “Let me tell it, Bro,” Ripp said as he moved his shoe from his thigh, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward. A-Train nodded his head. “Fine, tell it.” “So there’s the version I told in court. Ripp paused and looked around the room. “And the real version. This is the real version.” “This fuck-bubble raped my sister. We’re all at Sunday dinner at my folk’s house, and she gets upset and jumps up from the table in tears. I went to see what was wrong, and she told me what this guy did to her. I hopped in my car and hauled ass to this fucker’s house. You see, I knew this fuck-tard because he used to date her. When I knock on the door, he opens it with a fuckin’ Glock in his hand. And, because he thinks he’s got ol’ Ripp right where he wants him, he admits to raping her and a few other girls. Now I don’t know all this whappitty-whap gun snatchin’ shit you Marines know, but I been in a fight or two.” He paused, flexed his biceps, and kissed each one independently.

“So I hauled off and hit this fuck-nugget with a right cross to his forearm. The pistol falls to the floor, and I get this asshole in a choke hold and start choking him out. Now, although I was originally goin’ to take this piece of shit to the police station, at this point, takin’ him anywhere is the furthest thing from my mind. I squeeze a little harder, and a little harder,” he hesitated and stood from his seat. “And snap! I break this prick’s neck like a twig,” he said as he turned his palms up and widened his eyes. “You broke his neck? You fucking killed him?” I asked as I sat up in my seat. He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. “Deader’n a fuckin’ mackerel. Right there on his porch. So I sat down beside him, pulled my phone out of my shorts, and called Vee. I said, you better get ready, ‘cause we’re headed to court. I just killed a motherfucker.” Somewhat dumbfounded, I shook my head. “Vee’s a heartless bitch, so I knew everything was gonna be fine. So, they arrest me and charge me with murder. And when we go to court, she makes fools of these bastards, and I get found not guilty. She’s the best fucking attorney in the great state of Texas,” he explained. “Wait, she’s an attorney?” I asked as I tilted my head toward the deck. “Sure as fuck is. Damned fine one too,” Ripp said. A-Train stood from his seat. “Alright, so my point was going to be this…” “I realize I don’t know what you’ve been up to since I saw you last, but there’s no one, and I do mean no one who was more of a whore than Ripp. And now? He’s found the woman of his dreams, and he’s happier than ever. You have any regrets, Ripp?” A-Train asked as he gazed Ripp’s direction. “Fuck no, dude. You know that,” Ripp said as he sat down. “So, there’s nothing to be afraid of. If you want to get to know this girl, get to know her. And if you’re afraid of being in a relationship, don’t be. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be, and if it’s not, it won’t.” ATrain said. As I attempted to sit up in my chair, a sharp pain shot from my shoulder through my neck. My broken clavicle continued to remind me it was going to be a long time before I would be able to ride again; yet another fear in my list of many.

“Let’s say she feels the same way I do, but I don’t even know if that’s the case. Let’s just say it is. Well, I’m afraid I’m going to fuck it up. I’ve never done this, and hell I hate to say it, but I might not even be able to perform. I’m telling you, my head’s a wreck, Brother. For the last five years or so, I couldn’t even get my cock hard unless I was tying some bitch up or choking her. Being in a real relationship might not ever work,” I explained. Ripp slapped his hand against his knee, and turned to face me. “Bro, tell me about it. I couldn’t even get it up if I wasn’t getting’ rough with a bitch. My cock wasn’t interested if there wasn’t some really good shit goin’ on. Now? Shit, it’s weird, but now I’m good to go. I think it’s all about when you get comfortable with someone. I’m comfortable with Vee, so it’s all good.” “Let’s just say I’ve had the same concerns. I think you’ll find just about every combat Marine has. I don’t have them any longer, and I’ll leave it at that,” A-Train said. “I don’t know, I hate to think about going after this chick, getting up to the plate, and I don’t even have a fucking bat to swing,” I groaned as I leaned forward in the chair. A-Train laughed as he picked up the plate from the table beside me. “Well, I can tell you this for sure. Damned near every man on this earth sooner or later settles down with a woman. It doesn’t make you less of a man to let a woman into your life or heart. Your fears are valid, but I’m afraid they’re probably a little inaccurate. If I were to guess, I’d say you’re afraid of change. Don’t be. Regardless of what your one percenter brothers tell you, having a woman in your life doesn’t make you a pussy. Two of the meanest, toughest motherfuckers to ever grace this earth are Dekk and Ripp, and they’re both married with kids. And ol’ Ripp here still gets in a fist fight damned near every time he swallows a couple beers.” “True story,” Ripp said. “Did settling down with Vee change who you are?” I asked. Ripp stood, shook his head and walked to the kitchen. After grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, he opened it, took a drink, and walked back to his seat. “Let me ask you a question, Bro,” he said. “Alright,” I responded as I attempted to get comfortable. “If you go out in the country and find a wolf, bring it home, and feed it Purina Dog Chow, will it turn into a good pet?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” I responded. He shook his head and tilted the bottle of beer toward me. “It sure won’t.” He tipped up the bottle and drank about half the beer in one gulp. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand he continued. “I’ll tell you why. Because no matter what you do with that wolf, he’ll always be a wolf; and you can’t ever change that. We are who we are, Bro. You’ll always be you. Adding a woman to your life just means there’s going to be someone there by your side to enjoy watching you be yourself.” I sat and gazed at Ripp. A matter of weeks before, I had judged him based on his clothing, choice of shoes, and bold in-your-face presence. Hell, until A-Train introduced him, I wasn’t even willing to give him the satisfaction of having me shake his hand. Now that I had taken some time to get to know him, it was apparent he was as solid of a man as any of my brothers in the club. Although he had a different approach than most, the advice he provided seemed to make perfect sense. I just needed to determine if Sydney was as interested in getting to know the real me as I was in having her do so.

SYDNEY I’ve heard many people say when you’re at the bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up. I suppose there’s some truth to that statement, but it isn’t necessarily always accurate. Some can simply stay at the bottom and never recover, wallowing in the depression, pity and angst associated with being where they are. Having been at the bottom, and now hovering somewhere near the top, I was able to look down and realize the distance I had traveled was remarkable. Keeping my vision clear enough to continue to accurately see the pit from which I so desperately dug myself from was of the utmost importance. It remained a constant reminder of what could be. I stared into my glass of wine, took a sip, and tilted the glass in my hand as I watched the wine shift from side-to-side. “So why did you sign the name Cambio?” “You know, to my brothers in the club, I’m Toad. Hell, half of them probably don’t even know my actual name. I’m good with that. I don’t really care if anyone in that little town knows my name, but I have one and I like it; I was named after my grandfather. I guess there comes a point in time when we all need to take a step back and become who we really are for just a minute…” As he paused, his finger pressed against the glass of wine, moving it from in front of my face to the side. My focus immediately shifted from the glass of wine to his face. He grinned, gripped the glass in his fingers, and pushed it down onto the table. “I think I wanted you to see me as Cambio, at least while you were reading what I wrote,” he said as he released the glass of wine. I nodded my head lightly and lifted the glass without thinking, glancing at it as I did. His hand immediately pressed against the stem, pushing it back into place. I shifted my gaze toward him and grinned.

“Got it, glass stays on the table,” I said with a grin. “The glass needs to stay where it doesn’t obstruct your face. I don’t care what you do with it; I’m tired of trying to look through it. I want to look at you, I waited all week for this,” he said as he leaned forward. I pushed the glass of wine to the side, pressed my forearms against the edge of the table, and leaned forward. “Well, I liked it. I liked that you signed your actual name, and not Toad. I think that was the turning point for me, when I read that. I read it several times, wondering exactly what you meant. We’re a funny breed.” He leaned into his chair and winced from the apparent pain in his shoulder. “I don’t even know if I’ve known who I actually was until all of this happened. I know who I used to be, but I’m not real sure of just who the fuck I’ve been for the last ten years. That war fucked me up a lot more than I ever thought it did. I’ve been wandering around since I got home feeling guilty for having lived through it. I’ve been running from place to place and person to person trying to make up for something I didn’t need to make up for. I don’t guess it really matters, but I’m not sure if it was finding out Staff Sergeant Jacob was actually alive, or the fact I took that bullet, but one of those two things gave me a huge relief. All of that guilt I’ve been living with is gone.” As much as I felt sorry for him, or anyone else who was exposed to the violence and death associated with fighting in a war, I was intrigued by the complexities of it all. The human mind’s capacity, or lack thereof, to process events or feelings attached to something as simple and natural as living. Cambio had spent almost a decade feeling guilty for living through the war. Now, after having learned that a fellow Marine who he assumed had died actually had lived, his guilt faded into nothing. I knew one thing if I knew nothing else; the new Cambio was a man I had great interest in being with. Although he acted differently toward me now, and had officially asked me out on a future date, I wondered what he wanted, expected, and hoped for. No differently than I expect any other woman would be, I wanted more definition to what it was we were doing, and what to expect in the future. For fear of scaring him away, I treaded lightly and hoped he would simply provide the answers as I muddled through our conversations. Well, either that or just kiss me. He gazed beyond me, and his eyes became distant. After a moment, he began to speak softly. “Back to what we were talking about earlier, I never told you, but I had uhhm. I was riding out by the lake and there was this puppy in the ditch. Crows were all gathered around him, and I slowed down to keep from hitting them. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and stopped. He’d been shot several times, but he was still alive. He looked like someone had used him for fighting. I loaded him up, hauled ass to Wichita,

and took him to the vet. I picked out a collar for the little guy, and waited for them to get him stitched up and ready to come home. When the vet came out and told me he didn’t make it, I lost it. Something in me snapped. I do think there’s a point where death is a necessary evil, and it always will be, but someone killing a puppy was different. When I got out to my bike, I realized my blood covered shirt was still in the vet, and my cut was covered in blood. I didn’t come to your house to get cleaned up, I came there for… well, I came there for…” A puppy. The blood on his cut was from a puppy. As my eyes began to well with tears, I leaned forward and reached for the center of the table. He gazed down at the table and raised his hand from his lap. Slowly, his hand moved across the table until it met mine, encompassed my fingers, and provided me with a comfort only he could provide. “Comfort,” he said. “I came there for comfort.” It seemed odd. Although I had just made the chalkboard about passing judgement, when he arrived on that particular day, I made assumptions about the blood on his cut, and how it probably got there. My suspicions about the origin of the blood were solely based on who he was and what I suspected he was involved in. For even the most caring of souls, not passing judgement is often difficult. Relieved to find out what had actually happened, but now feeling sorrow toward him for entirely new reasons, I held his hand and fought not to cry. “So as soon as I can ride out of here, you’re going to do that? Go out with me?” he asked as he squeezed my hand. I glanced up from the table and nodded my head like a child who’d been asked if he wanted a second helping of ice cream. “Yes. Yes, I am. Will. Absolutely.” “How much longer?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said as he released my hand. “My lung is down to a dull steady pain. My shoulder’s a different story. It hurts to lift my arm, shower, cough, damn near any quick movement kills me. I can’t even hold it out in front of me, I damned sure can’t ride home.” “What about riding home in my car, and maybe taking your bike home on a trailer?” I said as I reached for my wine. “Not going to happen. Only time that bike’ll be on a trailer is if it’s broke down. If I can’t ride, I’ll

just go down and do a swan dive off of that bridge downtown and end it all. Sorry,” he growled. “Just a suggestion. So why aren’t you wearing your sling?” “I don’t fucking like it,” he snapped. I shrugged my shoulders. “Might speed things up.” “I look like a pussy when I wear it,” he said as he positioned his left arm across his chest, mimicking the position of the sling. I guess I shouldn’t expect a biker, Marine, and the Sergeant at Arms of a Motorcycle Club to act any differently. He was his own person, and he had his pride, whether I agreed with his decisions or not. Being my selfish self, I was ready to start this going on a date thing just as soon as we were able. Coming down to Austin on a weekend every other week left me for the time in between doing nothing but counting the minutes until I hopped in my car and held my breath for another ten hour drive. It all seemed too good to be true, and I wanted to take the next step. “You could stay here,” he said. I glanced around the large concrete deck and down at the swimming pool. As much as I’d love to stay with three overly wealthy and extremely gracious boxer/bikers while I waited for him to recover from his broken collar bone, I couldn’t. I desperately needed to work and earn the money to pay rent and provide what little furnishings I needed for my new home. I shook my head and laughed lightly. “I can’t, I have to work, you know that.” He grinned and raised his index finger in the air. “I’m the boss, I’ll give you time off with pay. A vacation.” I shook my head. “I can’t accept that. It’s a handout, and it wouldn’t be fair to the other girls. Just get better as soon as you can, and we’ll go from there.” “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to introduce you to my wife,” a voice said from behind me. As Cambio stood from his seat, I pushed my chair from the table and turned toward the voice. A very attractive man wearing a hoodie was standing with an adorable blonde woman at his side. As he brushed the hood from his head, he wrapped his arm over her shoulder and playfully pulled her into his chest. As he did, she pushed against him with her hands, leaned back, and slapped his shoulder with her

hand. “Stop it Shane, quit goofing around. Hi, I’m Kace, Shane’s wife. He’s the idiot wearing the hoodie in this heat,” she said as she slapped his back. “It’s like his security blanket. I got him to quit wearing it for almost a year, and now that all these new people are around, he’s back to his old tricks,” she said as she held her hand out. I wiped my hand on my shorts and shook her hand. After studying the man in the hoodie, I remembered seeing him at the hospital with the big bald guy. The visit to the hospital had become nothing more than a big blur for me, but I was fairly certain he was the same person. “Nice to meet you, Kace. You’re adorable, and I love that dress,” I said as I shook her hand. “Thanks, I like it. Vee and I were shopping, sorry but I didn’t know when you were going to get here, so I didn’t rush home. Vee and I shop a lot to get away from these three oversized children. Don’t ever marry a boxer or a Marine, they’re like big kids. Hi Toad, how’s the shoulder,” she said without taking a breath. Toad cleared his throat as she finished speaking. “Just a little sore, and what? Did you forget I was a Marine?” She pressed her hands into her hips, glanced at Shane, and turned toward Toad. “Nope.” I like this girl, she’s spunky. She smiled. “Who else came with you?” I stood there admiring Kace’s shoes. As she spoke, I quickly looked up and alternated glances between her and Cambio. “Just me. Otis is going to ride down tomorrow. Oh, and I almost forgot, Otis is bringing your phone.” Cambio rolled his eyes and nodded his head. I grinned, shrugged, and shifted my gaze to Kace. She was roughly five feet tall, blonde, and absolutely gorgeous. Outfitted in a tangerine summer dress and sandals with leather straps that tied around her ankles, she was dressed the way I used to dress and hoped to one day dress again. One day when I could afford it. “And I think we met at the hospital when I came down, the day he uhhm. The day he uhhm, the day

he woke up,” I muttered as I held my hand toward Shane. He nodded his head and smiled, revealing very prominent dimples. “We did, nice to see you again, ma’am.” Ma’am? Must be a proper southern boy. “Do you mind if we sit?” Kace asked. “Not at all, hell it’s your house,” Toad said as he sat down. I turned, glanced toward the house, and down at the pool below. “Oh, this is your place? I love it. The pool, the deck, the house, it’s beautiful. We just walked over from A-Train’s, I didn’t know which one of you owned this one.” Simultaneously, Shane and Kace pulled chairs away from the table and sat side-by-side. As Kace sat, she flipped her hair over her shoulder, picked up my glass of wine, sniffed it, and began babbling as she carefully placed it in front of me. “Thanks. Shane makes a lot of money from beating people up. Isn’t that funny? He punches people in the face and they give him sacks of money for doing it. He bought this after he won the championship. Ripp and A-Train, the other two idiots, live on each side of us, and we’re in the middle. Is that Mascato? I want a glass,” Kace blurted as she waved her hand toward the house. “It is, I brought it from A-Train’s,” I explained. “I can get you one.” She tilted her head toward Shane, but kept her eyes fixed on mine. “No, you stay here, I like talking to you.” She turned to face Shane and stared. Shane stood from his seat and motioned toward Cambio and me. “I’ll get it, Kace. You need anything else?” We both shook our heads. As Shane pulled the hood over his head and began walking toward ATrains house, I turned toward Kace and grinned. “I don’t always treat him like this, but he’s in trouble,” she said flatly.

I raised my eyebrows and responded in a somewhat sarcastic tone. “Oh really?’ “Yep. I was pregnant and he hopped on his bike and disappeared for a few months. Rode around the country beating up people in bars while I was home alone wondering where he was. Didn’t call, didn’t text, nothing. He was just beating up random people trying to decide if he should come home or not. A-Train found him down by Mexico somewhere and made him come back. He didn’t tell me that part at first, I thought he came home on his own. I just found out the other day, after this happened,” she responded. “Oh wow, how long ago was that?” I asked, clearly seeing she was far from pregnant. “I don’t know. It was with our first, maybe a little more than a year ago,” she responded flatly. Surprised she had produced any children and looked the way she did, I quickly responded. “You’ve had children?” She shook her head and bit her lower lip slightly. As she released her lip, and cleared her throat, she shook her head lightly. “No just one. We lost the second one. She was a little girl. There were complications.” “I’m so sorry,” I said. Her eyes fell to the deck. “It was God’s will, not ours.” After a few seconds of silence, and me feeling like an absolute idiot, she glanced up and immediately continued with her playful behavior. She glanced toward Cambio, shook her head, and focused on me. “You see, no matter how big or tough they are, they need us more than we need them, don’t let anybody tell you different. And don’t let anyone be mean to you, either. I was in a bad relationship with a guy who’d rather punch me than love me, and Shane helped me understand just how wrong it all was. I finally smacked him with a cast-iron skillet after he knocked this tooth out,” she said as she tapped her tooth with her index finger. “Even though Shane helped me get out of the relationship, it doesn’t mean I owe him anything. I just explained all of that so you’d know what type of person he is. Anyway, men act like they’re tough and all that stuff, and maybe they are. But it doesn’t mean they’re in charge all the time, or that they’re entitled to anything more than we are. Sometimes we just have to take charge and remind them it’s a two-way

street, you know, that we’re not doormats. That’s what I did with Shane.” She paused and turned toward Cambio. It was becoming immediately apparent not only was Kace full of spunk and a little bit of attitude, she was also a very courageous, understanding, and brave woman. “And don’t you dare ever mistreat her, Toad. Do you hear me?” she squealed. My head swiveled his direction. “I won’t,” he responded. I turned to face Kace, anxious to see if there was more. “You’re going to be good to her aren’t you?” she snapped back. My head ratcheted his direction. “Yes, I am,” he immediately responded. My gaze quickly shifted back to Kace. “And you’re never going to pull some shit like Shane did, running off on that bike and leaving her, no matter how bad things get, are you?” she huffed. I glanced toward Cambio. He shook his head and grinned. “Sure won’t.” She tossed her head in my direction. “See?” “That’s why I like Toad. He’s nice. Well, that and he lets me cut his hair,” she said. I turned to face Toad, smiled, and shrugged my shoulders. He raised his right hand to his well-manicured Marine haircut. “I uhhm, I can’t do it, my shoulder kills me when I try to reach the back of my head, no matter which hand I use.” Kace turned toward me and placed her hand on my shoulder. “I got some clippers at Walgreens. I’ve been cutting it every four days, he’s kinda needy.”

“So how long have you two been seeing each other,” Kace blurted as Shane sat down with a bottle of wine. Before I could even think to answer, Cambio cleared his throat and responded. “Two weeks.” Huh? We’re seeing each other? “Two weeks? Two weeks ago is when you were in the hospital, dork,” Kace responded as she reached for the wine glass. She tilted her head toward me. “You’re all he talks about by the way.” I gazed at him and waited, hoping he had more to say. I couldn’t hear enough about what he was thinking about me. About us. “Yeah, two weeks,” he responded. “We started the day she whispered in my ear and woke me up.” And just like that, a girl I didn’t know provided the answer to a question I had yet to ask, but longed to hear the answer to. And from that moment on, as hard as I tried, I could no longer see the pit from which I had so desperately dug myself from. Because I was floating in the clouds.

TOAD The two weeks Sydney had been away were filled with thoughts of her arrival, boyish anticipation of seeing her again, looking forward to spending time talking to her, and finding out just exactly what she was willing to accept from me regarding any advancements I may wish to make into her life. Her presence didn’t make it difficult for me to proceed along my previously calculated path of slow steps, soft talk, and winning her heart; it seemed to have made it impossible. I was now under what I would personally describe as a full-scale attack, and she was providing minimal resistance to my approach. I couldn’t accept that I had simply been shot, hospitalized, and was now in recovery; my beliefs were more complex. Convinced I had been shot, died, and was now resurrected, I viewed life, my existence, and Sydney much differently. In clear contrast to my former way of thinking, I no longer felt guilty for my presence on earth. I was now truly grateful to be alive. Lying flat on my back, I stared up at the ceiling and spoke. “You know, my parents named me after my grandfather, right?” “Yes, you told me that,” she responded. I tilted my head her direction slightly. “Do you know what it means?” She raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth slightly. After a few seconds of silence, she breathed her response. “No, I guess not.” “Change. Cambio means change in Italian.” As I finished speaking I shifted my gaze to the ceiling

again. “I didn’t just get shot. I’m going to tell you what I think happened and you can believe me, I don’t know…consider it…or think I’m crazy and go in the other room. I uhhm, but I’m going to tell you anyway,” I said. “I won’t think your nuts,” she said. “Hold that thought,” I responded. “Some people get tossed in prison and they look at whatever it is they’ve done and make a decision to change. They decide if they don’t, they’re going to continue to repeat their behaviors and end up right back in there. That’s what the system hopes for, making the criminal think, and causing them to change into a law abiding citizen as a result. I guess you could call the experience of going to prison, for this particular person, an eye-opener.” I paused and tilted my head her direction. She blinked her eyes as she nodded her head slightly. To relieve the pain in my shoulder, I shifted my eyes back to the ceiling. “So I’m sure some people get shot, end up in the hospital, and make a conscious decision to change their life afterward. You know, just like the guy in prison. Make sense so far?” I asked. “Makes perfect sense,” she responded. “Okay, well that’s not what happened to me. I got shot, went to the hospital, and at some point in time, I died. I know I did. I was dead, Sydney. And I came back from that place, and now I’m a different person. I didn’t decide this, it just happened. I guess I need to back up, I’m not different, I see life differently. It’s hard to explain.” I shifted my eyes in her direction and waited for a response. She had moved from resting her head in her hand and looking at me to lying beside me and staring at the ceiling. “”What was it like, being dead?” she asked in an almost eerie monotone voice. I stared up at the ceiling and spoke as if recollecting a scene from a movie. “My reply is probably what you’d expect me to say. Strange. Hard to explain. I don’t know, difficult to think about. It seems like a dream, but it wasn’t. I was weightless, but the experience was heavy. I felt like there was weight on me or with me at all times. I wasn’t a ghost or spirit, it was really me.”

“You know I have to ask, where’d you end up in your opinion? Heaven or hell?’ she asked. “Heaven as far as I’m concerned. I mean it was peaceful. Not chaotic, like I think hell would be; and my grandfather was there, but he wasn’t sick. He was the way he used to be before he got sick, still old, but really full of energy and he seemed to be having fun,” I said. “Did you talk to him? I mean in the experience?” she asked. “No, he was out of reach. Just close enough I could see him, but not so close I could touch him. You know.” I paused and tilted my head her direction. “It’s weird. It’s like an entire lifetime of time passed in the 24 hours that I was in the coma. It’s just weird.” She rolled her head to the side and grinned slightly. “I suppose so.” “You believe me?” I asked. “Uh huh, I do,” she said. “I just don’t want you to think I got shot, ended up scared of dying, and decided to try and become someone I’m not going to be able to be. If anything, I’m not afraid to die, not now. And this wasn’t something I decided. It happened and I’m different.” “I believe you,” she said as she rested her elbow on the bed and her cheek against her palm. “So you still going to ride in the club?” she asked. I shifted my body her direction until the pain reminded me to stop. “Fuck yes, I am. It might have changed me, but it didn’t change me into a twat. Jesus. I guess along with the change, it made me want to live life instead of just existing.” “I was just asking,” she said with a laugh. “And you weren’t just existing, believe me.” “Well, whatever I was doing, I’ve decided I want more out of life,” I said as I shifted my gaze to the ceiling. “Starting when?’ she asked. “Now. Starting now. I want to kiss you.” As soon as I heard the words escape my lips, I wished they hadn’t.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to kiss her, because I did. Although my mind was obviously ready, I feared I wasn’t. Not yet. Before I had a chance to retract what I had said, apologize, or claim some type of mental incompetence, she sat up on the bed, leaned over me, and pressed her lips softly against mine. Prior to the kiss, I couldn’t for the life of me recall the last time I actually kissed a woman. As our tongues fought for possession of the space our combined mouths created, I knew one thing for certain. I’d never forget this kiss. And I didn’t want it to end. As the weight of her upper body shifted on top of my chest, she lifted herself by pressing her hands into the bed. Her breasts now lightly brushing against my chest as she straddled my torso, I pulled my lips away for a much needed breath. As I attempted to focus on her face, I brushed her hair from her face, and over her shoulder. “I just needed to take a breath. My lung…” “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe we should stop,” she sighed. “No. No, we don’t need to stop, I just needed to…to take a breather. You might want to shift your weight a little lower. Move your hips down on my hips, and keep your little butt off my stomach. It’ll be less painful. You were sitting on me. Just lay on me,” I groaned. As she shifted her weight and repositioned herself, she lowered her mouth to meet mine. As we began to kiss again, my mind filled with emotions I never knew existed. Feeling as if I wanted to cry, laugh, and scream for joy at the same time, I continued to kiss her eagerly. As I felt her weight against my hips, I realized, much to my surprise, my cock was steadily rising against my very low resistance sweat pants. I felt like I was in high school again. Well, that’s a first. Somewhat embarrassed and hoping I could convince it to recede - at least for a while - I attempted to think of anything but Sydney. As she continued to be the aggressor, kissing me passionately, I realized my attempts were not only feeble, but quite unsuccessful. When our lips finally parted for another much needed breath, she lifted her weight from my chest completely. Now sitting on my upper thighs with her arms dangling at her sides, she gazed into my eyes and

grinned. “We’re together, right?” Somewhat confused, and still reeling from a whirlwind of emotions, I pressed my elbows into the bed until my shoulders lifted slightly from the comforter. “Say again?” “You and me? We’re together, right?” she said as she began to fumble nervously with the bottom of her tee shirt. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely,” I nodded. “No one else?” she said. “No. Hell no, I want you to know…” She leaned forward and pressed her index finger against my lips. “Shhh. That’s all I needed to know. Lean back.” She lifted her shirt over her head, unclasped her bra, and tossed both on the floor beside the bed. As my cock continued to test the tensile strength of the cotton fabric of my sweats, I watched as she gripped the waistband and pulled them to my thighs. As my cock popped out of the sweats and stood at full attention, she shifted her eyes from my face to my cock, and back. “Wow,” she gasped. “That’s all I’ve got. Wow.” She chuckled as she reached down and gripped the shaft in her hand. She slid her body along my legs until her boobs were pressing against my knees, and her blonde hair was draped over my hips. I could feel her warm breath against the tip of my pre-cum covered cock as she spoke. “I’m far from a virgin, and I’m not even going to act like this is the first cock I’ve ever sucked, but I can tell you this.” She paused and licked the tip of my twitching cock. “If you grab my head and try to force it down my throat, it’ll be the last.” She gripped my cock in her hand tightly and slapped it against her lips as she waited for my response. Incapable of doing much other than staring, I blinked my eyes, considered speaking, and nodded

my head once instead. “Agreed?” she asked as she slapped it against her lips again. I moistened my lips, opened my mouth, and listened as the word absolutely puffed from my lungs. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, licked the pre-cum from the tip, and slowly began to slide her full lips along the swollen shaft. As if witnessing a miracle, I watched as she worked her mouth up and down the shaft half a dozen times. I attempted to lean forward and reach for her perfectly sculpted breasts. As the pain in my shoulder reminded me of what I’d been through, I fought against it and pressed my elbows into the bed, leaning up into an almost seated position. I slowly slid my hands along my thighs, not wanting to confuse her in any way regarding my intent. As my hands cupped her breasts and my fingers fumbled with her nipples, my breathing immediately changed. Surprised, sickened by my lack of performance, and beyond embarrassed that I was reaching climax in a matter of seconds, I considered lifting her head away from my cock. Instead, I released her breasts and pressed my hands firmly into the comforter. As the sound of my heavy breathing filled the room, I closed my eyes and arched my back slightly. In tune completely with where my mind, body, and sexual state of arousal was, Sydney began to stroke and suck my cock simultaneously. I closed my eyes as I felt every muscle in my body constrict. My fingers dug into the comforter as I held my breath, attempting unsuccessfully to prolong the experience. I opened my eyes and stared as she lifted her mouth from the tip of my throbbing cock, stroked it twice, and smiled a smile of complete and utter satisfaction as she watched a geyser of cum erupt all over my thighs and sweats. “Holy…” “Fucking…” “Shit…” I breathed as I released the comforter from my grasp. She gazed into my eyes and smiled. “Sorry. I just, uhhm, I wanted to watch you, you know…cum. I wanted to see it, knowing it was me that did that for you.” “Holy shit.” I said. “Sorry I didn’t last longer. I got kind of excited.”

“Me too,” she said as she leaned over and rolled off the edge of the bed. As I watched her tip-toe shirtless to the bathroom, realized just how delicate, sweet, and utterly adorable she actually was. It didn’t in any way change my perception of her, or my opinion of who she was or where we were hopefully going. It did, however, cause me to mentally place her in a category where no one else had ever been placed. As Sydney walked from the bathroom with a washrag, I closed my eyes and allowed her to slowly seep into the void in my heart the war had long since left. As she leaned over the bed and kissed my lips lightly, I felt her continue to fill the vacant space. I opened my eyes and admired her beautiful face as our lips parted. For a lingering moment, she silently hovered over me; gazing into my eyes, and smiling the entire time. I closed my eyes and grinned. I had breathed life into Sydney when I saved her from herself at the bank. In turn, she had breathed life into me in the hospital; the day she whispered in my ear. Both of us acted not for reward or recognition, but out of a natural desire to be kind. One we certainly always possessed, but rarely exhibited toward others. “You know,” she said as she wiped the warm cloth over my hips and thighs. “If you have two broken cars, or two broken toys, you can take the two broken objects and make one working one? Like use the pieces from one to fix the other?” She paused and held the washcloth in her hand as she waited on my response. Having no idea what point she was trying to make, I smiled and nodded my head. “Yeah,” I said. “Well,” she paused and wiped the clean side of the washcloth along my sweats, “As individuals, we’re both broken. I think together, maybe we’ll make a complete, unbroken us.” “Let’s just take a shower together,” I said as I painfully watched her attempt to clean up the mess I had made. She carefully climbed off of me and stood on the floor beside the bed. Knowing I had been broken beyond repair for almost a decade, I considered what she had said,

and wondered if there was any validity to her statement. Quite possibly, I decided, jointly we could become a couple who was able to be together what we were incapable of being independently. Combined, it would stand to reason we would be at least twice what we were as individuals. “It makes sense. You know, what you said a second ago.” I paused and raised my hand to my chin. “Unbreak me, Sydney,” I said as I stood. She stopped walking, turned, and looked over her shoulder. After an awkward pause, she smiled. “Let me,” she said over her shoulder. As she held her pose and waited for me to respond, I admired her every feature. Slowly, I felt her fill what little void remained; completely. “I am,” I said. As simple as it sounded and as complex as it seemed, I knew she was slowly doing just that. Unbreaking me.

SYDNEY Life has never provided me anything without taking something in return. If I ran in an effort to stay in shape, my joints became overworked and eventually turned weak and fragile. If I lay in the sun to obtain a glowing tan, my skin would eventually develop premature wrinkles, and appear worn beyond my years. If I worked excessively to earn money to purchase the finer things life offered, I would miss out on all of the life I could have lived while I was working. There are no free rides, there is no such thing as a free lunch, and with everything comes a price. Life, in my opinion, comes down to whether or not you’re willing to pay for what it is you wish to obtain. Is the give worth the get? I had spent my life convinced I had paid in advance for something I had yet to receive. As much as I gave in my early years, and as little as I collected in return, I believed one day life would simply provide me my reward. I had no idea Cambio Todelli would be my reward. The smell of fresh coffee woke us both, and after a few minutes of whispering and kissing, we opted to get out of bed. The voices in the other room acted as a reminder that I wasn’t the only one who was here to see Cambio. It appeared at some point in time through the night Otis had shown up as well. Reluctantly I rolled off of the bed, brushed my teeth, and considered brushing my hair and getting dressed. I settled for twisting my hair into a messy bun and wearing sweats. “I like your hair like that,” he said as I walked out of the bathroom. “Seriously? Do you know what this is called?” I laughed as I raised my hand to the back of my hair.

He shook his head. “Nope.” “It’s called a messy bun; because it’s a mess and a bun at the same time. It’s like a quick fix,” I said. “Well, I like it; it shows your face and all of your jaw. I like it. You’ve got a good face.” he said. “Thanks. You’ve got a good face too. I’ll make a personal note to wear my hair up as much as possible,” I said as I reached for the door and waited for his approval to open it. He stood silently and gazed at me blankly. After a long moment, he grinned. “You know, I want to take you to see my grandfather. Not him, you know, his grave. It’ll have to be after I get a little better, it’s a long ride.” “Oh wow. I’d love that. Where is he buried?” I asked. “Philadelphia,” he responded. “I though you went to see him all the time? You ride to Philly to see him?” I asked, shocked at the distance he was traveling to go to the gravesite. “Yeah, it’s about 2,700 miles round trip. My folks live up there too. Maybe we’ll stop and see them. It’ll be a nice trip. I haven’t seen them in a bit, but maybe we’ll talk about that later,” he said as he slowly approached. No differently than any other woman, I wanted definition to our relationship. In some respects feeling as if I had thrust myself into something I hadn’t prepared for, I wondered if he was as devoted as I was to what it was we were doing. His actions as well as his words were proving he was as invested in this as I was. I stood, holding the door handle, and simply grinned at the thought of going to Philadelphia with him. “I’m ready if you are,” he said. I turned toward the door and pulled against the handle. As soon as I pulled the door open, I immediately jumped back. Startled by the fact Otis stood directly in front of the door, I screeched. “Oh my God!” I shouted.

“Holy shit! You scared me to death,” I said. “Morning, Syd,” Otis said. “What the fuck you doing, Brother Otis? Standing there with your ear against the door? Hell, we’re brothers, I’m not keeping secrets in here. You wanna know something, just ask,” Cambio said as he ducked under my arm and walked past. “You scared the shit out of me,” I said as I pushed against him with both hands. Playfully, he stumbled back as if my pushing knocked him off balance. At probably close to 300 pounds of solid muscle, ten of me couldn’t budge Otis on a good day. “Well, I guess it’s nice knowing there’s no secrets,” Otis said as he continued to stumble toward the kitchen, “I was just coming to tell you two lovebirds that breakfast is ready. Coffee too.” “We smelled the coffee,” Cambio said as he walked toward the kitchen. “Brought your phone, and the battery’s all charged up. Phone, watch, your ring, wallet, knife, boots, and that bracelet thing you wear; they’re all there in the kitchen. Sorry about that, but when they showed up, they just cut your clothes off and tossed the shit everywhere. Shit they cut your jeans in half. They’d have sliced your cut in two if we let them.” He paused and started laughing out loud. “What about my cut?” Cambio grunted. “Where’s my fucking cut?” “Slice has it in the shop, locked up. He said you can get it when you get home. Maybe he’s using it like an incentive,” Otis said. “Cocksucker. He expects me to ride home naked? Well, at least I can call him now,” Cambio hissed. “You know, it’s a damned good thing there wasn’t a girl paramedic in that bunch. That big fucking paramedic fireman guy sliced off your pants and there you were, covered in blood and all commando and shit. Your poor shriveled half-dead cock was just flopping in the breeze,” Otis said. “Yep. Good thing there wasn’t. Cock’s officially off limits,” he said flatly. Otis shrugged his shoulders as he alternated glances between Cambio and me. “What the fuck’s that mean?”

“It’s hers now,” he said over his shoulder as he grabbed the coffee pot. Mine? Otis playfully nodded his head. As he tilted his head in my direction, he grinned and gave me the thumbs up. I smiled in return and raised my thumb in the air. “Appreciate it,” Cambio said as he set the two cups of coffee at the bar and glanced down at his belongings. The house we were in belonged to Cambio’s Marine friend, A-Train. The main body of the house was very large, and tastefully decorated with furniture and miscellaneous large photographs of nature and landscape. The living room was open to the kitchen, only separated by a long island that served as a bar and eating area. “How you feeling?” Otis asked as he sat down on the bar stool. “Better, just sore. Lung feels, fuck I don’t know how to describe it.” He paused and shook his head. “Like it’s working overtime. I sure as fuck know it’s there.” “Shoulder?” Otis asked. “Feels like I got shot,” he responded flatly. Otis shrugged his shoulders. “Probably ought to be wearing a sling or something, huh?” “Probably ought to get some business of your own, Brother Otis. I’ll be fine,” Cambio snapped. Otis shook his head and picked up his cup of coffee. “You want to ride out of here before winter, you need to be wearing that fucking sling.” “Cream? Sugar?” Cambio asked as he walked toward the stove. “The invisible man speaks again. Guess no comment on the sling remark, huh?” Otis said. I stared at Cambio. He returned the stare as if waiting on my response instead of commenting on what Otis had said about his failure to wear the sling. After a minor staring session, I decided he wasn’t going to respond to Otis.

I blinked my eyes. “Black’s fine.” He turned toward the other counter and removed a spoon from the drawer. “Where’s A-Train?” Cambio asked over his shoulder. “He just left, went over at the boxer’s house to watch the kid. Boxer had to run to the gym, and his wife had a hair appointment or something. Said he watches that kid as much as they do,” Otis responded. “A-Train said to make sure you ate something, so I made some scrambled eggs. Couldn’t find any bacon, so there’s some ham there,” Otis said as he tilted his head toward the stove. “I’ll eat in a minute,” Cambio responded as he grabbed the cream. “I didn’t cook that shit for my health, eat it now, before it gets cold,” Otis growled. Seeing Cambio and Otis together was much different than seeing my brother and his biker friends before he went to prison. Although they all call each other brother, it’s rare to see any of them truly act like brothers would act. These two were the clear exception. Bickering like a couple of brothers, it was nice to see Otis truly cared about Cambio as much as he did. The little time we had spent together in the hospital proved he was as considerate and as kind as any person I had ever met, if not more. Although I would never tell him, he seemed to me to be like a big teddy bear. Well, a big teddy bear with a scowl on his face most of the time. “While you’re plating up the eggs for you and your girl, I’ve got a quick question,” Otis said as he sipped his coffee. “Fine, I’ll eat now,” Cambio responded as he slid a cup of coffee across the bar, “Hungry?” I nodded my head. Cambio walked to the stove and pulled the lid from the skillet and looked inside. I pulled out a stool and sat down beside Otis. Otis glanced in my direction and winked as Cambio began to spoon eggs on two plates. I did my best to wink back. “So, the day in the bank.” He paused and alternated glances between Cambio and me. Cambio turned and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, what about it.”

“Well, being we decided you aren’t keeping any secrets, Syd here was with the guy that robbed the bank, wasn’t she?” he asked. I raised the coffee cup to my mouth and took a permanent drink as I waited for Cambio to respond. “Sure was,” Cambio responded. “I knew it. I fucking knew it,” Otis said as he slapped the countertop with his hand. “All you had to do was ask,” Cambio said as he turned and carried the plates to the bar. “Well, you know how I roll. It’s none of my fucking business. But being she’s the owner of your cock.” He paused, turned to face me, and winked. “I figured she’s around for the long haul. So, I thought I’d ask. Now, second question; You a thief, Sydney?” Otis asked. I lowered my coffee cup onto the bar and shook my head. “Not even close. I met the guy the night before, outside the bar where my car was parked. He thought I was coming out of the bar, but honestly I was getting ready to go to bed. He had a nice car, and was hitting on me, so I went with him. I basically used him for a shower, and to save you from wondering…” “I didn’t do anything with him. The next morning he drove to the bank on his way to take me back to my car. I had no idea what he was doing. Seriously,” I explained. “That’s all I need to know,” he said as he patted my shoulder. “So, when’s the wedding?” Otis asked without an ounce of emotion. “Fuck you, O,” Cambio said. Otis took a shallow breath, sighed, and shifted his eyes toward me. After studying me for a moment, he turned to face Cambio. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, a man’s Ol’ Lady is an extension of the club. You know how I feel. And you know I’m only tight with a few of the fellas; you and Axe, to be truthful. Now Avery? There ain’t a better bitch on this earth than that girl. She’s solid as fuck, and I’ll leave it at that. This one?” he asked. “I like this little bitch a lot. I really do. But if she was prone to robbing a motherfucker or stealin’ shit, I needed to know. You know, keep my shit under lock and key.”

“But if you’re finally layin’ claim to her, and she’s not a thief, I guess I’ll welcome her to the family,” he said as he reached over and patted my shoulder again. “For what it’s worth, I never thought you were a thief,” Otis said as he took a sip of coffee. “She’s solid,” Cambio said as he nodded his head. As I was filling with emotion, and feeling as if I was making quick progress toward being accepted by the men who mattered most, I smiled and nodded my head. I lifted my coffee cup and took a small sip, attempting to act like it was just another day in the life of Sydney. Truthfully, I was on cloud nine. Being referred to as solid by a biker was the highest form of affirmation I could ever receive. “Axton says Avery said she sent you a text and you need to read it,” Cambio said as he looked up from his phone. I looked down at my plate, and realized I hadn’t begun to eat. “My phone’s in my purse. I’ll look as soon as I’m done eating,” I responded. “Huh, that’s weird. Got a text from the vet. Wants me to call him. Can’t remember now if I paid that girl before I stomped out of that place,” he said as he continued to mess with his phone and eat ham at the same time. He stopped eating, and raised the phone to his ear. As I began to eat my almost cold eggs, Cambio began pacing through living room and talking on his phone. I turned toward Otis and grinned. “Thanks for making breakfast,” I said. “It’s really good.” With his coffee cup dangling from his index finger at the height of his chin, he turned toward me, raised his thumb in the air, and smiled. There was something about Otis that was completely comforting. He had an almost magical presence that only became apparent after being around him for a while. I suspected I was no different than most people, and at least initially was very intimidated by his size and stature. After I was able to relax around him, I realized he was not only much different than every other biker I had met, but truly unlike anyone I had ever met. He was the type of man I’d never get sick of being around, and always looked forward to seeing. “Holy shit! Devil looks after his own. Hot fucking damn!” Cambio howled. “What’s going on?” Otis said as he spun his bar stool around.

Cambio walked toward me as he began to respond. “That was the vet on the phone. That pup had some chip in his neck. He gave me the name of the fucker and his address.” He paused, placed his hands on either side of my face, and kissed me lightly on the lips. As our lips parted, he gazed into my eyes and then kissed me lightly again. He turned to face Otis as he tossed his phone onto the bar. “He said some states require vet’s to turn in someone they suspect is abusing animals, and some states don’t. Well, Kansas does. He said he struggled with telling me who this guy was, and finally decided he’d rather live knowing the guy got what he deserved than live wondering if he’d continue to abuse animals after getting his wrist slapped by the court. He made me promise not to kill him. Can you fucking believe it? Must be living right,” he said as he slapped his hand against the bar. “Give me the fucker’s address, I’ll have it all taken care of by the time you get home,” Otis said flatly. “Shoulder’s feeling better already,” Cambio responded as walked to the other side of the bar and began shoveling eggs into his mouth. “You told me in the hospital you were a changed man,” Otis said. “You said you saw the light.” He raised his hands in the air, spread his fingers and began waving his hands back and forth. “I don’t want you ruining that, Brother.” Cambio dropped his fork onto the plate. “I’ll tell you just like I told her. I haven’t got one fucking doubt that I died and was resurrected. Believe me or don’t, I don’t give a rat’s ass. And when I died, I went to some place that sure wasn’t like hell. Confirms my life’s been lived in accordance to what the man wants to see.” He extended his index finger and pointed it upward. “I might be changed, and in some fucking respects I might be different, but I’m still a fucking Sinner.” Otis nodded his head once. “Good to know.” On the previous night, when Cambio explained everything about being a changed man and seeing the world and its offerings through different eyes, part of me was elated while another part was somewhat

disappointed. I don’t know whether or not it was a result of growing up around my brother, or from lacking a father figure, but the male bravado-macho-tough guy types had always appealed to me. In thinking of Cambio being a softer, more passive biker, I was slightly dissatisfied. I felt as if I was forfeiting part of what made him attractive to me. Having him continue to be the hard, tough, take no shit person he had always been, yet continue to be sweet to me would be the best of both worlds. I guess now that he had cleared things up, I would no longer be left to wonder just who it was I was falling in love with. Being a Selected Sinner was one thing, being a sinner was another. Clearly Cambio intended to be both. In my opinion it was exactly where he belonged. I looked up from my plate and nodded my head. “Amen.”

SYDNEY Being honest and being open are two totally different things, and they’re worlds apart. Although I have always perceived myself as being brutally honest, I’ve never been a person who I would consider to be open. Volunteering information about myself, my past, or my life’s experiences isn’t something I have ever been comfortable with. After spending the day at Shane and Kace’s pool sunbathing and swimming, Cambio and I had taken a shower, and were relaxing on the bed. The fact I had not been open with Cambio about my past was beginning to bother me, and I was seeing my lack of willingness to have previously volunteered any and all things about myself as dishonesty. I rolled onto my side and rested my cheek on the palm of my hand. “I need to tell you some things about me. About my past.” He tilted his head toward me and grinned. “I don’t care about your past. I mean I do, but not about past relationships or anything. I really don’t.” “It’s not that,” I said. He rolled onto his side and rested his head against the pillow. “Okay, let’s hear it.” “It’s a bunch, so let me finish, okay?” I asked. He blinked his eyes and nodded his head once. “I told you about my brother, but I didn’t tell you everything. My parents, they were killed when I was a baby. Well, my father killed my mother and then killed himself. I was three. I lived in an orphanage on and off until I was a little older, and then we were placed in foster care. The foster family we lived

with wasn’t a really good one, but it was all the family I have really ever known. He was a preacher and she was a housewife. They had their own children, and they had other foster children too. The uhhm, the older kids mistreated the girls. You know, they messed with us, sexually.” I took a shallow breath and tried to decide what to say next, not feeling comfortable just yet about revealing the fact I was repeatedly raped as a little girl. “I’m sorry about your parents. And I’m sorry about your foster family. People can be so inconsiderate sometimes,” he said. He placed his hand under my chin, lifted it slightly, and continued. “I’m sure growing up without a family was tough. Just know that, well, know that I’m here for you. I know it sounds cheesy, but I am. I’ll do the best I can to make up for everything you’ve missed out on.” I grinned as I pressed my cheek against his hand. “Thanks, I know you will. And yeah, it’s still tough, you know not having a family. No Christmas, no Thanksgiving, no birthdays, I hate it. Jack was all I had, and with him gone, well, I guess I’ve just got you. I’m just glad you have a family.” He released my cheek from his hand, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling. “Well, I guess I should tell you something about me. I have parents; real good parents to be honest. I’ve been back from the war for almost 5 years, and I’ve seen them once; right after I got home. Haven’t seen them since.” “Oh wow. Can I ask why?” “You know, all this time, I kind of wondered. I told myself for a long time I was just busy. I knew better, though. I haven’t been home for a holiday, nothing. Hell, I quit even answering their phone calls. I’d ride up to see my grandfather, and sometimes I’d ride by their house, but I wouldn’t stop. Guilt, I suppose. I mean if you want to be specific.” He glanced in my direction and immediately shifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Yeah, I’d guess it’d be the guilt,” he said. “About what?” I asked, confused as to what specifically he’d be guilty about. He stared at the ceiling and continued to speak in a monotone voice. “The war, killing, living through it all, fuck the list goes on and on. You know, I was medically discharged from the Marines, because of the PTSD. They said I was too fucking crazy to continue to fight. Too crazy to be a Marine, kind of funny when you think about it. That’s probably the biggest thing, the fact I was discharged. So maybe it was guilt and a little embarrassment.”

“But you were honorably discharged, weren’t you?” “Yeah, sure was. Complete with commendations and medals. But my father’s era doesn’t understand. Maybe that’s why I talk to my grandfather, because he doesn’t argue with me about it.” “Have you tried talking to your father about it?” “Nope. I’m thinking maybe I will now, though.” He tilted his head to the side and stared. “Here’s an interesting statistic about PTSD, veterans, and their mental health. 22 Veterans a day commit suicide. That’s one every 65 minutes, all day, every day, 365 days a year. It’s fucking sad. I didn’t want to be another statistic, so I dealt with my PTSD the best I knew how. I surrounded myself with people who didn’t ask questions, and tried to be nice to the people I liked and mean to the ones I didn’t. I went to my mental health at the Veterans Administration when I needed to, and I figured I’d skate through life doing what I was doing. Now that all this has happened, and with you mentioning family and all, it all seems wrong.” “So they don’t even know about…about you being shot?” I asked. He licked his lips and stared blankly. “Nope.” I sat up on the bed and gazed down at him. “You probably should.” He turned his head and gazed up into my eyes. After lifting his hands in the air, he reached for me as he spread his fingers wide. Naturally, I reached for his hands and interlocked my fingers in his. “I will. And you’re going with me when I do. We’ll ride up there as soon as I can stand the pain,” he responded. “Okay?” I nodded my head. “Okay.” The thought of meeting his parents was terrifying and exciting both. I realized part of why he may want me to accompany him was for comfort and probably to keep his parents from being too harsh regarding his extended absence. No matter what his reasoning was, it excited me to meet them, and to make another step in the direction of being in a permanent relationship with him. As he pulled me down on top of him, I realized just how much I enjoyed simply being in his company. “I uhhm. I really like you,” I said as I landed against his chest.

I really like you? Seriously, Sydney? Did you just say that? Out loud? I sounded like a complete juvenile. For a grown woman to tell a grown man she really liked him was probably one of the most meaningless and utterly ridiculous statements that could have been conjured up. Before I could give any explanation for my childish behavior, he wrapped his arms around me, pressed his cheek against mine, and rested his mouth against my ear. “I passed that stage a long fucking time ago,” he whispered into my ear. I exhaled and relaxed into his arms. Exhausted from spending the day in the sun, and completely relaxed by the comfort he provided me, I quickly fell into a state of bliss as he continued to breathe into my ear and hold me against him. I closed my eyes and thought of where I’d came from, what I had accomplished, and just where I may be going. I wondered if he might be doing the same, and if so, what he felt the future may hold for us. And slowly, I fell asleep in the arms of the man I was deeply in love with, but obviously too afraid to tell.

SYDNEY I pulled my mouth from his cock, licked the tip, and continued to stroke it with my right hand. I reached down with my left hand and slid my middle finger along my pussy and held it in the air for him to see. Although I needed no confirmation, my glistening finger provided it. I was completely soaked. As my heart began to race even more, I shifted my gaze from my finger up and into his eyes. “You make me so wet. Just stand there. Don’t move,” I said as I stood from my knees. He stood with his back to the wall, and gripped his rigid cock in his hand. “You might have to bend your knees a little, but I’ll do all the work,” I said eagerly as I bent over in front of him and rested my hands on my thighs. As I attempted to back up into the tip of his cock, his hands gripped my hips and guided me in for a perfect landing. Although I knew the thirty minutes of kissing, a half-assed blowjob, and my wandering mind had me beyond ready from a lubrication standpoint, the size of his massive cock and the fact my pussy was absolutely tiny left me wondering just what complications we might encounter from a physical standpoint. No matter what they may be, I was willing to try and work through them. I eagerly reached between my legs and guided the tip of his cock against my dripping pussy lips. As the tip began to penetrate me, I opened my mouth and groaned. “Oh God. Take…it…slow,” I gasped. Without responding, he slowly slid his cock from inside me. What little relief I felt was immediately followed by disappointment. I wanted it back inside me. Before I had a chance to release my lower lip and speak, he slowly began to slide it in. I bit into my lip a little more and rolled my eyes back so far it hurt.

Although every woman who enjoys sex wishes for her man to be well endowed, we all have our limits. Although no one in their right mind wants a man with a dick the size of a Vienna sausage, one the size of a baseball bat is even more useless. The best, I suppose, would be to have a man with the largest possible cock that would eventually fit, and slowly work it into place. Cambio’s cock was the size of my wrist, and without a doubt, had a few inches that would never see any action inside of me, regardless of our efforts. As I rocked back and forth on my heels, slowly working my ass closer and closer to his hips, he began to moan. I continued to bite my lip, breathe through my nose, and refused to forfeit the fight. “Holy fuck you’re tight,” he groaned. I might have a tight pussy, but unless he was fucking a Hippopotamus, his cock would completely fill any pussy he attempted to shove it into. As I finally found a rhythm that seemed to work, I felt myself relax slightly. Things were beginning to come together. I released my lower lip, continued to buck my hips back and forth, and spoke my mind. “Your…cock’s…huge,” I said between my choppy breaths. “It feels like…I’m being fist-fucked…by a midget,” I groaned. “Okay, I didn’t need to hear that,” he said. “Just…take it…slow,” he said. I sighed. “I’m good now.” As I continued to work my hips back forth, his cock began to slide in and out without much discomfort. In fact, it felt incredible. After about the third full stroke, I relaxed with him fully inside of me and had an orgasm beyond compare. By anyone’s account, I had lasted roughly as long full of his throbbing shaft as he did when I sucked his cock. For that reason, and that reason alone, I felt no need to advertise what I had done. After relishing in the feeling of having a much needed orgasm and regaining my sexual composure, I began to rock back and forth on my heels. Although this method seemed much less sensual, and a little more boring, it suited me; at least for now. After a few quiet moments of slowly rocking back and forth, I felt proud I had lasted for a length of time without having another orgasm. With my mind fixed in the feeling, and my body becoming accustomed to the feeling, his cock, and the entire sexual situation, I felt as if I might last long enough to

make him reach climax. Still bent over and teetering on the balls of my feet, I opened my eyes and exhaled. A hand slapped against my thigh, slid upward, and gripped my hip. A hand gripped my other hip. Oh shit… He slowly pulled me backward, until my ass pressed against his hips. “Fuck this shit, I’m done dicking around,” he said. “Okay…” I squeaked. Sorry, I thought I was doing pretty good. He forced himself in and out of me, but not without using some caution. I bit my lip again. The momentum of his thrusts increased with each stroke. I braced my hands firmly against my knees as my eyes bulged and my lower lip became my own personal chew toy. His cock began to hit spots inside of me I had no idea even existed. Good spots. My legs began to shake. My knees felt like rubber. One of his hands began to fondle my right boob. His fingers found their way to my nipple. Twisting it in between his forefinger and thumb, a tingling sensation shot between my nipple and hyper sensitive clit. I felt his cock began to swell inside me. Oh dear God, that feels unbelievable. As his swollen cock continued to slide in and out of my sopping wet pussy, the sound of our flesh on flesh began to resonate through the room. To me, there was nothing sexier sounding than skin slapping skin. I felt my pussy begin to contract into an orgasm. As he must have sensed my point of climactic bliss, he held his cock in place as I exploded into a thousand little pieces of what the fuck just happened. My body shaking and my pussy convulsing, the orgasm lasted for an eternity. His cock somehow swelled a little more. Shocked that I could actually feel it, my eyes widened and I began to shake. My hands slipped from my knees and onto the floor.

As I felt his cock pulse inside of me, filling me with his warm cum, one last surge of climactic heaven filled my soul. “Oh my God, that….was…incredible,” I said as I attempted to stand on shaky legs. “That was far more than incredible. Holy shit,” he gasped. “What?” I grinned. “Nothing…” he said. I did my best to turn and look over my shoulder. His face was covered with a smile. A smile I had yet to see. A smile that not only covered his face, but one that exuded even from his eyes. He raised his hands to his face and pressed his palms into his cheeks. “No, what?” I asked. His breathing still slightly labored, he exhaled a breath. Along with it came his thoughts. “I just really like you.” I shifted my gaze to the floor and stared down at the carpet as I felt his cock begin to become flaccid inside of me. “I passed that stage a long fucking time ago…” I said flatly. As I chuckled to myself for my quick witted nature in quoting what he had said earlier, I realized I had truly reached the point of no return. I reached between my legs with my right hand as I pulled myself away from him. As I cupped my hand against my pussy, holding the proof of his satisfaction inside of me, I turned to face the man I loved. With still shaking legs, I looked up and smiled. He released his cheeks, placed his hands against my face, and bent at his waist. After a long, sensual, much needed kiss, our lips parted. He gazed into my eyes and blinked. He pulled my face to his, kissing me again passionately. My head began to spin and my mind reeled as the tension inside of me built. Again, our lips parted. He gazed into my eyes for a long moment.

“What?’ I breathed. He pulled my face to his and again kissed me passionately. Lost in the kiss, I began to feel as if I had been lifted from my feet and was floating in the space before him. I had never been kissed the way he kissed me. I had never felt the feelings I was feeling. This, to me, was completely and utterly new. As our lips parted, I fought for my next breath. I gazed into his eyes. He narrowed his gaze as his mouth curled into a smile. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Sydney.” Falling in love? I passed that stage a long fucking time ago.

TOAD “I can’t let you go back without me. You know, I had an idea of what I wanted to happen this weekend, but I had no clue where your mind was for sure. I told you I wanted to take you on a date, and I told you how I felt the last time you were here, but I didn’t know how you felt about everything,” I paused and rolled my shoulders. I raised my eyebrows. “I can barely feel it.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “The pain’s going to kill you, it’s a ten-hour ride.” “Listen, I’ve been in a lot of pain before. I can handle it,” I assured her. She shrugged her shoulders and widened her eyes. “What’s Otis going to say?” I walked past her and gripped the door handle in my hand. After turning around and grinning, I opened the door to the bedroom and stuck my head out of the opening. Otis sat on the love seat watching television. “Hey O, I was thinking about riding home with you. Having Sydney follow us in the chase vehicle,” I shouted over the sound of the television. He glanced over his shoulder, turned back toward the television, and responded. “Have to buy some jeans, I’m not rolling with ya if you’re wearing those sweats.” “So you’re alright with me riding?” I asked as I opened the door a little further.

Sydney stuck her head under my armpit and into the opening. “What about his shoulder, Otis? Yesterday it was killing him, today he wants to ride home,” she hollered. Otis glanced over his shoulder, turned to the television, glanced over his shoulder again, and glanced at the T.V. He pointed the remote at the television and turned it off. After standing and turning to face us, he raised his right hand to his chin and gazed up at the ceiling. “Well, let’s see…What’s happened since yesterday? Let me see…” He released his chin and cocked his head slightly to the side. “You two have been fucking in there like a couple of rabbits. My guess is he likes fucking you, and doesn’t want to stop. Be kind of tough to fuck you if he’s here and you’re there. He’s a big boy, Syd. And I’ll give you a little advice…” He paused, smiled, and lowered his hands to his waist. “Don’t get between a Sinner and his desire to ride, you’ll never make it if you do…” He shifted his gaze toward me. “You wanting to ride that sled of yours, Toad?” I nodded my head sharply. “Planning on riding it home, O.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, there you have it, Syd. Man said he’s gonna ride that sled home.” Sydney pulled her head from beneath my armpit and stepped back into the bedroom. “Good lookin’ out, O,” I said. Otis smiled, pointed the remote toward the television, and sat back down on the love seat. I pulled the door closed and turned to face Sydney, wondering what she’d have to say now. I didn’t have to wait long for her response. “Well, looks like we need to get you some jeans,” she said. “Well, let me lace up my boots, and we’ll run and get some,” I said as I looked around the room for my boots. “Never been much for riding in a cage; well, unless I had to. I’m sure not looking to have anyone see me riding my bike in sweats, either. Guess we’ll take your car?” I asked as I pulled my boots on.

“Sure. You’ll be styling with those grey sweats and those boots,” she said. I looked down at the contrast of the light grey sweats A-Train bought me against my boots. I looked like an idiot. At least in Austin no one knew me, and I could make it to the store, buy a pair of jeans, and get home without someone seeing me. Wearing sweats, not riding my bike, riding in a cage, and being with a woman buying clothes were all things that were completely different than what I was accustomed to. Strangely, I was comfortable doing it with Sydney. After scanning the room for my cut, and realizing it was in the shop, I exhaled a sigh of almost relief. If a local Sinner saw another Sinner dressed like I was, and wearing a cut, photos would be all over the website. “Guess I’m ready,” I said. “You’re going to be okay in a cage?” she asked with a sarcastic tone. “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Going out for jeans,” I said as we walked out into the living room. Otis sat with his eyes glued to the television. As we walked past, I took a second glance toward the T.V. The unmistakable face of Bruce Jenner stared back at me as he stood in the garage arguing with his wife. I shook my head in disbelief. Otis was watching the Kardashian Marathon. “Is he watching Keeping up with the Kardashians?” Sydney asked as we walked by. “He sure as fuck is,” Otis responded over his shoulder. I glanced down at my sweats and eventually focused on my boots. I turned toward Sydney, shrugged my shoulders, and grinned; two of the most solid Sinners to ever don the cut, one watching the Kardashians, and one wearing sweats and riding in a cage. If the real world ever knew…

TOAD Leaving Austin proved to be far more difficult than I ever imagined. The hospitality of the people I had met, the honest unfiltered opinions of Ripp, and walking away from a fellow 2/7 Marine made riding home an emotional journey. The pain in my shoulder throughout the entire trip settled into a dull thud after the first hundred miles, and surprisingly never got much worse. Pain, according to Marines, was the weakness leaving my body. With each hundred miles traveled, I felt stronger. When we finally reached Wichita, I felt relieved, relaxed, and as if I had made a journey not only back home, but to an entirely different place and stage in my life. A stage I was eager to enter. Now headed to an emergency call of the Executive Committee, I felt a little nervous about my return, what happened to me, and seeing the Committee. As I rounded the corner of the street toward the clubhouse, it was apparent not only was this a meeting of the Committee, but the entire chapter. And it looked like I was the last one to show up. Oh fuck. I glanced down at my watch as I turned into the parking lot. The 5:50 p.m. time confirmed I should be ten minutes early. I nervously parked my bike and stepped into the empty garage. The fact the shop was vacant, and everyone was already in the meeting room strengthened my suspicion I had either misunderstood the time of the meeting, or something was wrong with my watch. After walking through the empty shop and opening the door to the room, I was greeted by the entire chapter cheering and clapping their hands.

“Alright fellas, make a path and make it wide. Let the man in the God damned room without bumping that left shoulder,” Axton growled. “Settle the fuck down fellas,” Axton said as he raised his hands into the air. “Good to have you back, Toad.” Filled with a strange awkward feeling, I wiped the sweat from my brow and wrapped my arms around Axton, hugged him, and slapped my hand against his back. As I pulled away, I reached out and shook his hand firmly. Axton turned toward the cabinet, opened the door, and pulled what I suspected was my cut from the shelf. As he carefully placed it on the table in front of him, he positioned it perfectly with the edge of the table, and when satisfied, held his hands in the air again. “Alright fellas, this time I mean it,” he shouted. “I need silence.” The entire crowd fell immediately silent. Still somewhat nervous, and uncertain of the need for a welcoming committee such as what he had assembled, I stood a few feet from Axton and nodded at the fellas as I scanned the group. “This is something I’ve never had to do, and to be quite fucking honest, I hoped I’d never have to do. There’s no President of a club who ever wishes for this day to come,” Axton began. The tone on his voice and the expressed emotion made his state of emotion very apparent. Axton was upset. Slowly, my mind began to work through all of the possibilities. The fact Axton had kept my cut, and his emotional condition could only mean one thing. He was removing me from the Executive Committee and possibly from the club due to his belief of my physical condition. After swallowing heavily, I attempted unsuccessfully to speak. During another attempt to swallow the lump in my throat, Axton continued to speak. “Fuck, fellas this is tougher than I thought,” Axton said as he glanced down at the floor. “Well, there’s no better way for me to…to get through this…but to…but to just fucking say it,” he said as he glanced up from the floor. As I finally found Otis in the crowd, I shrugged my shoulders and slowly raised my hands in the air. Otis lowered his chin and winked.

Axton crossed his arms, and scanned the crowd. After inhaling a deep breath, exhaling, and glancing in my direction, he began speaking again. “For the first time in the history of the Sinners, a man has made a commitment to a fellow Sinner, and acted in a manner expressing courage and heroism, risking his life for the safety and the security of his brothers.” He reached down, picked up my cut, and held it in his shaking hands. “You all need to know this man’s name if you don’t. Cambio Todelli, known by his brother Sinners as Toad, on August 16th, did hereby save the life of one Axton Bishop, otherwise known as Slice the President of the Wichita chapter of the Selected Sinners - by willfully and knowingly stepping between a gunman and his intended target, risking his life in the process. For this selfless act, I hereby present him with the first presentation of the Selected Sinners patch of Valor. This patch.” Axton paused and unfolded the cut. “This patch is only awarded to a man for clearly risking his life to save to the life or lives of a fully patched member or members of the club, and must be witnessed by another member of the club. Additionally, it must be voted upon by the president of every chapter. Having met all of this criteria, I now present with tremendous gratitude.” He held the cut by the shoulders for all to see. “The first patch of Valor to your Sergeant-at-Arms, Toad.” A red and gold patch in the shape of an ornate star with a ribbon around it had been sewn on the left upper portion of my cut, where the bullet hole probably was. As I gazed at the cut, and the men began to clap and cheer, I filled with emotion. Receiving the patch, the assembly of all the men, the voting by each chapter president, and Axton’s emotional state were more than I was prepared for. Now clearly recalling what happened on that particular day, I began to shake as I reached for the cut. Having the men see me in anything but a stable state of mind was not acceptable. I was their Sergeant at Arms, and I needed to act the part. I straightened my stance, pulled my shoulders back, and held the cut in my hand. Axton held his hands in the air, and the room immediately fell silent. I swallowed the lump which had formed in my throat.

“As the Sergeant-at-Arms.” I hesitated and scanned the crowd. “I was advised my responsibility was for the safety and security of the club, as well as the protection and defense of all club Members and Prospects. I was uhhm, I was just…” “I was just doing my job,” I said. “Let me help you with that cut,” Otis said as he took the cut from my hand and slipped it over my shoulders. “And that, fellas, is why this man is your Sergeant at Arms,” Axton growled as he nodded his head in my direction. “Now I need every one of you to get your asses out into the shop, and give this man some fucking breathing room. I need one minute alone with him in here, and then we’ll be out there,” Axton howled. Slowly, all the men walked out of the room and into the shop. As the dull roar of the crowd became muffled by Otis pulling the door closed behind him, Axton turned toward the cabinet and reached inside. As he turned to face me, he opened his clutched hand. A copper colored, but horribly disfigured bullet mounted to a small swivel and attached to a chain was in his palm. “I got this from the surgeon in Austin. I know it isn’t much, and I understand if you don’t want it, hell I got mixed emotions about it.” He hesitated and held it from his fingers, allowing the bullet to dangle at the end of the chain. “You know I make the cuts myself. I take pride in that. Well.” He cleared his throat and stared down at the necklace. He glanced up and narrowed his gaze. “Brother, I didn’t know if you were going to make it or not. I truly didn’t. I got this bullet, and I brought it home, and I made this damned thing myself. I told myself if you didn’t pull out of the coma, I’d wear it for the rest of my life in your honor. Well, you did. So, I guess I’ll give it to you; if you want it that is.” Now an utter emotional wreck, I nodded my head and bent at the waist. Without speaking, Axton raised his hands and draped the necklace over my head and onto my neck. I stood, reached for the bullet, pinched it between my finger and thumb, and nodded my head once. Axton opened his mouth as if to speak. After a few groans and swallowing heavily, he nodded his

head and cleared his throat. He shrugged his shoulders and extended his arms wide. As we embraced, we patted each other on the back. The sound of his hand slapping against the leather cut was music to my ears. “I love you, Brother,” we both said simultaneously. As I released him from my arms, I realized my gratitude not only for him, but for the club, each of the men, for my ability to have lived through the shooting, and for Sydney’s having entered my life in the capacity and at the time she did. Still filled with tremendous emotion, I turned and reached for the door. After a short hesitation from the uncertainty of whether or not I was ready to face the club, Axton spoke. “Hold up a minute, Brother, I think I’ve got something in my eye,” Axton said. I faced the door and waited. After a short reflection, I began to fill with gratitude, and gave silent thanks for everything I was fortunate enough to have in my life. “Alright, let’s get out there,” Axton sighed. As we stepped out into the shop, I realized for whatever reason, my life, my outlook, and my perception of all things around me had truly changed. I struggled whether or not to attribute the changes, as a whole, to having Sydney in my life, or being shot. I raised my hand to the pendant and pinched it in my fingers. And quickly all doubt faded.



SYDNEY Sitting on the couch in Cambio’s house was relaxing in a guilty kind of way. Regardless of what our feelings were for each other, our separation by living in separate homes allowed my mind to wander and eventually I would question just what it was we had together. Our frequency of seeing each other helped matters, but it did not eliminate the feelings I had in his absence. There was no doubt in my mind that a woman’s thoughts and a man’s thoughts progressed at totally different speeds when it came to the feelings of necessity to define a relationship’s validity by cohabitating. “I don’t know if it will be as good, but I used your recipe,” he said as he handed me the glass of tea. I smiled as I reached for the tea. “Really?” He nodded his head and grinned. “Yep.” “So I was thinking,” he said as he sat down beside me. “I’ve got a few things to do here. I don’t know, maybe a week or so, and then I think we should head up north.” “Up north?” I asked as I placed the glass on the coffee table in front of the couch. “To my parent’s place. So they can meet you,” he said. I did my best to hide my excitement. To be quite honest, I suspected we might eventually go to see his parents, but only after a year or so of seeing each other. I realized he had mentioned it while we were staying at A-Train’s house, but I had no idea he planned on doing it so soon. Nothing confirms a woman’s position in a man’s heart like him introducing her to his parents. Considering Cambio’s current

relationship with his parents, it made matters that much more significant. “Oh, well, whatever you think is best,” I said. Fuck, Sydney, really? “Do you not want to meet them?” he asked. I shook my head and turned my body on the couch to face him. I lowered my hands to my lap and tried to appear relaxed. “No, I’d love to meet them. I just don’t want you rushing into anything for me. I want you to take things at your pace, I’m flexible.” He started to laugh, coughed, and covered his mouth. As he pulled his clenched hand down from his face, he grinned. “I don’t have a pace. This is all new to me. You know, I think I know what I want to do, but I don’t want you to wig out because I do something you think is inappropriate or something.” I shrugged my shoulders and stared. “Wig out?” “You know, flip out. I’ve got like zero experience at this shit, Sydney. I’m fucking lost,” he said as he stood. “I know what I feel, and I know what I want, but I don’t want to do what I think I want to do, because I don’t know if it’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Does that make sense?” “Kind of. I guess if it includes me, and it doesn’t jeopardize our relationship, I’m game for about anything. You aren’t going to do or say anything that I’m going to think is inappropriate. At least I don’t think so. What kinds of things are you talking about? Give me an example,” I said as I reached for my tea. He began to pace in front of the couch and scratched his head almost frantically. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to make you think I’m crazy or anything. I just know how I feel. I’ve always said we think some things and feel others, and sometimes when we think, we make mistakes, but when we feel, it’s genuine. I’m talking about feelings.” To have him reveal his feelings to me excited me greatly. Most men never revealed what they were feeling to me unless it was in a fit of anger. Having him be apprehensive to share his feelings with me for fear he was moving too fast made me squirm nervously until I had settled against the arm of the couch and into the cushion, feeling almost trapped. As I nestled into place, I looked up and smiled.

“Okay, give me an example,” I said. “Well, I just know how I feel, and you know. I don’t doubt it,” he said as he crossed his arms. “Okay. That really doesn’t tell me anything,” I said. “At least not about how you’re feeling.” “I just told you,” he said as he shook his head. “Okay, how about this. I used to always wonder about things all the time. And I’d ride around in the country with Otis or sometimes alone, and I’d just ride around and wonder. Now, I don’t wonder. Not about how I feel. Not now, at least now when it comes to us. Now, I know, and there’s nothing that’s going to change it. Well, nothing or no one but you.” He uncrossed his arms momentarily, let them hang at his sides, and crossed them again. Still feeling like he was a typical male who had no real idea of how he felt, or he had a real reluctance to reveal what he felt, I decided to continue to play along until I had received at least a small tidbit of information from him about his true feelings. So far, he had talked in a complete circle, making no sense whatsoever regarding what he felt. “Okay, so you’re convinced how it is you’re feeling is how you’re going to continue to feel, unless I make a change. Is that what you’re saying?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Yep.” I shook my head playfully. “Okay…” “What?” he snapped as he lowered his arms. “Nothing, sorry. I’m just thinking. So, that’s how you feel?” I asked. “Exactly,” he responded. I stared down at his boots, narrowed my eyes, and shifted my gaze upward until our eyes met. “That doesn’t really tell me how you feel, though.” He crossed his arms again and exhaled. “I just told you and you said it right back to me.” Exhausted I decided to try a new angle. “Okay. So now we know how you feel, what is it you’re

thinking might make me wig out? What were you afraid would wig me out?” He scrunched his brow and looked down at his boots. “I was uhhm. I was thinking, maybe it’d be like. I don’t know, might be a good idea if…” He gazed upward with his face still contorted. He looked like he’d just eaten something extremely bitter. “If uhhm. I think you should. Well, you should consider maybe moving in. Moving in here. With me. I think you should consider that.” Absolutely what I wanted to hear, but nowhere near what I was expecting, I sat, stuffed into the corner of the couch, and stared. I was at a loss for words. Try as I might, I could not speak. I, too, knew what I felt for Cambio, and I knew the feelings were genuine. The way he made me feel when we made love was beyond compare. It was as if we were meant for each other, placed on this earth for no other reason. Living with him would finally give me the feeling of having a family I had never had. “See, you’re wigged out,” he huffed. “No, no I’m not,” I said as I stood. “I was shocked,” I said as I opened my arms. He raised his hands and turned his palms upward. “Same fucking difference, Wigged out. Shocked.” “Shocked in a good way. It’s exactly what I wanted, but not what I expected,” I explained as I walked his direction. “So, when would you want to do this, if we decided to?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as he spoke. “I mean here pretty quick.” Feeling maybe as if I got the cart in front of the horse so to say, I tried to settle myself down slightly and prepare for the rest of the story. As always, my interpretation of what he was saying, and his intent was two totally different things. Now settling back down onto planet earth, I decided to pry for a little more definite answer. I stepped in front of him, pried his arms apart, I raised my hands up to his shoulders.

“I see. Like how quick?” I said. He leaned down, kissed me, and shrugged. He turned toward the window and stared out at the street. After walking away from me, and leaving me standing in the center of the living room like an idiot, he peered out the window and into the sky. He turned from the window and smiled. “We probably still have, like I don’t know, three hours of daylight. We could get it done tonight if you want?” he said. I licked my lips, swallowed, and squeaked out my response. “Tonight?” “If you want, yeah. You don’t have much stuff. I just. I don’t know. When were together, I’m all happy and shit. And when you go home, or I go home, I just sit and look at my watch and try and figure out when I’m going to see you next. Hell, I fucking hate phones, and I’m staring at mine even thinking about calling you and shit. You know, just so we can talk. It’s kind of dumb if you ask me; you being in one place and me being in another. It’d be kind of like me saying I have a bike, and I’ve got the bike here, and the motor over in Otis’ garage. It’s just dumb, you agree?” he asked. As strong as I am, I’m still a little girl. I had always told myself I never had a chance to be the little girl I always wanted to be. Now, I felt I was having a chance to be the little girl I never had an opportunity to be. Robbed from my childhood, and never having a place to call home, now I felt like a little girl with the offering for a home to call her own. I stared at Cambio and fought back the tears of the little girl in me, and for a moment attempted to be a woman. Even though I had been in several relationships in the past, I had never been in love. I never even once suspected I was. I was simply filling a void in my life left by my parents, and later my brother. Now, after spending a period of time without anyone, and becoming accustomed to it, having Cambio in my life was something new, something special, something I not only desperately wanted, but something I had spent an entire lifetime without. He was my father, my brother, my mother, and my lover, all wrapped up in one. He was now doing what he said I was doing to and for him. He was unbreaking me. “I agree. It’s just plain stupid living in separate places. Let’s do it tonight,” I said. “Thank God. I was afraid you were going to say no,” he said. And I was afraid you were never going to ask.

TOAD Contrary to what I had always believed, being in love didn’t make a man less of a man, or make him soft, if anything, it made him more apt to stand up for what he believed in, all in an effort to preserve his beliefs and protect his understanding of those beliefs for him and the person or persons he loved. As I stepped out of Tater’s truck and toward the house, I feared I would spend the rest of my life preserving my beliefs, protecting the ones I loved, and doing what I believed was best not only for me and the ones I loved, but for society. Some things, I guessed, would never change. As Ripp said, a wolf will always be a wolf. “Sure you’re up to this,” Otis asked as we walked up the short sidewalk. I patted my back pocket and nodded my head. “Just like we discussed.” As soon as we stepped onto the porch, I reached for the doorbell. After ringing it twice, I heard footsteps coming toward the door. “Something I can do for you?” the man said as he opened the door. He was dressed in camouflage pants, a wife beater, and flip-flops. “Actually our truck started running out of gas about a quarter mile back,” I said as I pointed over my shoulder. “Damned thing doesn’t have a working gas gauge. We’re just trying to get back to Wichita. Probably a gallon or so might get us to Winfield to a gas station. I can pay for it…” “Come on it,” he said as he stepped aside.

“Nice place you got here. What’s all that fenced in area out back? Turkeys?” Otis asked. “Dogs,” the man responded flatly. “Must be quite a few, they all yours?” Otis asked as we followed him toward the garage. “Yep, Pits,” he responded as he stepped down the stairs into the garage. Otis turned, glanced over his shoulder and winked. After rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms back, he expressed interest in the man’s response. “Pit Bulls?” Otis shrugged. As the man turned to face him, Otis swung a two-punch combination into his stomach and chin. As I expected, the man collapsed onto the floor of the garage, unconscious. Quickly, I pulled the zip-ties from my back pocket and zipped one around each wrist tightly. Another zip-tie tying each of the two together provided a cheap set of handcuffs which would be all but impossible to remove. “Legs?” Otis asked as he pulled him to his feet. “No, fuck it. It’ll be good if he tries to run. Add to the excitement. I’ll open the garage door,” I said. I reached for the remote mounted on the wall, and pressed the button. After the garage door opened, I walked out to Tater’s truck, reached in the back, and removed the grocery sack. As I began walking back to the garage, the man was regaining consciousness. “What the fuck,” he hollered as he realized his hands were bound behind his back. “Shut the fuck up,” Otis growled. “Listen carefully, and I do mean carefully. Your life depends on it. I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re only going to get one chance to answer me. Only one. Understand?” “What the fuck’s going on? Who are you two? If you’re here for that money I owe Pedro, I’ve got it. In fact, I got it all,” he whined as he alternated glances between Otis and me. “Shut he fuck up. We’re not here for money,” Otis said. “Again, I’m going to ask you once, and

only once. Answer truthfully, and you get to live. Lie, and I’ll fucking kill you, so you decide. All I need’s the truth, and I can assure you, if you provide it, I won’t kill you. Got it?” Sitting on the floor of the garage, the man looked up, studied Otis for a second, and then studied me. After a few seconds, he turned toward Otis. “Yeah, I got it.” “Pit Bull pup was shot outside of town maybe a month back. He was six months old or so, I don’t know. Brindle colored pup with white under his neck. He was shot three times with a 9 millimeter. Did you shoot that dog?” Otis asked. The man stared at Otis for a long moment and swallowed. After glancing at me, studying the sack in my hand, and turning to face Otis, he responded. “Don’t matter what I say, if I tell you the truth, you’ll let me live?” he asked. “I won’t kill you if you tell me the truth,” Otis said. “Yeah, I shot him. But there was a reason,” he said as he tried to stand. I planted my foot on his shoulder and shoved him back onto the floor. “Let’s hear it,” Otis said. I nodded my head. “Pup cost me a lot of money. Couldn’t fight for shit,” the man explained. “All I needed to hear, you got anything?” Otis asked as he shifted his eyes in my direction. My blood boiling, and ready for the next step, I shook my head and reached into the bag. “Hold him still.” Otis pulled him up from the floor and placed him in a choke hold. As Otis held him from moving, I opened the packages of hamburger and stuffed the pockets of his pants with the meat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he howled as I shoved the pockets of his pants full of meat. “Hell his shirt’s tucked in, drop some inside,” Otis said. I opened the last package and shoved a handful of the bloody meat inside his shirt and pressed it

into his chest. As Otis began to lead him outside the garage, he realized what we were planning. “Oh fuck no, you can’t toss me to those dogs, not with this meat all over me. They’ll fucking eat me. Seriously, dude. Dude, I’m fucking begging you, they’ll kill me. You said. Holy shit dude, no. No! You said you wouldn’t kill me. You said that,” he cried as Otis dragged him toward the dog kennels. The fenced in area had kennels on each side, and a fenced walkway in between that the kennels opened into. It would allow a dog to be taken from a kennel, and into the walkway without coming into contact with the rest of the kennels. All the kennels, however, could be opened into the walkway at the same time, releasing all of the dogs to roam freely throughout the walkway. Each end of the walkway was shielded from an exit by a gate. “Just like we said,” Otis said as he dragged the man into the walkway. After dragging him to the far end of the walkway, the dogs began to bark and howl. I stood at the close end and watched as Otis shoved the man onto the ground and zip-tied his cuffed hands to the wire fence. Now covered in meat, and tied to the fence, the man didn’t have a prayer. The dogs, at least in our opinion, would rush to the far end of the kennel after the meat, allowing us to leave without incident. Although the man lived outside of town, Axton had already spoken to the local police chief regarding our plan, and learned the city had jurisdiction of the area. After we left, we were to call Axton, and he would contact the police. They would respond to a domestic call in the area, and find the dogs mauling him. They’d give him the option of keeping his mouth shut and seeking medical attention, or telling his version of the story to the Fed’s while they processed him for fighting Pit Bulls. According to everyone’s beliefs, the dogs wouldn’t kill him, but having a jaw pressure of over 200 pounds per square inch, the dozen hungry fuckers wouldn’t do him any good, either. As Otis walked past each gated kennel, he opened the door. After opening the last one, he hurriedly walked to where I stood. As the man screamed, I opened the gate, let Otis pass, and stood back to watch the show. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Otis said. I shook my head. “I want to see this.” Slowly, the dogs came from their kennels into the walkway. After the first one stepped into the freedom of the 100 foot long fenced area, several others followed. All the dogs appeared scared and extremely shy. At virtually the same time, they lifted their heads and sniffed the air. Slowly, one began to

walk toward the man. After a few steps, he began to run. The others immediately followed. As they began to maul him in an effort to get the meat from his pockets, immediately things changed from a really good plan to a really disgusting event. “You sure you want to watch this?” Otis said over his shoulder as he turned away. “Can’t do it,” I said as I shook my head. “Fuck, won’t be anything left for the cops to find.” I turned around and began to walk to Tater’s truck. As Otis and I reached the truck, I turned toward the kennels. “God damn, didn’t quite go as planned, huh?” Otis said. “Sure don’t look like it,” I responded. “Serves the cock sucker right.” “I agree. But holy fuck, huh?” he said as he opened the door to the truck. “Don’t look like the cops are gonna be able to clean this mess up, fellers. Maybe one of ya ought to get a pair of tin snips or Dutchman’s out of my tool box, walk around the back of that pen, and cut them ties of that feller’s arms; from outside the pen, you know. And the other go close the front door and the garage door. Maybe they can make it seem like he went out to feed them dogs, and it went to hell in a handbasket. Hard to say it’s an accident if his arms are cuffed to the fence,” he said in a slow southern drawl. Otis turned toward the kennel. “Fuck I’ll do it. Yeah, looks like if they’re gonna haul him to jail, they’ll need a bucket to carry the pieces in. God damn.” I didn’t argue with Otis’ offer. As Otis walked to the bed of the truck and opened the tool box, I walked to the house, careful not to turn toward the kennel. The sound of the dogs alone was more than I was prepared for. My statement to the vet still held true, I didn’t kill the man. If Otis got the zip-ties removed through the fence he was tied to, it would truly look like an accident happened during feeding. As I walked back toward the truck, Otis began walking from the back side of the kennel. We met at the truck at the same time. “Can’t say it enough,” he sighed as he leaned onto the bed of the truck.

“What’s that?” I said as I opened the door and crawled into the truck. He reached around the cab of the truck and held the four zip-ties in front of the window for me to see. “Devil looks after his own.” “Amen,” Tater nodded. Amen.

SYDNEY Life hadn’t really offered me a tremendous amount of significant choices. As far as I was concerned, life just kind of happened, and I was along for the ride. I do realize I had made choices in my life, and the repercussion or benefits of the choices were a result of my decisions, but I had never felt any of the decisions were the life altering ones. I never in a lifetime of lifetimes would have guessed I would make such a statement, but looking at my life now, I wouldn’t change any portion of it if I were able. If I never would have been an orphan, I wouldn’t have been homeless, and if I hadn’t been homeless, I wouldn’t have met Cambio. Even my brother’s imprisonment brought Avery and I together as better friends, and without her, my life would be free of a having a girlfriend; something I now found essential to being a girl. “If you can’t say it with a picture, it doesn’t need to be said,” the tattoo artist scoffed. “You’re Steve, right? This is your shop, isn’t it? We are at Hell Bomb, right?” Avery responded. “Yes, yes, and yes,” he said as he turned away from us and toward his station. He looked like a younger version of Pete. He had a shaved head, tattoos down to his wrist on both arms, tattoos all over his hands, and a beard that went almost to the middle of his chest. Although he smiled as he spoke, he looked like he wouldn’t take shit from anyone, or be convinced to do anything he wasn’t comfortable doing, whether someone was paying him or not. “Well, Erik Ead told Axton that you’d do whatever we wanted, and that you didn’t do stupid tattoos. And neither of these are stupid,” Avery said as she walked around the edge of the partition.

“Customers aren’t allowed in the shop unless they’re getting tattooed,” he said over his shoulder. “Right, and you’re going to tattoo us,” Avery snapped. “I close in like 30 minutes, I’m not about to tattoo shit,” he said as he looked up at the clock on the wall. “Who sent you?” “Ead. Erik Ead. Doc Ead, rides a Big Dog Chopper, and has a new Street Glide Bagger. He’s a psychiatrist here in town, but he doesn’t practice. Rides in a club, it’s called, uhhm…” She paused and turned to face me. I shrugged my shoulders. “Doc Ead? Big snake on his chest? Got a full sleeve on his right, and a half a sleeve on the left arm? Black haired wife, cute as fuck? Mouthy little bitch, uhhm, Kelli?” The tattoo artist asked. “Yep, that’s him,” Avery agreed. “Well, hell. What are you looking to get?” he asked. “I want a tattoo of script on my left arm, on the back side of it. And so does she. Here,” she said as she handed him the piece of paper. “Veritas Vincit,” he said as he looked down at the sheet of paper. “Looks like Latin. And you both want the same tattoo?” he shrugged as he studied us both. We both nodded our heads. “Well isn’t that fucking cute,” he said with a laugh. “What’s it mean?” “Truth conquers,” Avery responded. “Hmm. Isn’t that the truth. Why this? You sure you want it? You know after I do it, you might have remorse, and there’s no removing it afterward,” he said as he glanced up at the clock. “Look. My brother got stuck in prison for saying he’d kill someone in a rival bike club. It looks like they may have entrapped him, like coerced.” I hesitated and turned toward Avery. She nodded her head and grinned.

“Yeah, coerced him to do it. Like forced him to make a decision he wasn’t going to make on his own. So, they gave him life in prison, and he’s in Big Sandy doing life, and I met Avery, and she said she’d file a legal motion, and she did. Now, well, now…” I paused and took a deep breath. I was almost too excited to speak. After exhaling and collecting my thoughts, I pressed my palms into my thighs and continued. “The upper court, the appellate court…” Avery nodded her head and gave me the thumbs up. “The appellate court said they’d rehear his case. And her boss is going to try the case and he’s never lost. Not a single case. So now, my brother might get let out of prison. And I want this tattoo, I want it more than anything. Because in the end, the truth does conquer. It prevails,” I blurted. “Hell’s Fury,” The artist said with a nod. “Club was Hell’s Fury?” I nodded my head eagerly. “Yes. Yes, it was.” “Remember when it happened. Fucking ATF pricks. Hear that Kevin? Remember when the ATF infiltrated the Hell’s Fury and set that guy up on conspiracy charges?” he asked over his shoulder. Without looking up, a man to his right responded. “Sure do.” “His sister’s in here. Looks like he may be getting a new trial,” he said over his shoulder. I shook my head. “Is getting a new trial.” “Oh, he is getting a new trial. ATF may have entrapped him. And the ladies here want Veritas Vincit tattoos to commemorate their…” “Truth conquers,” the man said over his shoulder, interrupting the artist. “You got it,” the artist said. “I’ll donate one,” Kevin said as he looked up. “Sounds good. You donate one, I’ll donate the other. Go lock the door and turn off the sign,” he said as he turned to his work station and opened a drawer. As he began to dig in the drawer, I turned toward Avery and gave her a hug.

“If you mean donate in the donate sense, we don’t want a handout,” I said. “We’ve got money and we’ll pay you.” “Well, it’s bad fucking luck on your part, I guess. Shop’s closed now, can’t accept money. But if you want this tattoo and want it done right, you’re at the right place,” he said as he fiddled with what I assumed was a tattoo gun. “I do, and everyone says you’re the best,” I said. “Arguable, but I’m right up there, huh Kevin,” he said with a laugh. “Bigger’n shit,” Kevin responded. “I’m Steve, have a seat,” he said as he patted the large leather chair in front of him. As I sat down, Kevin called Avery to his work station. After Steve sketched a script onto a sheet of paper, he walked to a copy machine and returned with two copies. He held one in the air for us both to see. “Take a look at this. If it’s what you want, fine, if it’s not, say so. You won’t offend me, it’s your tattoo. I can draw different versions of this thing all night, but I want you happy with it.” “It’s perfect,” Avery said. “It is,” I agreed. “Sure?” he asked. We both grinned and nodded. As he tattooed my arm, I sat in the chair and exchanged glances with Avery. I truly felt as if I now had a real sister. Not only were we becoming the best of friends, we would now forever be marked by the same tattoo, of the same script, obtained in the same place at the same time. It may mean something different to each of us, but the same event brought us together. Win or lose, we would always be bound by our tattoos and our memory of her attempt at what she believed was conquering her feelings of incompetence. As much as I feared being let down from the cloud I was living in by another guilty verdict, I couldn’t wait to see my brother at a new trial.

If he was set free, my life, in all respects, would be nothing short of a modern miracle. Within seconds of each other, the men finished our tattoos. After he cleaned it and wiped the area with a lubricant, he allowed me to go look in the mirror. The script was perfect, and the tattoo looked amazing. I turned and studied Avery’s. Both were identical, and nothing short of perfection. “Truth conquers, bitch,” Avery said as she raised her hand in the air. I slapped her hand with mine and grinned. “I sure hope so.” “If you two are happy, we’re happy. Good luck with your brother, and stop in and let me know how it went after it’s all over,” Steve said as he pulled off his rubber gloves. I turned to face Steve, smiled, and reached into my purse. “You take tips?” “Tips are always appreciated,” he said. “Well, here,” I said as I placed two $100 bills on the counter beside him. Steve held one of the bills in the air and waved it toward Kevin. Avery shook her head as she reached into her purse, removing two $100 bills. “Here’s your tip,” she said as she looked at her arm. “Wow, thanks,” Kevin said as he accepted the money. “You girls have a nice night, and tell Doc Ead I said hi,” Steve said as we walked toward the door. “I will. We’re having a patch-in party in a few weeks, and he’s going to be there with several other members of the club he’s in. I’ll let him know. And thank you,” Avery said as he held the door. “Fire and Iron,” Kevin shouted from the back of the store. “Oh, yeah,” Avery said. “That’s the name of it, Fire and Iron.” As we walked to the car I looked at my new watch. If we hurried, we could still make it before

they closed. “I have one place I want to stop before we head back,” I said. “Name it,” she said as she unlocked the car. “The Humane Society,” I said over the top of the car. “For?” she asked. “I want to see if they have any puppies,” I responded. “I love puppies,” she giggled. “So do I. I’ve never had one, and I was just thinking maybe we could look and see if one’s perfect,” I said. “Well, we got perfect matching tats, maybe we can find the perfect puppy,” she said as she crawled into her seat. I hope so. But he’s going to have to be perfect. Because his master sure is.

SYDNEY “Well, these pups came from a place up by Winfield. There were several of them. We’ve had them in quarantine for three weeks, and actually just brought them out earlier today. Sadly, we had to put six of them down, but these are all up for adoption,” the helpful worker explained. Avery and I both looked through the glass excitedly as two of the puppies fought over a piece of rope. “Can we go in?” I asked. “Absolutely,” the man smiled as he opened the door. Two of the puppies continued to tug on a long length of rope. The room smelled like a combination of sawdust and shampoo. As we both stood by the door and watched, the two puppies growled and tugged while the others watched. After a few shakes of his head, the spotted puppy gave one last tug, pulling the rope free of the other’s mouth. Now running through the room with the rope in his mouth, the victorious puppy seemed very proud of his accomplishment. After half a lap through the room, the puppy tripped over the rope he was dragging and fell face first on the floor. Avery knelt down and clapped her hands. All of the puppies looked up, but only the spotted one reacted. He immediately stood up and came running across the floor toward us. As he got close to where we stood, he attempted to stop, and slid across the tile floor until he bumped into Avery’s legs. He looked up as if she was in the wrong. Woof! The puppy barked. Avery put her hands on her hips and stared down at him.

“Is that right?” she asked in a playful voice. Woof! He responded. “Oh my God, he’s adorable,” I said. “He is, isn’t he?” she agreed. “So what’s your name?” she asked. As if he knew exactly what she had asked, he sat down, stared up at her and opened his mouth. A loud croak-like belch came from deep within him. He almost sounded like a frog. Or a toad. I turned toward Avery. “Uhhm, did he just croak? Like a Toad?” Avery said with a laugh. “Sure sounded like it,” I said. “Is this for who I think it is?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Sure is.” “I love his white markings down under his neck, he’s fucking cute,” Avery said as she reached down at patted him on the head. As soon as she touched him, he flopped onto his back and rolled around in a circle. “Oh my God, he’s…” “Perfect?” she asked. I nodded my head, lowered myself to the floor, and clapped my hands lightly. “Come here, little guy.” He immediately flipped over onto his feet, tried to come running, and fell over after becoming tangled in a blanket. After a second try, he came running toward me and fell over intentionally at my feet.

As I scratched his belly, his back leg started shaking with every scratch. I looked up at Avery. “Normal,” she said. “They all do it.” “So, what do you think?” the man asked as he slowly pushed the door open. “This one with the spots, I want him,” I said as I pointed down at the playful pup. “The Brindle?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. This one.” “His coloring, it’s called Brindle. Are you sure?” he asked. I nodded my head as I reached down and petted the pup. “Alright, let me get a crate for him and we’ll get him ready for you,” he responded. “You’re going to put him in a cage?” I asked. He nodded his head. “A crate.” “A cage?” I asked again. “Of sorts,” he responded. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I want a leash and a collar.” “Very well,” he said with a nod of his head. “We have a store right over there where you can choose any you’d like.” “See if they’ve got a Marine Corps one,” I chuckled. “If they don’t, get…I don’t know. Get a uhhm, get camouflage.” As Avery walked toward the gift shop, I continued to pet the pup. I knew he was perfect based solely on the fact he croaked when he opened his mouth. He was a special puppy for a special man, and I intended to give him to Cambio on a very special day. I just needed Avery to help me with one more thing…

TOAD I had never stepped into a day expecting it to be any different than any other day. A particular date, month, or year didn’t reserve a special place in my heart or on my calendar. For me to determine if a day was special, it had to end first, and as I reflected on the events of the day, I placed a value on it. Holidays, birthdays, or days of the week were simply days, regardless of their position within a week, month, or year. Any of them could end up great, mediocre, or just plain awful. “I was thinking maybe we could go over to the pizza place or something,” Sydney said. “And I was thinking we’d stay here and…” I leaned into her and kissed her neck. I had minimal experience kissing, touching, or even caring about a woman until I met Sydney. Now, based on her comments and expression about what she liked and disliked, I truly looked forward to satisfying her sexually as well as sensually. As I gripped her upper arms lightly in my hands and continued to press my face into her neck and kiss her aggressively, goosebumps rose along her arms. I lightly began to nibble along her heck until I reached her shoulder. As I softly kissed and licked the base of her neck, she sighed and shook her arms. “Forget the pizza, keep doing that,” she said as she exhaled audibly. I lifted her from her feet and carried her toward the couch. “You’re going to hurt your…” she began. “Shhh, I’ll be the judge of that,” I whispered as I lowered her onto the cushion.

I knelt on the floor at the base of the couch and began to kiss her stomach and hips. As she moaned and squirmed, I lifted her shirt over her head. After unsnapping her bra and tossing it to the side, I began softly sucking and licking her nipples. Caressing her breasts as I sucked them, I watched her face as I did. As she watched me sucking her boobs, I observed the expressions on her face. I had learned from simply paying attention that she liked watching me suck and lick her tits as much as I enjoyed doing it. As she began to bite her lower lip and stare down at my mouth, I bit her nipple lightly between my teeth. “Oh fucking fuck,” she said as she released her lip and bit into it more aggressively. I released her nipple and began sloppily kissing and sucking her breast. “Mmmm,” she cooed. I reached down between her legs, and slid my hand along her thigh and under her shorts. As my finger fumbled underneath her panties, she gasped. She was wet all the way down to the crack of her ass. I pulled against the waist of her shorts, and fumbled with the button. After finally unfastening the waist, I pulled them to her feet and tossed them aside. Now lying on the couch in only her underwear, I stood and admired her. As I stood, it was obvious I was beyond ready. My cock was fighting against the fabric of my jeans for freedom. I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my jeans, and pulled them down to my thighs. As my swollen shaft bounced upward, and free of my jeans, she leaned forward on the couch and gripped it in her hand. “Stick it in my mouth,” she moaned. I laughed. “Oh hell no, you’re not tricking me into that bullshit, not tonight.” She gazed upward and batted her brown eyes. “What?” I pressed my hands to my hips and shook my head. “You know what. I can’t last five minutes with you sucking on my cock. I want to fuck.” As I reached down to push my jeans to the floor, she leaned forward and started slurping and sucking the tip of my cock. As I fought with my jeans, she continued. Finally, as I kicked the jeans free from my feet, I leaned backward, and pulled my cock from her very capable mouth. I reached down and grabbed the hips of her panties with both hands.

“I…” I yanked against the fabric. “Want…” I yanked again. She stared up at me with wide eyes. “These…” I said as I pulled sharply. “Off!” As the panties snapped in two, I pulled upward on the fabric, pulling the lower part from beneath her ass, and tossed them aside. “I’m done fucking around, I’m dying here,” I said as I pulled my shirt over my head and crawled onto the sofa. “You just tore my panties off,” she said. I grinned and nodded my head. “Maybe we should go to the bed,” she said as she tossed her head toward the hallway. I gripped my cock and guided it between her legs. As I felt the tip begin to penetrate her soaking wet pussy, I gently pushed my hips forward and closed my eyes as she reached down and gripped her ass cheeks in her hands. After she kicked one of her legs onto the back of the couch, she raised the other, and dropped it over the edge of the couch and onto the floor. I pressed my knees into the cushion and began slowly working my swollen cock in and out of her wetness. “Oh God, that feels good,” she moaned. “fuck me…just like that...fuck me.” I lowered my chest to hers and began to kiss her as I continued to work my hips back and forth carefully. With each in stroke, she exhaled and moaned a pleasurable gasp. Lost in the moment, my love for her, and how it felt to provide her with the deep satisfaction she explained only I could bring, I continued to kiss her and work myself in and out of her swollen mound. As she released her ass, raised her hands behind me, and sank her fingers deep into my back, I knew she was about to climax. As her fingernails drug across my back, she began to moan.

“Oh…my God….hold….hold it right…” “There,” she moaned as I felt myself bottom out inside of her. I held myself still as I felt her pussy convulse into an orgasm. After a deep sigh and releasing my back from her tight grip, I slowly began to work myself in and out of her slippery pussy again. “Oh dear God,” she said as I thrust myself in and out, bottoming out with each stroke. “Holy fuck, you know I can’t…” “Handle…” “This…” she gasped. I continued to pound myself into her carefully, but with as much force as I had learned she could handle. As the tip of my cock met resistance, I released the pressure, and pulled my hips back. The repetitive motion and her tight pussy soon proved to be too much. I collapsed onto her chest and continued for a few more strokes. “Kiss me,” I said as she arched her back and tilted her head into the cushion behind her. As she fought to raise her head, I slid my hand underneath her neck, and gripped it in my hand. As I lifted her head upward, I pressed my lips into hers and kissed her deeply until I felt myself begin to reach climax. As we continued to kiss, her pussy began to contract again into a massive orgasm. She bit into my lower lip and dug her fingernails into my back. As I felt myself explode inside of her, I arched my back, pulled my mouth from hers, curled my toes, and opened my eyes. “I love you,” I groaned. She opened her eyes as she fought to catch her breath. “I passed…” “That stage…” “A long fucking…” “Time ago,” she gasped.

“You little smart ass,” I sighed. “If you move, you’re going to have cum all over this couch. Hand me my shirt,” she said as she raised her hand in the air. I reached down and grabbed my tee shirt and handed it to her. “That’s yours,” she said. “Use it, it’s cheap,” I said. “Ready?” She nodded her head. I pulled my hips back and yanked my cock from inside of her. “You fucker,” she said as quickly reached between her legs with the shirt. “I told you, don’t snatch the cock away, remember?” she whined. She had told me countless times not to do what I had just done. “Sorry,” I said. “I forgot.” “You’re full of shit,” she snapped as she rolled off the edge of the couch and waddled toward the bathroom. I gazed down at my glistening cock. I had come a long way since I met Sydney. My life seemed to be in order now. I may have been a Sinner, and prone to do things other men would never dream of, but I did so knowing my love for her would never fade. No one on this earth would protect her, provide for her, or keep her from harm with greater assurance than I would. As I heard her washing herself off in the bathroom, I stood from the couch and walked her direction. “Shower?” I said as I leaned in the doorway. “Uhhm, sure. Sounds good. I need to see if we can run by the shop, Avery’s up there and I want to see her,” she said over her shoulder. “Okay. Well, how about shower, pizza, and shop?” I asked. She turned to face me as I reached in and started the water. “Shower, shop, pizza. Before she

goes?” “Sure,” I responded as I stepped into the shower. After a shower, fresh clothes, and arguing over the hunger I had developed, we were on our way to the shop. Sydney, as always, rode steady as a rock on the back of my bike. If her hands weren’t visible at my sides, I wouldn’t even realize she was behind me. As we came around the corner of the block, I noticed several of the fella’s bikes at the shop. It was by no means full, but for a Tuesday night, there were more than usual. A few, strangely, I didn’t recognize. After parking the bike, we walked into the empty shop. “What the fuck? Are they in the meeting room?” I asked as I looked around the shop. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know where you fuckers hang out.” “Follow me,” I said as I walked toward the meeting room. As I opened the door, several smiling faces stared at me. Otis, Slice, Junior, Sarah, Kate, Fancy… I glanced to my right. Oh God damn. Staff Sergeant Jacob, my man Ripp, Shane Dekkar… Avery stepped from behind Axton. In her arms was an exact twin of the pup I had found on the road. He fought in her arms to get away. My heart, mind, and entire body filled with emotion as I felt a tremendous heat wash over me. I reached up and wiped the sweat from my brow. I turned toward Sydney and stared. “Happy Birthday, Baby. Sorry, I had to do it,” she said. Junior waved and grinned. “Happy Birthday, Mister Toad.”

“Junior,” I said with a nod. “Happy Birthday,” Avery said as she handed me the pup. He looked up excitedly, opened his mouth and belched a sound that sounded like a frog. I turned toward Sydney and grinned. My heart was racing, and I felt like a little kid again. Similar to what I remembered Christmas being like as a child, it was almost more emotion than I could contain. Holding the wiggling pup in my arms, I turned to A-Train and nodded. “Fuck brother, we don’t have jobs, so it was no big deal. Happy Birthday. How you doing?” he asked as he patted me on the shoulder. “I’m good, Brother,” I sighed as I looked down at the pup. I turned toward Ripp and Shane Dekkar. “Ripp, Dekk, thanks for coming.” They both grinned and nodded their heads. “The puppy came from the shelter. If you don’t want him, we can take him back. We’ve got thirty days. Avery and I picked him out.” Sydney paused and studied the squirming pup. “But you should give him a chance, he’s from here.” “Winfield?” I asked. I hadn’t told Sydney anything about what happened with the man who owned the Pit Bulls, and she didn’t ask. To think that she may have found the dogs which were confiscated from the home on her own was almost unimaginable. As I held the pup, I studied him. He sure appeared to be a brother of the pup I had tried to save. It had been a month since the dogs were found there and hauled in to the pound. The same caliber of miracle which brought the first pup to me had happened again, bringing another just like him. “Yeah, the guy at the Humane Society said some guy was fighting them,” she explained. “They had to put some of them down, and these little guys lived through the quarantine.” “Well, we’re keeping him,” I said as I patted him on the head. Otis walked up to me and smiled. As he leaned into me and hugged me, he motioned toward the door with his head.

“Be right back,” I said over my shoulder as I followed him into the hallway. “Remember that pup?” he asked as he reached for him and scratched his neck. I shook my head. “Nope.” “Last kennel on the right,” Otis said. “Well, she said the guy told her they were from here, here in Winfield,” I responded. Otis continued to scratch the dog’s neck and shifted his gaze upward. “I got a few questions, Brother.” “I’m listening,” I responded. “What color are Sydney’s eyes?” he asked. “Brown, why?” I responded. He shook his head. “Hair color?” he asked. “Blonde, you know that,” I snapped. “Nail polish?” he asked. “Nail polish is purple. Well, at least today it is. So are her toes,” I responded. “You cocksucker, I see where you’re going,” I whispered as I shook my head. “You’ve come a long way Toad. She’s a fine woman. Hell, I didn’t even know when your birthday was, because you don’t celebrate ‘em. She gathered up all the fellas, fuck, she called me two weeks ago; that’s a damn good woman. Just thought I’d check with ya, and make sure you knew all the essentials before I gave you my final endorsement,” he said as he slapped his hand against my bicep. “Well?” I said. “You’re good to go,” he said with a nod of his head as he opened the door.

I stared into the room. Everyone stood and smiled as I held the pup. As I lowered him to the floor I noticed he had a camouflage quick-release collar identical to the one I picked out at the vet the day I took the pup in. I glanced up at Sydney. “You pick out he collar, too?” I asked. She nodded her head. “They didn’t have a U.S.M.C one.” I inhaled a shallow breath and gazed down at the pup. For a short second, I closed my eyes and gave thanks for everyone in attendance, but especially for the woman I loved, Sydney. I glanced upward and clapped my hands. “Where’s the cake?” I chuckled. “Didn’t bring you no cake, bossman. But I gots us some apple pies,” Junior responded. Axton and Junior stepped aside, revealing three apple pies with candles in them. I hadn’t had a birthday cake since I was a kid. In many respects, I felt like a kid again. I turned to Sydney and shook my head. “I love you,” I said. She grinned and nodded her head. “I passed that stage a long fucking time ago.” “Quit flirting with the girl and blow out these fucking candles, Toad,” Axton huffed. “I’ve got shit to do.” I turned toward the flaming candles and shook my head. “Like what?” “I’ve got a dog to train,” he responded. I closed my eyes, inhaled, made a wish, and blew for all I was worth. Fucked up lung or not, I blew out every candle on the three pies. I guess that means I’m going to get my wish…

TOAD With the passage of time, things change. Whether we like it or not, or care to admit it, time brings change. Time causes the deterioration of earth, aging of the mind and body, and maturity, amongst other things. In spite of our willingness to accept it, time passes even when we hide our heads from the reality of the ticking clock. The ride to Philadelphia was pleasant. Warm and without rain the entire trip, it was as if we had planned it based solely on the weather. Truthfully, we merely packed our bags, dropped off Croak with Axton, and hit he open road. As we rolled along Bainbridge, I gazed in the distance toward the same home I grew up in as a kid. Now feeling a little more apprehensive than I had during the trip, I began to wonder if they still lived in the same house. As we slowly rolled past, Sydney tapped her fingers into my thighs with the beat of the softly playing music. The color of the trim was different, the door appeared to be new, and the landscaping had been altered. Anything was possible. As I reached the end of the block, I turned around and began considering my apology-greeting combination. Sydney leaned forward and rested her cheek against my jaw. “Close?” I nodded my head and pointed at the brick home. She nodded and leaned back into the seat. As I rolled into the driveway, I flipped off the ignition, coasted into the end of the drive, and exhaled. After lowering the kickstand and securing the bike, Sydney stepped off into the driveway. As we stretched our legs and I contemplated going up the walk, the door opened.

“Mio Figlio,” he said as he opened his arms. I bit my lower lip, turned toward Sydney, and blinked my eyes a few times. After extending my arm in her direction, she walked to my side. As I wrapped my arm around her, I turned to face my father and released my lip. “Buongiorno, padre. Ci si sente bello essere a casa.” I slowly began to walk up the walkway toward the porch. My mother wedged herself between my father and the door frame, blinked, and immediately raised her hands to her face and began to cry. “Mi dispiace per il mio tempo lontano, ma ho portato una donna. Una donna che amo. Semplicemente ho messo un po 'per trovare il suo,” I said as we reached the porch. “English, baby,” Sydney whispered. “I said I’d like you to meet Sydney,” I said. My father wiped his hands against his pants and almost fell down the steps as he rushed to the sidewalk. After wiping his hands again on his thighs again, he opened his arms and smiled. “He’s not going to shake your hand, hug the man,” I said. He lifted Sydney from her feet and hugged her as if she were his own. My mother wiped her hands on her apron and quickly shuffled down the steps and grabbed me in her arms. After squeezing me much more than my throbbing shoulder preferred, she released me and grabbed Sydney. My mother studied Sydney, turned to me, and placed her palms against my cheeks. Softly, and through teary eyes, she spoke. “Lei è una bella donna, ma lei non è italiano.” “Baby,” Sydney said. “English momma. English,” I said. “I said it was good to be home, and that I brought the woman I loved with me,” I said. My father shook his head. “No, mio figlio, you said you were so sorry for being late, but you took so long to find the most beautiful woman in the world before you came home.” I nodded my head. “He’s right. I said all of that.”

I turned to face my mother, and grinned as I spoke. “Momma says you’re beautiful…” She shook her head from side to side and covered her mouth. I raised my hands and turned toward Sydney. “But she said you’re not an Italian girl,” I said. Sydney shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry, I’m not Italian. But no one can love him as much as I do.” “Does she like the meatballs?” my mother asked. “I don’t know, ask her,” I replied. Sydney nodded her head. “I do, yes.” My mother turned and walked in the house. As my father wrapped his arm around my waist, I placed mine over Sydney’s shoulder. Together, we walked into the house. As I entered the home, I immediately noticed nothing had changed; the same furniture, the same placement of photos and plants, and the same smell of food cooking. As nervous as I was to return, I was beginning to feel as if I was welcome all along. I stood and stared into the living room and inhaled a slow, deep breath. A photo of me in my Marine dress blues was centered in the mantle over the fireplace. I grinned as I admired the young man in the photo. A lifetime seemed to have passed since the photo was taken. “Show her to the kitchen,” my father said. In my father’s eyes, Sydney belonged in the kitchen with my mother. It was not a disrespectful thing in his eyes, but more of a traditional family matter. Italian women gathered in the kitchen and cooked together. Men sat and ate, talked, and drank. For him to have said what he said meant to me he had already accepted Sydney as being who she was; the woman I loved. Sydney followed me to the kitchen. As soon as we walked in, my mother turned toward us and smiled. The aroma of basil, tomatoes, pork, and flour filled the air. “Let me show you,” my mother said as she waved her arm toward the oven. “She’ll want to explain everything…” I began.

“I’ll be fine,” Sydney said. “Sure?” I asked. Sydney turned toward me and wrinkled her brow. “Yes. Now go see your father.” I kissed my mother on the cheek, and turned toward the door. As I walked away, I heard my mother begin to explain things to Sydney. “Italian men won’t eat pasta from the market. We’ll make the pasta inna minute. Let me show you…” I shook my head and laughed to myself. For the last ten years, I’d eaten pasta from a can. The smell from the kitchen and the thought of once again having my mother’s cooking caused my mouth to water. As I stepped into the living room, my father stood from his chair and struggled to speak. “Sit…” I sighed as I pointed to the chair. “I’m done sitting. I want to stand,” he said as he began pacing the floor. “I missed you,” I said. He turned to face me, gazed into my eyes, and eventually smiled. Although his face seemed the same, I knew he had aged since I’d seen him last. Standing before him now, I felt guilty for the time away, and wished I could change the fact I had been gone for so long. There was no way to make up for my failure to be the son to them they had raised and expected, but I felt I needed to try. If nothing else, I felt a desire to explain my version of why I acted in the manner I had. “I uhhm. Over there,” I tossed my head toward the door. “I uhhm. I did things…” He raised his hand to his face and pressed his index finger to his mouth. “Shhh.” After another lap across the floor, he looked up and nodded his head. “You know, it doesn’t matter. The war, what happened over there, none of it matters. We’re proud of you. We’ve seen the movies. Your momma and I watched the new one; the Clint Eastwood movie with the boy from Texas. That war….”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “It was different. I sat in Korea and froze half to death while we waited for an enemy who never came. Your grandfather froze to half to death in France in foxholes while he tried to keep from being shot…” “You? You fought a man while you looked into his eyes. You fought in cities and in homes. Face to face. You fought women and children. Your war was different. I’m sorry, figlio,” he said as he stretched his arms wide. As we embraced, I found it comforting that although I had not spoken to him regarding my concerns, reasons for not visiting, or my mental state of being, I didn’t have to. He was my father, and somehow, he knew. On his own, he had determined through my actions, or lack of actions, what was potentially wrong with me, and what I must be feeling as a result. Over the course of my life with them, they carefully molded me into the man I had become. If anyone knew me, my inner workings, my strengths, and my weaknesses, it would stand to reason it would be my parents. As he released me, I leaned away from him and nodded my head. I opened my mouth with every intention of speaking, but could find no words to say. At a loss for more than the words I wasn’t able to find, I stepped to the couch and sat down. “I like the color of the trim and the new door, they look nice,” I said as I sat down. He shook his head. “Your mother and I fought for a month over the color.” I inhaled a deep breath and looked around the room. The tattered map of Italy from my grandfather’s home was hanging on the wall beside my father’s chair. I remembered the map from their house on the wall beside where the Christmas tree had always been placed. I smiled at the memories as I studied it, took another shallow breath, and exhaled. “Meatballs?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes I think it’s all she knows…” “Amo la cucina di mia madre,” I sighed. He nodded his head. “Sono d'accordo.” As I glanced around the room, I realized although time passes and things change in the process,

some things never changes. Home is always home. And I will always be my father’s son.

TOAD More meatballs than I cared to eat, laughing, recalled memories, and countless stories later, and I was in the kitchen spending time with my mother as Sydney spoke to my father. Although I had no expectation of my parents rejecting Sydney, I had reservations about their complete acceptance of her. She was not Italian, nor was she Catholic. After spending the entire day with them, it was apparent they only wanted me to be happy. Pleased at their understanding, acceptance, and expressed love for Sydney, I felt it necessary to explain to my mother the depth of my love for Sydney. “Momma, she’s the one,” I said over her shoulder as I stood behind her. She nodded her head. “She’s a nice girl.” “No momma. She’s the one,” I said as I kissed her cheek. She wiped her hands against her apron and turned around. I nodded my head and smiled. She raised her hands to her mouth and gasped. Without speaking, she lowered her hand from her mouth, turned her index finger upward, and ran from the room. After I spent several minutes alone cleaning up the kitchen, she returned with her hand at her side. “Cambio, you ask her proper. For your momma, capisce?” she said as she stood with her hands at her side. “I will, momma,” I said. “And…” She paused and raised her hand in front of her apron.

She opened her hand. A small burgundy box sat in the center of her wrinkled palm. With a shaking hand, she reached over and opened the box. A gorgeous ring with a large center stone and several stones along each side, all of what appeared to be diamonds, glistened from its perch on the pedestal in center of the box. “This was your grandmother’s ring. Your grandfather Nonno…” She hesitated and raised her hand to her mouth as she inhaled a choppy breath. “Mother, I can’t…” “You hush, Cambio. You think you know everything. Since you were this tall.” She lowered her hand from her mouth and held it two feet over the floor. “You don’t. Your Nonno told me. When he passed. He wanted this for you when the day came. So you hush and you listen to you momma, capisce?” I nodded my head. She raised one eyebrow. “Capisce?” she asked sternly. “Capisco,” I said. “Your Nonno said to give this to you. It’s old. He bought if for your grandmother after the war. He couldn’t afford a ring before the war, so she wore a metal band made of copper. After the war, he bought this. It’s the ring she wore the entire time you knew her as your grandmother,” she explained as she gazed down at the ring. After a short pause, she closed the box, and clutched it in her hand. She extended her arm and softly began to cry. As I reached for her hand and opened my palm, I too began to cry at the thought of one day asking Sydney to marry me. Through tearful eyes, she spoke. “You ask her proper, capisce?” “Capisco,” I responded as I wiped the tear from my cheeks. And she dropped the ring into my hand. As I clutched the ring in my hand and hugged my mother, it was as if the memories and love associated with the ring began to fill me. Be it from my mother’s expressed love through her embrace and

her soft crying, or from the thought of the ring and the history behind it, I began to feel as if I were filling with love. As I released her and kissed her cheek, I realized I had truly reached a point that I could safely say, without reservation, that I was a changed man. As I shoved the ring deeply into my left pocket, there was no doubt in my mind that I had finally reached the point… I was unbroken.

TOAD “It’s a beautiful spot, here under the tree,” Sydney whispered. I nodded my head. “It’s perfect. I put that up there twelve years ago.” “The wind chime?” she asked as she looked up toward the tree. “It came from his house. He listened to it while he watched the birds. It was relaxing to him. I figured he’d be able to relax here with the sound from it,” I said as I knelt down and wiped the dust from the top of the stone. “I’m really glad you brought me here. And your parents are just precious. I love…I uhhm, I really…I really love your...your mother…” The emotion in her voice was apparent. I imagined she felt like she was introduced to my family, only to have them stripped away, no differently than her family had been taken from her. “We’ll come back. Often,” I assured her as I stood. After a hug and a long embrace, she wiped her eyes and nodded her head. “I’m…I’m going to walk over to the bike,” she said. “Take your time.” “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll just be a few minutes.” As she walked away, I admired her. To me, she was the perfect woman. The thought of one day

having a family with her, and bringing her in to my existing family, would be my dream come true. As she leaned against the bike and tilted her head toward the sky, I turned toward the head stone. “Nonno, it’s about that time again. I’m sorry, but I didn’t write anything this time. You know I love you,” I said as I stood. “Momma gave me the ring, Nonno. She said you wanted me to have it. I’m going to just tell you now, because I may not make it back in time, but she’s the one, Nonno.” I hesitated and turned toward Sydney. “I’ll take care of her, and protect her like you told me to. You know she saved my life. Well, kind of. No, I guess she really did. She keeps me grounded, Nonno. She makes living life pretty simple. I love her, I just wish you were here to see it when I asked her to marry me, I really do…” A slight pain shot through my left shoulder as if someone were squeezing it. I spun around quickly and faced the gravestone. I shrugged my shoulders and gazed at the stone. “You probably think I’m crazy, don’t you old man?” I asked. “Anyway, I’ll ask her as soon as the time is right, don’t you worry. And she’ll wear the ring with pride. I’ll see you again real soon, Nonno. I’m sorry you can’t be here for all of it.” I sighed as I bent down and kissed the top of the stone. I turned to face Sydney. A hand gripped my shoulder. I spun around and raised my fists. The stubble on the back of my freshly shaved neck began to rise. I felt a chill run down my spine. My shoulder began to throb. Although I was certain I was going insane, I asked the question anyway. “Is that you, old man?” I whispered. My shoulder throbbed as if being squeezed. My entire body shuddered. I shook my head. “Oh…I uhhm. Oh shit…uhhm, you’re here?”

The dull pain returned. “Uhhm. Holy shit, Nonno. You want me to uhhm…you want me to ask her now?” My shoulder felt as if someone patted it twice. Although I knew no one had touched me, something did. Be it my mind, his spirit, or be it the good Lord himself, someone was speaking to me. As crazy as it seemed, and as unbelievable as it was to comprehend, I continued. “I’m glad you could be here, old man. Hold on,” I said as I brushed my hand along the edge of the stone. I reached into my pocket and removed the ring. I glanced over my shoulder toward the bike, and Sydney. She stared up at the sky, smiling. “Come here, I need to ask you something,” I shouted as I knelt down in front of the stone. As I watched her approach, my heart began to race. I slid my hand between my knees and clenched the ring in my fist. As she stepped in front of me and gazed down into my eyes, she looked worried. “Yes?’ she whispered. “Sydney, I uhhm, I want to ask you something. I uhhm. I was talking to my grandfather; you know how I told you we talk?” She nodded her head. “I think it’s adorable.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. Come on, old man. Help me out. Don’t make me look like a fool. “Well. Sydney Shephard.” I paused and lifted my hand from my knees. She stared down at my hand. As I opened it, she gasped. “Will you honor me by being my wife?” I asked as I opened the box. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. She nodded her head. After looking up to the sky, she gazed down and opened her mouth. “I will,” she responded.

I stood, slipped the ring onto her finger, and pulled her to my chest. After a long, soft kiss, I held her close to my chest and said a short prayer. As she lifted her head from my shoulder, she pressed her arms against my chest, stood back, and lowered herself to a kneeling position. “Don’t worry, Nonno, he’s in good hands,” she whispered. Suddenly, she turned and looked over her left shoulder. “What?’ I asked. “Oh, that was really weird,” she said as she stood. “I would have sworn you just patted me on the shoulder,” she said. Some things in life aren’t meant to be understood. As much as I wanted to, I was never able to understand what happened at the gravesite that day. Not for certain. But I knew one thing without a doubt. I loved Sydney Shephard more than I loved myself. And I’d spend a lifetime proving it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. If the reader wishes to find out more about Shane Dekkar, A-Train, Ripp, Kace, or Vee, their story is told in the completed Boxer Series. UNDEFEATED UNSTOPPABLE UNLEASHED And UNBROKEN

OTIS Scott Hildreth



DEDICATION My first introduction to a motorcycle club was over a decade ago. In a short period of time riding with them, it was apparent why men chose to become members of such clubs. The camaraderie within the ranks of the MC was indescribable. To call the men brothers would be an understatement at best. A young man who was a Prospect for the club was denied his patch when his probationary period was over. Immediately following the denial of his patch, he committed suicide at home in front of his wife. Ranger, this one’s for you.



AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction in all regards. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.



COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. OTIS 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Covert art by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth





PROLOGUE A man dressed in a dark blue well-fitted suit walked methodically toward the edge of the conference table. After exchanging glances with the ATF agents seated on the opposite side of the room, he hesitated. As he adjusted his tie, he exhaled an audible sigh. Filled with hatred for all Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs, his hands began to shake from anticipation of the pending arrests he believed his branch was certain to make. Eventually, to stabilize his hands and disguise the shaking, he placed them flat on the surface of the table as he leaned forward. After clearing his throat, he spoke. “Special Agent Pintler, the Grand Jury testimony is paramount to the prosecution of this case. How much additional time is necessary?” he asked. Pintler, dressed in jeans, boots, and a leather vest adorned with a Selected Sinners patch, straightened his posture as he raised his hands to the sides of his face. Now rubbing his temples nervously with the tips of his fingers, he inhaled a deep breath, sighed, and fixed his gaze on the Director of Operations. “A few more weeks, a month at most,” Pintler said as he lowered his hands to the thighs of his faded denim jeans. The Director of Operations released the edge of the table from his grasp and took a step back. Clearly frustrated, he placed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. As he fumbled to find his 1-year sobriety coin he had recently received from his Alcoholics Anonymous group, he bit into his lower lip slightly. “I want this OMG, the Selected Shitheads - or whatever they’re called - out of the picture, Pintler. These sons-of-bitches are an up-and-coming group of outlaws that is certain to be a huge threat if left to their own devices. Need I remind you of your responsibility not only to the bureau, but to the branch, and to the citizens of the United States of America?” he asked as he nervously rubbed the coin between his thumb and forefinger. Pintler stood from his seat as he continued to press the palms of his hands against his thighs. “I don’t need a reminder. I’m well fucking aware of my responsibilities, Sir. You know as well as I do, as well as everyone else in this room, and everyone in the God damned division for that fucking matter, that not having all of the facts of the case in order will lead to a jury finding a not guilty verdict. Hell, a judge would throw this fucking case out of court if we tried to prosecute it right now. I’m currently putting pieces together for the murder of one of their own by the current Sergeant-At-Arms and the President, Todelli and Bishop. I didn’t directly witness the killing, but there have been inferences made that lead me to believe…” Pintler paused as he tugged at the bottom of his leather vest. As he released his vest he crossed his massive arms in front of his chest and continued.

“The local LEA declared it a suicide, but there’s been some discussion it was tied to the sale of the firearms to the Hispanic gang listed in my report earlier this spring; April or May, I don’t remember. I believe it was possibly retaliation for an insider - a Sinner - setting up a robbery during the sale.” “This field investigation is currently the longest in ATF history, Pintler. It’s becoming painfully obvious your mind and judgement are clouded. You’re acting as if a murder is…” He paused and shook his head as he continued to rub his thumb against the coin. The director pulled his hands from his pockets and narrowed his gaze. “You’re acting as if murdering someone is just another day in the life of agent Pintler. You’re becoming one of them. You’ve been inside this group too damned long. I’m afraid your vision has become blurred. Your allegiance and alliance are with the men and women of the United States, the ATF, and the Department of Justice. Remember that.” It bothered Pintler how the director spoke of the group as if the Selected Sinners weren’t members of the United States, but outsiders. Frustrated, and without consciously deciding to do so, Special Agent Pintler began walking toward the exit. As the director continued to speak, he slowly walked toward the door, uncertain of the closing remarks the director made. As Special Agent Pintler reached for the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “Is that all?” “I want arrests, not excuses,” the director barked. Pintler opened the door, hesitated, and turned to face the director. After studying him for a short moment, he turned and walked through the door. As the resentment within him mounted, he silently walked to the elevator, inserted his key into the switch located beside the button pad, and turned it to the right a quarter of a turn. He pressed the button leading to the basement parking and stared down at his boots. In a matter of thirty minutes he was expected to be in attendance for an emergency meeting with the Selected Sinners MC. The ride to the clubhouse would normally take him forty-five minutes. As the elevator door opened, he methodically checked the basement for any onlookers. After a quick survey of the parking floor reserved for US Marshals and ATF agents revealed nothing out of place, he sighed and walked to his motorcycle. While the sound of the motorcycle’s exhaust echoed through the concrete basement, Special Agent Pintler checked his watch. Eighteen minutes until two o’clock. As he squeezed the clutch lever in his hand, the pit of his stomach filled with worry. In each and every meeting he attended with the Selected Sinners MC, he was at risk. He knew if the group of men ever determined he was an Agent with the ATF, or even suspected it for that matter, he would be killed. It was a risk, at least initially, he was willing to take. Considering the amount of time he had been in the field, and his ever growing understanding of the depth of the brotherhood of the MC, he was beginning to second guess if he would be able to testify against the men who had accepted him as a brother.

Pintler released the clutch and sped out of the parking garage. His mind filled with wonder over who his loyalties were currently aligned with. Over the years, he had become two separate people with two clearly different agendas. He was an agent with the ATF who had taken a vow to protect the United States from certain types of criminals, and he was a fully patched member of the Selected Sinners MC. When push came to shove, he would be required to take a stand on one side or the other. Time, he decided, would tell. For now, he knew as soon as he rode from the confines of the garage, he became a Sinner. And a Sinner he would remain until he returned to the ATF offices.



OTIS Axton crossed his arms, flexed his biceps, and clenched his jaw muscles as he surveyed the group of men. He was as predictable to me as any man could be. His telltale signs were clear - at least to me. He was aggravated with something, and wanted everyone in attendance to realize his level of disgust. A much more emotional man than me, Axton believed in the value of intimidation. Personally, I was more reserved than most of the Selected Sinners, and preferred to act over speaking in an authoritative manner. To me, Axton was easy to read. To the other members of the club, he was an unpredictable God. The fact he was president of the MC elevated him by everyone’s standards, and his intimidating nature placed him even higher in the eyes of some men. I stood quietly with my arms crossed and waited for him to speak. “Well fellas, we’ve got a clear fucking mess on our hands. The Bandidos and the Cossacks are at war, and the ATF is coming down on MC’s hard all over the country. Right now, they’ve got 200 men in jail on charges of conspiracy to commit capital murder, and I suspect they’ll arrest many more. As I’ve said over and over.” He paused, uncrossed his arms, and rolled his shoulders back. “We need to keep our shit wired tight. These sons-of-bitches will make any connection they can to tie us up and charge us under the RICO act. As long as we’re not dealing in illegal arms, we’ve got nothing to worry about. Now I’m not trying to get into your business as individuals, but if you’ve got illegal firearms in your personal arsenal; unregistered machine guns, short barreled rifles, silenced weapons, sawed-off shotguns, or fucking rocket propelled grenades, leave those fuckers at home. I don’t want ‘em here or on your bikes, and I don’t want the club exposed to the problems they create. Understood?” Most in attendance either nodded or gave an audible acknowledgement of some sort. After he glanced over his shoulders and slowly studied the group, his eyes became fixed on Pete, who began to grumble expletives from the rear of the group. Axton craned his neck and gazed toward the rear of the group. “There a problem back there I need to know about, Pete?” Axton growled. Pete pulled against his long beard with his right hand as he seemed to consider his response. “I ain’t saying I do, and I ain’t saying I don’t, but let’s say a fella has a couple of illegal firearms like you’re talkin’ about. As long as they’re his property, and not club property, what’s the problem?” Pete grunted as he released his beard from his grasp. “Listen up, fellas,” Axton shouted as he raised his hands in the air. “Pete asked a question. He wants to know how a fella having illegal weapons becomes a club issue, and why it doesn’t remain one of personal nature. Here’s the thing. If you get in a pinch with the law, and you’ve got illegal weapons when they search your house, they can’t make a tie between what you’ve got at home and the club. But, if you’re with the club, or on club property, and you’re in a position to be searched and the weapons are found, you immediately put the club at risk. They’ll be able to say you

possessed the weapons while acting as a club member, and they’ll say the weapons were going to be sold by the club, or that they were club property. They call it constructive possession. It’s different than active possession, which is actually having physical possession. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do, but all I’m asking is that you leave your illegal weapons at home. If they’re legitimate, do as you please. I’m asking that regardless of whether or not you think you’re going to get caught, to leave your bad boy toys at home, out of respect for the club. Am I making fucking sense?” Axton asked. “Fucking cops,” Pete grunted. Axton nodded his head. “That’s right, Pete. Fucking cops.” Axton looked around the room. All members in attendance nodded their heads. “So what exactly happened in Waco, Texas? We alright down there?” Mike asked. Axton sighed as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The Texas Sinners are fine. As you know, we have permission to wear our Texas rocker, and we pay our dues faithfully. I’m not here trying to knock another club, and this is mostly rumor, but it’s a pretty solid rumor. We all know Texas is a Bandido state. The Cossacks were initially paying their dues to the Bandidos to wear the Texas rocker, but either out of pride or sheer stupidity they stopped. They thought they were big enough and bad enough to go up against the Bandidos. A few weeks later, a group of Bandido’s saw a Cossack riding through town and forced him off the road. They hit the fucker in the head with a hammer and took his cut. A few weeks after that, six Cossacks saw a lone Bandido, forced him to the side of the road and stole his fuckin’ bike. After a few more weeks, a quarterly coalition meeting was scheduled to discuss legislative issues, and they rented the outside portion of the Twin Peaks restaurant to have the meeting.” “Having a quarterly meeting at a breastaurant. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Titties, beer, and brotherhood,” Biscuit chuckled. Axton raised his hand to silence Biscuit. “So, on the day before the meeting, Cossacks started posting pictures of their colors on Facebook, showing the Texas rockers they’d sewn on their cuts. Without a doubt they had called the Bandidos out by flying the rocker, and the Bandidos had to act. When the Cossacks showed up at the meeting with the Texas rocker sewn to their cut, the war began,” Axton explained. “Disrespectful pricks,” Biscuit said. “That’s right,” Axton said. “It’s about respect. People don’t understand it, but that’s what it boils down to. It was blatant disrespect toward the Bandidos. Cops are trying to make it sound like MC’s are waging war on cops or even on society, but we know better. Hell, you don’t go into a gay bar and scream I hate fags without expecting a fight.” He paused and turned toward Toad. “And you don’t walk into a room full of Marines and call ‘em dumb fucking jarheads. Nor do you ride in Texas, a Bandido owned state, wearing a Texas rocker without either paying your tax or having

Bandido permission. It’s all about respect. That’s as much as I know. Are there any other questions about that?” “How many dead?” Fancy asked. “Nine, most are probably dead at the hands of the returned fire from the cops. Ballistics aren’t in, but mark my words, when it’s over, it’ll be the cops that killed most of ‘em. Roughly 200 are in jail, and charged under RICO on capital murder charges,” Axton responded in an authoritative tone. Toad turned toward Axton and shrugged his shoulders. “Talked to A-Train yesterday. He said Ripp and Dekk got pulled over and questioned yesterday morning when they were riding to the gym, and they’re not even 1%ers.” Axton nodded his head in agreement. “That’s what I’m talking about. Most city cops don’t know the difference, and the news is saying MC’s are waging war on cops in retaliation. It’s just more proof of how the media uses the news against all of us. Hell, they love this shit. Now, if there aren’t any other questions on that, I have one other issue we need to discuss.” Axton looked around the room. After absorbing the few seconds of the silence, he inhaled a shallow breath and continued. “As you know, the trial for your Sergeant-at-Arms’ future brother-in-law is coming up next week. He’s been in prison for quite some time, and has been awarded a new trial on appeal. I’ve got mixed emotions about how to handle this. It’s a case with the ATF, and there will be ATF agents in court testifying, observing, and just being the assholes that they are. We need to show support to this man and have a presence, but I’m wondering just how many of us need to attend the trial?” “Fuck them pussies with the ATF. I say every available man needs to show up. It’s my God given right to attend,” Biscuit howled. Axton nodded his head once. “It certainly is. But we don’t want to sway the jury one way or another. A large presence, considering what happened in Waco with the Bandidos, just might work against him.” Biscuit shook his head in clear disagreement. “And having just a couple of the fellas there makes it look like nobody gives a shit about him. Hell, if the court room’s empty, the jury will think he’s a piece of shit. I say we have every available body in attendance, and we do intimidate the jury. Intimidate them into thinking if they don’t find him not guilty, we’ll do right here in Wichita what the Bandidos did in Texas. Shoot the courtroom into a big piece of Swiss fuckin’ cheese. Let ‘em think whatever they want to. Hell, they can wonder if we’re going to show up at their houses afterward and burn them to the fuckin’ ground for that matter.” I considered what Biscuit said about intimidating the jury. There was no doubt if the jury saw a tremendous presence, they’d be intimidated. Hell, anyone seeing a huge presence of 1%ers in their cuts was intimidated. Subconsciously, they would probably lean toward a not guilty verdict for fear of retaliation alone.

“Slice, I’ve got to agree with Biscuit on this one,” I said. “If we’re in the courtroom thirty or so deep, the jury is going to be as nervous as a bunch of whores in church. They may find him not guilty for fear of retaliation alone. Let’s use the massacre in Texas to our advantage.” Axton stared down at the floor for a long moment. As he looked up, he crossed his arms and gazed blankly into the crowd. “Trial starts Monday, and begins with jury selection. How many can attend? I understand if you’ve got to work, but we’re talking about that case with the ATF setting this fella up on murder, and he’s the brother of the Sergeant-At-Arms Ol’ Lady. Jackson Shephard with Hells’ Fury, road name is Killer. Now, by a show of hands, who can attend?” Axton asked. Arms shot into the air. I gazed around the room. Every man I could see had his arm raised. I glanced toward Toad and patted him on the shoulder. “Well fuck. If we’re going to show up, I say we show up. I’ll call the other chapters and see who else can attend. I hope the courtroom is a big fucker,” Axton said with a laugh. Toad smiled and nodded in apparent appreciation as he glanced around the room. Sydney’s brother was the only family she had, and having him taken away had taken a toll on her emotionally, and left her feeling alone for the majority of her adult life. If he could be freed from prison, not only would it allow her to have her family back in place, it would set a legal precedent regarding the ATF and entrapment of members of a MC. A win in this case would be huge for MC’s across the nation. Axton studied the group. “Avery’s going to be there, and Sydney will be as well, so if for some reason you want to bring your Ol’ Ladies, that’ll be fine. And remember, we’re not only there for Killer, we’re there to show support for Sydney. This is going to be a tough one for her if he’s found guilty again.” I viewed Avery and Sydney as if they were my younger sisters. Seeing harm come to them in any way was beyond comprehension, regardless of whether or not it was physical or emotional. A large showing in court would not only show support Sydney’s brother, but Sydney and Avery as well. Avery spent long hours assembling the paperwork to receive a new trial for him, and obtaining it was a victory in itself. Citing law and recent applicable federal cases to the appellate court, she was instrumental in the trial being awarded. Sitting in the courtroom would not only be interesting, it would pay respect to her for all the hard work she did in requesting a new trial. Personally, attending the trial wasn’t something I felt I needed to do; it was something I had to do. As a matter of respect.





OTIS Having a woman fit me was near impossible, as I had some pretty serious issues trusting people. I would never describe myself as paranoid, and in fact, I was quite the opposite. I was more of a realist, and realistically speaking, people seemed to always press their noses into cracks and crevices of a person’s life where they just didn’t belong. For me to get to know a woman would require exposing myself to her, and in doing so, I took a tremendous risk. My life, lifestyle, and day to day activities weren’t something I could trust anyone with, male or female. Even spending short periods of time with people I didn’t know exposed me, the club, and my club brothers to potential scrutiny. And, for the Selected Sinners, something as simple as a very shallow examination would certainly reveal more than we were prepared to allow outsiders to see or attempt to try and understand. Placing me under a microscope was one thing, but potentially placing my MC Brothers in harm’s way was something I wasn’t ever willing to ever jeopardize. Taking the risk to even meet a woman was difficult for me. Meeting a woman would potentially cause me to want to naturally know more about her. Knowing more would require more exposure. More exposure equaled more risk, and the risk grew with everything she learned about me. In time, if I found out she either couldn’t be trusted or she wasn’t what I was looking for, the damage, so to speak, was already done. The life of a 1%er was a difficult one, and many outsiders didn’t understand what they perceived as arrogance or conceit within the ranks of outlaw bikers when in fact it was nothing more than a façade used to preserve what it was we believed in. Freedom. When I was young, long before I became a Sinner, life was different. In high school, and for several years following my graduation, there was a woman in my life; a woman I loved dearly. She was everything I needed, almost everything I wanted, and we fit each other perfectly. One thing kept me from spending the rest of my life with her. My selfishness. She wanted a family, and I yearned for freedom. At the time, I perceived children as an annoyance and an obstacle between me and a world which was otherwise free of confinement and restriction. We separated when I was twenty-one years old, and I had spent a lifetime regretting it. Since then, I had been with very few women, but each one I met reminded me of the same thing – just how extraordinary Sam was. After having experienced the love she and I shared, attempting to accept someone else as anywhere close to her equal was to admit I had a special procedure for shoving a square peg into a round hole. There would never be a soul on earth to completely fill the hole she left inside of me, and admitting it allowed me to accept a life of solitude as being not only what I needed, but without a doubt what I deserved. Living in my self-imposed womanless hell had some benefits. The freedom I once yearned for was now well within my grasp. My life had no restrictions and very few regulations I was required to adhere

to. I had the ability to do whatever I wanted, whenever I pleased, without answering to anyone. Well, almost anyone. As my mother bent down and opened the oven, she turned her head to the side and widened her eyes slightly. “They’re saying on the news the police were threatened by some of the motorcycle clubs, Steve. They threatened those poor officers with retaliation. I don’t like that at all. People are supposed to respect law enforcement officers. For heaven’s sake, your father was a police officer.” “Ma, they’re full of shit, no one threatened the cops. If for some reason one of those clubs wanted to do something, they’d just do it, they damned sure wouldn’t announce it or warn the cops. And it’s pretty tough for me to respect some city cop when every time I turn around they’re shooting another unarmed citizen for having a taillight that doesn’t work or for arguing with them about a traffic ticket. Serve and protect. That’s their job. It’s damned sure not what we get from them anymore, is it?” I said. “They said they recovered a hundred and fifty weapons, it’s pretty obvious to me those men came with killing on their minds. It makes me nervous having you and your friends out there riding anywhere near those thugs,” she said over her shoulder as she situated the casserole dish on the countertop. “They’re not thugs, ma. And it was in Texas. Everyone is armed in Texas. They’re trying to make it sound like it was an all-out war, but it was nothing more than a bar fight and the cops came and shot everyone up. Hell, if you went to Wal-Mart in Texas and rounded up everyone in it and searched them, I’d be willing to bet more than seventy-five percent of them would be armed. I’m tired of talking about it,” I complained. She turned to face me and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, it makes me nervous. I don’t want you or any of your friends hurt if you go to one of those get-togethers.” My mother was fifty-nine years old, and appeared to be much younger. She was a small woman, standing barely over five feet tall, and weighed roughly one hundred pounds. I attributed the majority of her preserved appearance and youthful looks to the fact she rarely left the house, and spent most of her time either cleaning or preparing meals for my father, who was a mirror image of me. “We’re not going to get hurt, ma. Not unless some cop decides to shoot one of us,” I said. As I heard my father’s footsteps coming into the kitchen, I turned to face him, hoping he had heard at least a portion of what we were talking about. His opinion mattered to my mother, and he was not much different than me in his judgement of today’s police officers and their poor decisions. “Ken, talk to your son,” my mother said as she folded the towel that dangled from her fingers. “My son? He’s our son, Marge. What are we talking about?” he asked as he slapped his hand against my back. “Game’s over and the Royals won. Best team in the league,” he bragged as he rubbed his hands together.

“It’s about time,” I said, making reference to the fact the Kansas City Royals hadn’t done anything good in baseball since the 1980’s. I glanced at my mother for a second, and shifted my gaze toward my father. “We were talking about the biker shoot-out in Texas. Ma’s afraid the fellas and I are gonna get hurt if we’re hanging around the thugs who were at the bar in Texas. I told her the only way any of us would get hurt is if one of those trigger-happy cops decided to shoot at us for getting in a fist fight.” As far as my mother and father were concerned, I was part of a group of men that loved riding motorcycles together. They either didn’t want to accept or were afraid to admit that I was the Vice President of a 1%er MC. I didn’t press the issue or try to explain anything, and they didn’t ask. For them to understand just what it was the club offered me or to learn of and comprehend our day-to-day activities would be nothing short of impossible. “That’s the damned truth Marge. That whole thing stinks. They said the other day the shooting was inside the bar. Now they’re saying it was outside. The officer in charge originally said the police returned fire when the bikers shot at them. Now the film from the security system of the bar has been reviewed, and it looks like the only shooting was from the police officers. The whole thing makes me sick. Cops today are too damned trigger happy. Hell, I made hundreds of arrests, and never pulled my service revolver once,” my father explained as he walked toward the casserole dish and peered down at the concoction my mother had cooked. My father worked for thirty years as a police officer, and had retired unharmed. He now attempted to maintain his sanity by working part-time at a local hardware store, which seemed to work well for him. Still standing six foot five at sixty-two years old, he was in good physical and mental condition. His job kept him busy enough that he continued to feel his life was worthwhile, and it allowed a little physical separation from my mother during the day, which, according to him, was necessary. “I just don’t want him to get hurt,” my mother said. “He’s a big boy, Marge. He’ll be fine. Hell, he’s got that Marine by his side half the time, nobody’s going to mess with him,” my father said under as he walked toward the dish my mother had placed on the countertop. “What have we got here, Marge?” my father asked as he poked the top of the casserole with his fingertip. “It’s a recipe I got off of Pinterest,” my mother responded. “Enchilada casserole.” “You know, we ate for thirty years without Pinterest. Now it seems every time I turn around, we’re trying something new that some shit-head in San Francisco cooked, took a few pictures of, and posted a recipe. They’re probably sitting back there now laughing at all the people trying to cook that shit. Just because they took a pretty picture of it doesn’t mean it tastes good,” my father growled as he shook his head. “What are we going to eat with it?” he asked as he glanced around the kitchen.

“I’ll slice up an avocado and a few tomatoes. It’s supposed to be a complete meal,” my mother said as she turned toward the refrigerator. My father glanced at the casserole dish, turned toward me, and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s any wonder I haven’t starved to death since she joined that damned web site. You still not messing with any of that internet stuff?” he asked over his shoulder as he walked toward the refrigerator. “Nope. Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, I don’t have any of ‘em. Can’t see any need. I don’t want people who don’t know me digging through my life. As far as I’m concerned, it’s like leaving your front door open for anyone to come into your house and dig through your shit,” I responded. “Amen,” he said as he held a bottle of beer at arm’s length. I accepted the beer, twisted off the lid, and took a drink. My father was a very understanding man, and rarely pried in my personal business. I believed he understood far more than my mother what me, the club, and my MC Brothers were all about, but he never asked, and I never offered. “Sit down,” my mother said as she arranged the plates around the table. As I slowly walked toward the table, I peered down at the plate of sliced avocadoes and tomatoes and eventually shifted my eyes toward the enchilada casserole. My father was right. I was surprised we both hadn’t starved to death since my mother found Pinterest. Trying new things was fun for her, but it seemed she was constantly searching the site for an easier way to prepare a meal. An entire meal in one dish was her obvious desire and my father and I were the test subjects. For me, it was one day a week eating with my parents. For my father, it was a daily occurrence. Sunday dinner at my parent’s house wasn’t necessarily a requirement, but I was always expected to attend. Although I was thirty-six years old, I was still a little boy in the eyes of my mother, and I always would be. I looked forward to the dinners, and enjoyed the conversations we had. For me, it was a way to unwind, become normal, and mentally exhaust myself from all of the atrocities from the previous week of being a Selected Sinner. It allowed me to begin each week with a new start, a fresh mind, and the reminder that family is more important than anything else this world has to offer us. Drinking beer and Sunday dinners were a guilty pleasure. Any other day of the week, my strict diet excluded foods which would cause me to forfeit my form, muscle tone, or physical condition. Setting Sunday dinners aside, drinking beer was my only vice, and I tried to keep my drinking to no more than five or six beers a day. My daily physical conditioning not only allowed me to maintain a sound mind and body, but did a pretty good job of working off the beers I typically drank throughout the course of any given day. “So, your father tells me the Marine friend of yours is engaged to be married. Said he’s with that cute little blonde waitress down at the barbeque joint,” my mother said as we sat down. Here we go. “Yeah, ma. He’s engaged to the girl at the barbeque joint. Her name’s Sydney,” I said as I scooped

half of the casserole dish onto my plate. “And your other friend Ashton is living with a girl and they’re just as good as married. Is that right?” she asked as my father turned toward me and wagged his eyebrows jokingly. “Axton, ma. With an X. His name’s Axton, not Ashton. And yeah, he’s got a girlfriend or whatever. And her name’s Avery,” I responded as I raised my beer bottle to my lips. “Talk down at the store is that the tall brown haired girl is an attorney. They said she filed an appeal to get a new trial for the other girl’s brother, who was set up by the ATF years back. Is that all true?” my father asked as he shoved a forkful of enchiladas into his mouth. I shook my head as I placed my bottle of beer onto the table, “Who told you all that?” “Common knowledge down at the store,” my father said as he finished chewing his food. “Well, it’s partially true,” I said as I pressed my fork into the casserole. “Avery is the brown haired girl, Axton’s girlfriend. She’s a paralegal or whatever. Works downtown with one of those powerful defense attorneys. She filed an appeal for Sydney’s brother, who was railroaded by the ATF for agreeing he didn’t like some other club. They granted it, and trial is next week,” I explained as I raised the forkful of food to my mouth. “A man don’t get tossed in prison for saying you don’t like someone. There’s got to be more to it,” my father shrugged as he reached for his beer. I nodded my head as I alternated glances between my mother and father, eventually fixing my gaze on my father. “There is. He said if push came to shove, he’d kill ‘em if they messed with him. But only after getting drunk and harassed by the ATF for two years.” “Oh lord,” my mother said as she raised her hands to her face. “Ma…” I said as I shook my head. “Hell, if anyone messed with me, I’d kill ‘em Marge,” my father grunted as he cut another chunk of casserole off of the slab sitting on his plate. “Ken!” my mother gasped. “Well, I would. I’m sure the court will decide who’s right and who’s wrong. It’ll be interesting to see how that pans out,” my father said. I nodded my head and glanced down at my plate. Conversations at my parent’s dinner table seemed to not only have no boundaries, but they typically had no limits. It wasn’t uncommon for us to begin talking about my father’s tomato crop, and eventually end up in a heated discussion about the benefits of legalizing prostitution. Personally, I believed my father often changed the subjects until the conversation took a course that he believed would irritate my mother.

“Speaking of attorneys, did you hear about that doctor that sewed a pecker on that Asian stripper in Wichita? She’s dancing down at the strip club by Boeing now with a chunk of meat between her legs. Clyde says he’s seen her over there and she’s hung like a horse. Said she draws the biggest crowd out of all those girls. Rumor has it they’re getting up a petition to have her tossed out, saying now she’s not a girl, but a guy. What do you think about that?” my father asked as he reached for his beer. “Ken!” my mother breathed. “Well, it’s the damned truth, Marge. Sewed it right on there. Now, what I’m wondering about is this…” He paused and lowered his bottle of beer to the table. “Where’d they get the pecker?” I shook my head in disgust. “Hard saying.” “Well, someone had to give it up. Maybe it was one of those fellas who wanted to be switched into a girl. I’m thinking they must keep a running tally, and when there’s a guy who wants it whacked off and a hole drilled down there, they add him to the chart. And later, when they find a girl who wants a pecker, as long as there’s some dip-shit on the chart who wants his cut off, they got a match. People are just plain weird these days. Anyway Clyde seen him. Or her. Said she was pretty, well ‘cept for the bulge in her pants,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s change the subject,” my mother said. Disgusted at the thought of an Asian stripper with a cock swinging between her legs, I shook my head. “Enchiladas are pretty good, ma,” I said. She smiled and nodded her head. “Thank you.” “Maybe next time, if there is a next time, we should have some tacos or something with this shit. You took a little piece, and Steve and I took what was left. Either that or make a double helping,” my father complained as he gazed down at his plate and pierced a tomato slice with the tip of his fork. My mother gazed down at her plate and began to speak without looking up. “It worked out just fine, and we don’t have to worry about leftovers. Now what I was trying to talk about earlier was that all of your friends have girlfriends or fiancées, and you haven’t had a girlfriend since I don’t know when. Maybe it’s time you get one. You know we all have to grow up some time.” Half pissed off that she’d mentioned the subject, I grabbed my bottle of beer and pushed myself away from the table slightly. As the bottle dangled beside my hip from between my thumb and forefinger, I studied her until she looked up from her plate. “Ma, I don’t have a girlfriend because I haven’t found one yet that suits me. They’re all too damned nosey or far too controlling. As soon as I find one good enough for me, you’ll be the first to know,” I said as I raised my beer bottle in the air and tilted the neck toward her.

“I liked Samantha. I can’t see why she had to up and move away. A girl like her would be perfect for you,” my mother said as she glanced toward her plate. “I liked Sam too, but that was fifteen years ago, ma. Fifteen. Not yesterday, but fifteen damned years,” I said as I stood from my seat. I walked to the refrigerator and grabbed two more beers. After finishing what little was left in my bottle, I dropped it into the trash and twisted the lid off the other. As I walked to the table, I studied my mother and waited for her response as I handed my father a beer. She sat silently and picked at her food. “Why you bringing up Sam after all this time?” I asked as I sat down. As she looked up from her plate, my father gazed down at his. “Her mother passed,” my mother said as she shifted her gaze to meet mine. My heart sank. Short of Sam’s husband, and what I was certain to be a house full of kids, her mother was all she had. Her father, who was considerably older than her mother, passed away when she was twelve after a short battle with colon cancer. Her mother, to the best of my knowledge, never remarried. Sam had no brothers or sisters, and longed for a large family, one I wasn’t willing to provide. I took a long swallow of beer and washed the lump from my throat. “When’s the funeral?” I asked flatly. “Tomorrow,” my mother said as she looked up from her plate. I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, I’ve got the trial tomorrow or I’d go. Probably best that I don’t see her anyway. She’s married and has a family. Her husband doesn’t need a reminder of who her high school sweetheart was.” “Your father and I argued about going, you know how he is about funerals. We decided to send flowers instead. I just found out yesterday when your father told me. He heard it at work from Clyde,” my mother said. “What happened?” I asked. My mother lowered her fork to the side of her plate and shook her head from side-to-side. “Well, that’s the sad part. Apparently, she was cooking, and was pulled some aluminum foil off the roll. She cut her wrist on the little strip or the foil…I don’t know…and she bled to death before the ambulance arrived.” An aluminum foil death didn’t immediately make sense to me. I sat and stared blankly at my mother and waited for her to say it was a big joke. After a few minutes of silence, I realized what she said was reality and a part of Sam’s life she would be required to accept.

My father shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “Aluminum foil? Jesus, how does someone prepare for that?” Frustrated, I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess they don’t. That’s a damned shame.” My father looked up from his plate and nodded his head. “Sure is. Just goes to show you, you never know…” I stared at the bottle of beer for what seemed like an unreasonable amount of time. The thought of Sam’s mother dying, and dying from something no one would or could make any plans or concessions to prepare for caused me to feel a deeper sorrow for the entire family. Even a car wreck would allow a person to eventually accept it as God’s will. But aluminum foil? I began to worry about Sam, and wondered how she’d accept the death. I attempted to consider myself in the same circumstance, and decided I’d probably never accept it as being part of life’s big plan for me or my family. Trying to make sense of it was beginning to make me feel uneasy. Although I was raised by a God fearing family, I in no way struggled with God as much as Axton or Toad, but still struggled nonetheless. I did, however, believe I lived in God’s world; and that all things happened for a reason. I sat and stared at the amber bottle, wondering if my lifetime would produce enough time for me to come up with a good reason for the mother of the only woman I ever loved dying from such an unfortunate incident. I eventually lifted the bottle and drank the remaining beer with the understanding that although some things in life are unavoidable, we may never accept them as being necessary.



OTIS A two-hour long workout provided little relief, and my tension was still at a level I wasn’t comfortable with. Obviously having a difficult time accepting the death of Sam’s mother as being necessary, I stepped into the shower with the hope it would wash away the remaining discomfort I was feeling. After showering until there was no remaining hot water, I dried off, took a precursory glance in the mirror, and walked to my bedroom. Although I should have climbed into bed and retired for the night, I felt falling asleep would prove impossible. A quick text message to the Sinners I reserved as friends revealed Biscuit as the only one available to have a drink. Eager to attempt to rid myself of what was bothering me, I got dressed, hopped on my bike, and rode to Wichita to meet him at the bar. I parked my bike beside his and surveyed the parking lot. A few cars littered the otherwise empty lot. Sunday night at most bars in Wichita was a slow night, and considering the problems in Waco, Texas with the shooting, several of the bars had made new rules regarding bikers wearing their cuts inside the bar. It came as no surprise, and although most bars prevented gangs such as the Crips and Bloods from wearing their colors, none had taken the chance at attempting to prevent MC’s from doing so. This bar was one who was still biker friendly and had made no such rule, leaving it as one of our available options. As I walked through the door I recalled the night I met Axton’s Ol’ Lady, Avery. “Big O, what’s shakin’,” Biscuit said as he stood from his bar stool. I shook my head and grinned. “Just needing to unwind. Let’s go over and sit in one of those booths, I don’t need the bartender listening to what we’re talking about.” “No argument from me, that stool is as hard as a wedding day cock,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me and slapped me on the back. “Place don’t seem the same without Avery and that other chick workin’, does it?” Biscuit said as we walked toward an open booth. I shook my head. “Sure doesn’t.” Biscuit sat down and placed his Red Bull and glass of vodka in front of him. As he sat and studied me for a short moment, he rubbed his beard with his right hand, and eventually drug his fingers through his thick brown hair. “Sure you heard about Corndog and that poor girl who worked here, huh?” he asked as he leaned onto the edge of the table. I nodded my head. “I’ve heard some, yeah.” He pressed his forearms onto the table, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward. “They’re

inseparable now. He’s been fuckin’ that poor girl six ways from Sunday. Talked to him after the meeting the other day. Said he’s been schooling her on sucking cock, and it sounds like she’s got quite the sexual appetite. Anyway, He’s making up for the five years of lost time he spent in the joint.” “I’m sure he is,” I said as I raised my hand to get the waitress’ attention. He widened his eyes slightly. “You know, every one of the fellas is fascinated by that girl’s big fucking titties. But me? I’m fascinated with the fact Toad wrapped her head in God damned Saran Wrap, fucked her until she was damned near dead, and then took her to the Dog’s house, dropped her off, and she ain’t fuckin’ left yet. Hell, until the Toad dropped her off, she’d never met Corn Dog.” As I noticed the waitress walking toward the table, I raised my hand to silence Biscuit. “I’ll take a couple of Michelob Ultras and bring him another can of Red Bull and a few iced double vodkas,” I said as the waitress approached the table. “Sounds good. You guys aren’t going to shoot the place up, are you?” she asked playfully. Biscuit grinned as he turned to face her. “We might after we get a few drinks in us.” Probably no more than twenty-one years old, and more than likely one of Avery’s old college friends, the waitress was cute, but young. Tall and thin with athletic legs, I wondered if she played volleyball with Avery and Sloan, but decided not to ask. Having a conversation with her wasn’t at the top of my current list of priorities. “God damn…” Biscuit said after studying her for a short moment, drawing the word damn out for five seconds or so. She shifted her gaze to meet his and grinned. “What?” “Your eyes. That’s the craziest blue I ever seen,” he said as he twisted his body to face her. “Contacts,” she shrugged. “Figures,” he said as he turned around. She grinned as she turned away. “Be back in a minute.” Biscuit took a drink of his vodka, chased it with a swallow of Red Bull, and immediately pressed his chest into the edge of the table as if preparing to tell me a secret. “Nothin’ against the Dog, but I wonder about that fuckin’ girl, Sloan. Damned thing can’t have a lick of proper upbringing in her. Personally, I wouldn’t fuck her with Pete’s cock, and he’s a nasty fucker. Corn Dog’s pounding that shit like each day’s his last, so I guess I’ll say good for him; and from what he was sayin’ she’s become mighty fine at sucking cock. Oh, shit, I almost forgot, I got a story to tell ya,” he

said as he sat up and rubbed his hands together. If Biscuit ever decided he no longer wanted to be a Sinner, he could immediately seek employment as a stand-up comic. His ability to tell a story was only matched by his willingness, and he was always willing. The problem was trying to decide if what you were hearing was the truth or another one of his wild made up fables. Either way, hearing him talk was entertaining, and probably exactly what I needed. He pressed his forearms into the edge of the table and began to almost whisper. “So, speaking of suckin’ cock, there was this girl; she gave the best fuckin’ head ever. Damned thing was like a trained professional, and probably should have had a college course on how to properly suck a cock. She could take my meat all the way to the balls, stick out her God damned tongue, and curl it around my nut sack without missin’ a beat.” I grinned and nodded my head, waiting to hear more about this professor of oral pleasure. “So, this bitch had the most beautiful blue eyes. And, because she had no gag reflex, I could fuck this girl’s mouth just like I was fuckin’ a pussy. Anyway, when I’d pound her throat with my cock, I’d look down into her eyes, and after she bat those long lashes and revealed those damned eyes a few times, I’d just explode. She knew her eyes were my biggest weakness, and she was right.” He paused and rubbed his beard with his hand. “So one night, she’s down on her knees, and she’s going to town on my cock. Just a slurpin’ and a suckin’ like this one’s her last. Hell, I’m lookin’ up at the ceiling like I got no interest in watchin’ her, which couldn’t be any further from the truth. My problem was this...” The waitress walked up with a tray of drinks. “Here you go, two iced vodka doubles, a can of Red Bull, and two Ultras. Anything else?” I smiled and shook my head as I reached for a beer. “Other than being like super big, you don’t look like a biker, I mean not really,” she said. “Never thought I was like super big, but thanks, I guess,” Biscuit chuckled as he tugged on his cut. “I uhhm, I was meaning him,” she giggled as she tossed her head toward me. “Oh,” Biscuit said as he turned toward me and raised his eyebrows in wait for my response. “I don’t know that bikers look any certain way to be quite honest. I look the way I look and I’m a biker. One has nothing to do with the other,” I said as I lifted my beer and tilted it toward her. “Oh, I didn’t really mean anything by it, I was just. I don’t know. You know, trying to make conversation. Do you know Avery?” she asked as she tossed her hair over her shoulder. I lowered my chin slightly, rested my elbow on the table, and dangled the beer bottle from my hand. “Sure do, she’s a good friend.” “Well, we’re not close, but I played volleyball with her. I’m a senior this year and she’s a year

older than me. I just heard she was like dating one of the guys in your gang,” she said as she attempted to force her fingertips into to the extremely small pockets of her overly tight jean shorts. “Club. We’re a club, not a gang. A motorcycle club,” I said as I lifted the bottle of beer to my lips. “Oh, I thought you were a motorcycle gang. What’s the difference?” she asked as she gave up on shoving her hands into her pockets and allowed her arms to dangle at her sides. “There isn’t one,” I said. “But gang sounds bad, and club sounds more professional and less criminal, so we all call ourselves clubs now.” She tilted her head to the side, seemingly slightly confused. “So you are a gang?” Biscuit turned to face her and raised his index finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell anybody.” “Oh, I won’t. You can trust me,” she grinned. “I’m Kat.” “Like a pussy cat?” Biscuit chuckled. “Kind of, but with a K. Katrina, Kat for short,” she said. “I’m Biscuit, that’s Otis,” Biscuit said as he motioned toward me. “Biscuit? Why Biscuit?” she shrugged. “Why not?” Biscuit snapped back. She shrugged her shoulders as she shifted her gaze to meet mine. As our eyes met, she grinned. “Nice to meet you guys. I’ll leave you two alone for a while. If you need me, just holler. We’re not real busy, I’ll probably stop by in a few and see if you’re doing alright,” she said as she turned away. I nodded my head. She seemed nice enough, but from what little I could see, had nothing to offer me. Although Avery proved to be as solid of a woman as I had ever met, I had my doubts that other college students would be as mature and trustworthy as she was. After Biscuit watched her walk away over his shoulder he turned toward the table and grinned. “Meeefuckingyow. Kat, huh? She’s a hot little number,” he said. I lifted my chin slightly before taking a long drink of my beer. “Where were we?” “Hold up a minute, I’ve got to clear my mind of evil thoughts,” he said as he grabbed a glass of vodka. After taking a drink and chasing it with Red Bull, he shook his head and narrowed his gaze. “I was face fucking my blue eyed girl,” he said as he placed the can of Red Bull beside the glass

of vodka. I tilted my beer toward him and nodded my head. “The professor of oral pleasure.” “She damned sure was. Could have given a course on it for sure,” he said as he glanced over each shoulder. “Okay. So I’ve got my cock down her throat, and she’s staring up at me, knowing if I look into those beautiful blue eyes for more than a few seconds I’m gonna shoot my load. Me? I’m lookin’ up at the ceiling, countin’ them little popcorn dealios they spray on up there. Now she’s suckin’ away, and I’m at about two thousand five hundred and fifty-three, knowing I can’t last much longer. I glance down just for a quick second, and luckily her eyes are closed.” He paused and reached for the vodka. After a drink of vodka and a red Bull chaser, he leaned forward and continued. “So, I reach down and grab blue eyes by the ears. Now, I got her ears in my hands, and I start pounding my cock in and out of her throat like I’m gettin’ paid. Hell, I’m watchin’ that fucker disappear in her mouth, amazed by the sheer talent of this girl, and I pull it out and shove it back in. Then, I pull out, and shove it back in balls deep. She don’t gag or whimper or nothin’. Hell, this is turning me on like a motherfucker, so I turn it up a notch.” He pushed himself away from the table, stood, and held his hands in front of his thighs as he began to buck his hips violently back and forth. As he continued to thrust his hips no differently than a male stripper hoping for a tip, he began the remainder of his story. I shook my head and grinned at the fact Biscuit could care not what anyone in the bar thought about his little charade. “So I’m shoving my cock balls deep into her throat, pulling it out, and shoving it right back in, and it builds up that throat snot like a motherfucker,” he said as he continued to thrust his hips back and forth. “Throat snot?” I shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, his hips still gyrating back and forth. “That goop down deep in their throats. Hell, you probably ain’t got a cock big enough to find it, but ole Biscuit does.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head as I took a drink of beer. “So anyway, I’m pounding away and things get kind of slippery. So I pull back…” He pulled his hips back and paused. “And I don’t realize it at that exact minute, but my cock slides all the way out of her mouth. So I go to shove it back in, thinkin’ the tip is still in her mouth, and the head hits her top lip, and the fucker’s all covered in slobber and throat snot, so it shoots up the side of her face and sticks her in the eye.” “Now, initially, I don’t think nothing of it, other than the fact I just poked her in the eye with my cock. So I pull my hips back and prepare to shove her throat full one more time,” he said. “And she looks up and opened her eyes…” His eyes widened significantly as he continued to speak. “And she’s starin’ back at me smiling’,

ready for the cock, and she’s got one brown eye and one fuckin’ blue one. I got my cock in my hand, starin’ back at her, and I blink my eyes, not sure if what I’m seein’ is what I’m seein’. Nope, she’s still crouched down there, with her mouth open, starin’ back at me with one brown and one fuckin’ blue one – ain’t got a fuckin’ clue of what’s happened. Now this freaks me the fuck out, because the entire reason I like this girl, other’n the fact she can suck a golf ball through a garden hose, is that she’s got them crazy blue eyes. And I glance down, blink one more time, and my eyes focus on my big fat cock. And the tip of my rod’s got a little transparent blue dot on the end of it.” “Contacts?” I shrugged my shoulders as I began to laugh. He nodded his head. “Yep. That’s when I learned about ‘em. Fucked it right out of her God damned eye.” I shook my head as he slid into the seat. “That’s a hell of a story,” I said as I finished my beer. He laughed as he reached for his vodka. “Damndest thing I ever seen.” “So what was all that about?” the waitress asked as she walked up to table. “What?” Biscuit asked over his shoulder. The waitress thrust her hips back and forth, more in a fluid motion that Biscuit’s jerky haphazard method. She placed her hands on her hips and smiled as she gyrated a few more times, appearing to be perfecting a dance move more than imitating Biscuit. As much as I hated to admit it, seeing her do it was not only quite sensual, but rather erotic. It was evident she had at least some experience at dancing and did so quite well. “God dayumm,” Biscuit said as he turned in his seat to face her. As she stopped gyrating, she grinned and slapped her hand against her thigh. “I just thought it was funny when you were doing it. I’m sorry, I’m just bored,” she said. “You can come over here and fuck the air anytime,” Biscuit said. “Is that what you were doing, fucking the air?” she asked. “Here? Yeah, I was fucking the air. But in the story I was tellin’, I was fuckin’ a girl’s mouth,” Biscuit responded. Here we go. “Sounds fun,” she said with a smile. “I probably ought to go clean some tables before I get myself in trouble,” she said.

I grinned and tilted my head in her direction as I reached for my full bottle of beer. Oddly, as she turned to walk away, her eyes remained fixed on Biscuit until her body was completely turned around. As she walked toward the bar, she glanced over her shoulder once and grinned. “Damn, Biscuit. Looks like she likes ya,” I said as I slapped my left hand against the table. “Sooner or later, they all do,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder. I rolled my eyes as I lifted my bottle of beer. “So what’d you want to talk about?” Biscuit asked as he reached for his can Red Bull. As I shook my head, he reached for his vodka and drank the remaining liquor from the glass. “Nothing, just needed to unwind. I’m good now,” I said. “You sure you’re alright, Brother?” he asked. I nodded my head, “Positive.” “How long you want to stick around?” he asked. “Drink this and go?” I responded as I raised my beer in the air. “I might stick around until she gets off,” Biscuit said as he tilted his head toward the bar. “Trial’s tomorrow,” I said. “You see that girl’s legs?” he asked. I nodded my head, grinned, and drank the remaining beer from my bottle. Biscuit’s decision to stay and try his luck with the waitress provided very little guidance to my current situation, but did provide some comfort in the form of reassurance. Reassurance the woman I would end up with, if I ever did end up with a woman in my life, would come from a far more grueling application process than thrusting my hips in the air. “You sure you’re alright?” Biscuit asked as I finished my beer. I nodded my head. “My old girlfriend, Sam. Her mother died. Just wanted to try and let it all settle. Just trying to make sense of it.” “Oh shit, your sweetheart? Damn, Brother, I’m sorry. What happened, if I might ask?” he asked as he shook his head from side-to-side. “Aluminum foil. It was an accident,” I said, realizing my poorly executed explanation would raise an eyebrow as I finished speaking.

“Damn, did she work at the Reynold’s Wrap factory or something?” he asked I shook my head as I reached for my keys. “No, she was cooking and went to pull some aluminum foil off the roll, and it cut her wrist. She bled to death before the ambulance arrived.” He shook his head as he stood from his seat. “Well, when a deal like that happens, you just got to stand back and realize that this world we’re living in ain’t ours, it’s His; and things like that are just proof of it. His plan’s much bigger’n this,” he said as he pointed his finger back and forth between us. “Agreed,” I said as I slapped my hand against his back. “See you in the morning,” I said as I turned away. “Long as I’m done with her,” he said. I chuckled. “Just don’t fuck her in the eye, and everything’ll be fine.’ And just like that, everything made a little more sense. Sometimes, having a friend or loved one confirm our already one-sided beliefs provided all the reassurance necessary for us to continue believing our way of thinking was just what it needed to be. As I walked to the bike I realized although I didn’t believe the death of Sam’s mother was necessary, I was able to accept it as being out of my control, and part of a plan I did not understand today, but one day may.

OTIS The courtroom smelled like money. The judge was seated on an elevated platform in front of where we were seated, but on the far side of the courtroom. In the center of the floor was an ornate lectern used by the attorney as he presented his case. On the immediate left was the jury, seated in comfortable leather seats as they studied the witness. Directly in front of us were two tables, one occupied by the defense attorney, and one by the prosecution and defendant. As they presented their cases to the judge, the attorneys faced away from us, making their facial expressions impossible to read.

Sitting in the courtroom amidst the ATF agents made me feel uneasy. Seeing roughly sixty Selected Sinners supporting Sydney’s brother was enough to allow me to believe Jackson had all the backing necessary to ensure he at least felt he had sufficient support. The fact none of his club, Hell’s Fury, attended the trial caused me to lose what little respect I had for the MC he represented when he was arrested. Jury selection began, and took very little time. After each attorney throwing a few potential jurors out for cause or peremptory challenges, the jury was selected. Much to my surprise, the twelve men and women of the jury included three men who rode motorcycles. Hopefully, even if they weren’t in a club, they’d have a better understanding of what was being discussed. After several hours of questioning several ATF agents and Sydney’s brother Jackson, the prosecutor seemed to run out of gas. His tone of voice changed, and he became far less aggressive. Not sure if it was a tactic or a dose of reality, I sat back in my seat and watched the show continue. “During your time as a member of Hell’s Fury MC, were you known by any other names than your God given name?” the prosecutor asked. Kurt, Jackson’s attorney and Avery’s employer, immediately stood from his seat. “Your honor, I object,” he barked in a very matter of fact tone. The judge raised his finger in the air, attempting to silence the witness before he responded. “Grounds?” the judge asked. Still standing behind the table, Kurt spread his arms apart and tilted his head slightly to the side. He was a very large man, standing almost 6’-5” and weighing probably 250 pounds. His military style haircut, well-defined features, and the tone of his voice made him rather intimidating in the courtroom. “Your honor, it asks the jury to prejudice the evidence. You, your honor, me, the prosecutor, and the witness know what the defendant’s club name was during his tenure with the club in question. Other than using the name to prejudice the jury, I see no value in providing it in testimony,” Kurt argued. The judge raised his hand to his chin and clenched his fist as he considered ruling on the objection. “Your honor, the former President of the United States, Lyndon Johnson, was nicknamed Bullshit Johnson. The boxer, Thomas Hearns, was nicknamed The Hitman. Richard Hill, the English Rugby player, was nicknamed The Silent Assassin. And Pete Sampras, the tennis player, was nicknamed Pistol Pete. I doubt any of the nicknames provided an accurate depiction of who the people were or what they represented,” Kurt explained as he continued to stand behind the large ornate table where Jackson was seated. “Granted. I’ll instruct you not to answer the question,” the judge said as he gazed toward Jackson. Wow, Kurt came prepared. Hell, he even had a list of names mentally prepared.

The prosecuting attorney turned away from the lectern, stared at the floor for a moment, and eventually turned to face the witness. “The club you were a fully patched in member of, Hell’s Fury, would it suffice to say this was an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, or OMG as the Justice Department labels them?” the prosecutor asked. Kurt stood from his seat. “I object your honor; on the same grounds. The club in mention is not on trial, and now that the ever so gracious prosecutor has opened the gate, I’ll step through it,” he growled. “The witness is not on trial your honor, as a matter of law, the prosecution’s team of ATF agents are. This trial was awarded on the grounds of potential entrapment by ATF agents. As a matter of law, the witness sits before us a guilty man not an innocent one. His guilt is not in question. What is in question is whether or not the ATF entrapped him to commit the crime he was charged with in the indictment. And, with all due respect, as a matter of law, when the issue of entrapment is raised, the burden of proof switches to the prosecution to prove the defendant was not entrapped,” Kurt explained in a very clearly spoken tone. “And, as a matter of law, he is to be considered entrapped until the prosecution proves otherwise. In Sorrells versus the United States the entrapment doctrine was covered in detail, and the Supreme Court responded to the issue of entrapment more recently - and quite clearly - in Jacobson versus the United States, your honor,” he continued. The prosecutor threw his hands into the air comically. “Your honor, now that entrapment seems to be the subject in question, and certainly defense counsel’s only hope at winning this case, I will ask that the court reconsider allowing me to question the witness in regard to his club name. Predisposition is required to prove the defendant was not entrapped, and his club name, in itself, is proof of predisposition,” the prosecutor bellowed. “Your honor, a name is proof of very little, and a predisposition to commit murder coming from a name is a line that cannot be drawn, no matter who draws it,” Kurt said sternly. “Counsel,” the judge said with a tone of authority while facing the prosecutor. “And counsel,” he said as he turned his head to face Kurt. “I ask you both to approach. I will not allow a battle of wits in my courtroom,” he said firmly. “What the fuck’s going on?” I whispered to Avery. “Kurt’s pissed. This case is about entrapment,” she whispered. “When the entrapment defense is raised, it changes the case completely. The burden of proof shifts to the prosecution to prove the defendant wasn’t entrapped; it’s no longer a requirement for the defendant to do anything to prove his innocence, or to try and prove he was entrapped. It’s assumed as soon as the subject is raised on the record that he was entrapped.”

“I think I understand,” I said. She placed her hand on my shoulder and leaned closer to my ear as she whispered. “It’s simple. The appeals court saw enough evidence to believe the possibility existed that the government entrapped Syd’s brother to commit the crime. If it’s possible that he was entrapped, and the judge agrees, all of a sudden he’s guilty of the crime. But, his guilt is a result of the government coercing, inducing, or enticing him to commit the crime. So now, the government must prove they didn’t coerce, induce, or entice him. If they can’t prove they didn’t, then the jury must see it as they did. And, if they see it that way, he’s not guilty.” “Okay, that makes a little more sense. What’s the judge doing?” I asked as I leaned toward her. “He’s chewing their asses out for going at each other in his courtroom. Federal court is a far more formal approach than state or city court. Federal judges don’t take shit, and they don’t allow any disrespect in their courtroom. He probably saw their little tirade as disrespectful. He’ll set them straight and they’ll loosen up a little bit. I’m going to guess the prosecutor is about done. He’s frustrated,” she said. I nodded my head and sat up straight in the seat. As Kurt walked away from the judge and toward his seat, the prosecutor walked to the lectern, gripped the sides in his hands, and sighed. “On the date of the instant offense, did you state your willingness to kill a member or members of a rival club, namely the Shovelheads MC?” the prosecutor asked. “Yes, but…” Jackson began. “Yes or no?” the prosecutor interrupted. “Yes, I did. But…” Jackson continued. The judge turned toward Jackson and spoke quietly. Jackson lowered his head shamefully. After a short pause, he looked up and answered. “Yes I did,” Jackson responded. “No further questions,” the prosecutor hissed as he released his grip on the lectern. The prosecutor crossed his arms, studied Jackson for a moment, and sighed. “Your witness,” the judge said as he turned toward Kurt. Kurt stood, walked to the lectern, and sighed loudly as he shook his head. “On the day of the instant offense, had you been drinking?” he asked. “Yes Sir,” Jackson responded.

“Prior to your taking the first drink, did ATF agent Blackburn, acting in the capacity as one of your MC brethren, ask you what you’d do if the Shovelheads tried to claim your territory?” he asked. “Yes Sir,” Jackson responded. “And your response was what?” he asked. “I said I didn’t know,” he responded. Kurt nodded his head. “And did he then ask you if you’d kill them?” he asked. “He did, yes. I don’t know, maybe thirty minutes later,” Jackson responded. “And your response?” Kurt asked. “I said no,” he responded. “Did he continue to ask you the same question or types of questions?” Kurt asked. Jackson nodded his head, “Yes he did.” “So, you testified a moment ago that you’d been drinking. How many drinks would you say you consumed over the course of the night?” Kurt asked. “I don’t know, maybe six shots of whiskey and ten or twelve beers,” Jackson responded. “Wow, quite a night,” Kurt chuckled. Jackson nodded his head. “Were you intoxicated?” Kurt asked. The prosecutor stood from his seat and tossed his hands in the air. “I object your honor. The witness is not a specialist on intoxication, nor was he able at the time to perform a blood alcohol level test or a breathalyzer test. To testify as to his toxicity level would be nothing more than a sheer guess at best.” “Rephrase the question or change your line of questioning,” the judge warned. Kurt nodded his head. “How many times would you say the undercover ATF agent, who you believed to be a brother in your MC, asked you if you’d kill a member of the Shovelheads?” Kurt asked. “Six or eight,” Jackson responded.

“No less than six?” Kurt asked. Jackson shook his head. “You know, I’ve had several years to think about this. It’s really bothered me. I can count six times in my head for sure. For absolute sure. And I know there were others, but the more I drank, the drunker I became. So for me to testify under oath to an exact number would be a lie. He asked no less than six times,” Jackson said. “Did you know agent Blackburn was an ATF agent at this time?” Kurt asked. “No Sir.” “Did you view the members of your club as brothers?” Kurt asked. Jackson nodded his head. “Yes Sir. I sure did.” “Family?” Kurt asked. “Yes Sir, I did. They were my family,” Jackson responded. “Mr. Shephard, where is your mother today?” Kurt asked. Jackson shook his head. “She’s dead, Sir. She passed away when I was a very young boy.” “I’m sorry to hear that. And your father?” Kurt asked. “The same, Sir. He passed at the same time. I grew up in orphanages and eventually in a foster home with my only sibling, my sister,” Jackson responded. “I’m sorry for your losses.” Kurt paused and appeared to wipe his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “Would it suffice to say the club and your MC brothers were the only family you had?” Kurt asked. “Yes Sir. Them and my sister,” Jackson nodded. “And you perceived agent Blackburn as a brother?” Kurt asked. Jackson shifted his gaze toward the prosecution’s table, where the agent was seated. After shaking his head from side-to-side slightly, he responded. “Yes Sir, I did.” “To the best of your knowledge, are the Shovelheads MC a 1%er club?” Kurt asked. Jackson nodded his head. “Yes Sir, they are.” Kurt nodded his head as he released the lectern. He stepped to the side slightly and rubbed his jaw

with his thumb and forefingers. “And Hell’s Fury was also a 1%er club?” Kurt asked. “Yes Sir, we were,” Jackson responded. “When a 1% club who has claimed territory - for this sake I’ll call them the parent club -has another club ride into the territory without permission, wearing their colors including a lower rocker claiming the same territory, how does the parent club perceive this trespass?” Kurt asked. Avery slapped her hand against my bicep. “You see what he’s doing?” she whispered. I nodded my head. “Shhh.” “As disrespectful. As a threat,” Jackson responded. “A threat?” Kurt asked as if he were shocked. Avery slapped my arm again. “Yes Sir.” “And when a 1% club makes a threat, what might that threat include, generally speaking?” Kurt asked. “Violence,” Jackson shrugged. “Violence. I see. Let me back up a little bit, to where we were before. This club, the Hell’s Fury, these fellas were your family, is that correct?” Kurt asked. “Yes Sir,” Jackson nodded. “I see. And when agent Blackburn asked you what you’d do if they came into your territory, wearing a lower rocker claiming your state of residence as if their own, what was your fear, if any?” Kurt asked. Avery slapped her hand against my arm again. I glanced toward Sydney, who was seated on my right side. She sat between Toad and I staring straight ahead, waiting for her brother’s response. As Avery gripped my left arm in her hand, Sydney’s brother responded. “They were a rival club, always causing problems and talking…” Jackson paused and turned toward the judge. The judge looked down at Jackson and nodded his head.

“Talking shit. Saying they were going to do this, and do that. If they rode in wearing their colors and claiming territory, I guess my fear was that they’d probably kill us, or at least try,” Jackson responded. “So, your eventual response to ATF agent Blackburn was one more of protection than of aggression, was it not?” Kurt asked. “Objection, your honor. He’s leading the witness,” the prosecutor hollered. “Granted. Rephrase your question,” the judge said. Avery squeezed my arm. “Why did you eventually respond in the manner you did to the ATF agent? Agreeing that you’d kill members of the Shovelheads if they came to town?” Kurt asked. Jackson grinned slightly. “I didn’t realize he was an agent. At the time, he was a brother, part of my family. And my fear was that the Shovelheads MC might hurt him or some of my other brothers. My thoughts at the time were that I needed to protect my family,” Jackson responded. “Your only family?” Kurt asked. “Yes Sir, my only family,” Jackson responded. Avery released my arm from her grip. “Fuck yes,” she whispered as she slapped her hand against my thigh. “No further questions for this witness, your honor,” Kurt said flatly. I turned toward the prosecutor, who slowly stood from his seat. “The prosecution rests, your honor,” the prosecutor stated. “Your honor, I have only one witness to question. In lieu of a recess, and in an effort to please the court, may I call my witness and possibly wrap this up?” Kurt asked. “One?” the judge asked. “Yes Sir,” Kurt responded. The judge turned toward the prosecutor. The prosecutor shrugged his shoulders. “I have no objections,” the prosecutor said.

“Very well. My time, the court’s time, is precious. In an effort to expedite this trial, we will continue. Call your witness,” the judge stated. “Your honor, I call Special Agent Randall Blackburn,” Kurt said as he turned to face the agent. “Oh yeah. This is going to be good,” Avery whispered. Personally, I couldn’t imagine it being any better than it was. I realized I didn’t fully understand all of the intricacies of the law the way Avery did, but from what I’d seen, Kurt was butchering the prosecution. His way of obtaining the answers he wanted from the witnesses was without much fault. “Let’s take a ten-minute recess for the bathroom,” the judge said as he looked up at the clock. “2:13. I ask that everyone return to my courtroom no later than 2:13,” the judge said as he studied the clock. “I just want this to be over,” Sydney said as the US Marshall led the jury from the room. “It’ll be over pretty soon,” I responded. “Those fucking ATF agents,” Axton whispered. I turned to my left to face Axton and leaned forward, resting my hands on my thighs. “Rotten pricks. I’d like to line every one of them up, and do the world a favor by killing each and every one of ‘em,” he hissed. “Be careful,” I whispered as I raised one eyebrow and glanced along the ranks of Sinners seated in the courtroom. “There might be one amongst us.” “Not in my club,” he said as he shook his head. “I guarantee it.”



OTIS With a shaved head, a twelve-inch-long beard, and his arms covered in tattoos, Special Agent Blackburn appeared to be a biker, not an ATF agent. Sitting on the witness stand, he looked like he was pulled from the yard in prison, fitted with some fancy dress clothes, and placed in the court room. Studying him caused me to realize how little a person really knows about who it is at his side. “Agent Blackburn, how many years have you been with the ATF, as an agent?” Kurt asked. “Eighteen,” Blackburn responded. In your eighteen years, have you worked in the field in an undercover capacity?” Kurt asked. Blackburn nodded his head. “Yes, most of my career has been undercover.” “Generally speaking, when you work undercover, do you wear some form of electronic listening device - a wire?” Kurt asked. “We try to. It isn’t something that can always be done, but if possible, yes,” Blackburn responded as he adjusted himself in the seat. Kurt nodded his head. “Is it done to preserve, or more accurately, to support your investigation?” Blackburn sat up straight in his seat and spoke directly into the microphone. “Yes. The recordings support the agent’s testimony, and provide corroboration in court of the events described in the investigation and in the daily reports.” “So wearing a wire sounds like it’s a procedural matter. Is that correct?” Kurt asked as he stepped to the side of the lectern. “Yes Sir, it is,” Blackburn responded. “Thank you for clearing that up, Special Agent Blackburn,” Kurt said in a somewhat sarcastic tone as he took a step toward the witness stand. Kurt stepped to the side of the lectern and placed his hands on his hips. “How many times did you ask the defendant if he would retaliate against the Hell’s Fury before he responded in a manner contrary to law?” “Two,” Blackburn responded in a matter of fact tone. “Two?” Kurt asked, the tone of his voice filled with annoyance. “Yes, two,” Blackburn said.

Kurt slowly raised his hands in the air and turned his palms outward. “Not six or eight?” “No Sir. Two,” Blackburn said flatly. Kurt shrugged his shoulders slightly and took another step toward the witness stand. “Are you certain?” “Very,” Blackburn responded. Kurt nodded his head as if accepting Blackburn’s response as accurate. “I’ve read the transcripts from the original trial. Have you made reference to them?” Kurt asked. “Yes, yes I have,” Blackburn stated. “Your initial testimony was the same? Two?” Kurt asked as if he knew the answer, but simply sought confirmation. “Yes Sir,” Blackburn responded as he reached for the glass of water sitting in front of him. Kurt turned away from the witness stand, and slowly began to take the two or three steps toward the lectern, facing the jury as he spoke. “As an ATF agent, you receive training in regard to law, do you not?” Blackburn nodded his head. “Some, yes.” “Training to assure you will follow policies and procedures in accordance with law, and not contrary to it, correct?” he asked as he reached the lectern. “That is correct,” Blackburn responded as he lowered the glass of water to the platform in front of him. “Would two requests, with the second response by the defendant being contrary to law, in your professional trained opinion, legally define coercion, inducement, or enticement?” Kurt asked. Blackburn shook his head and chuckled. “No Sir, it sure wouldn’t. Absolutely not. Asking him twice is not coercion or inducement.” “Out of curiosity, if that number was six or eight, would it define coercion?” Kurt asked. After a short hesitation, Blackburn responded as he leaned toward the microphone, “It may.” “And your lengthy training with the ATF included instructions and training not to badger, coerce, induce, or entice a law abiding citizen to commit a crime, correct?” Kurt asked. “That is correct,” Blackburn said.

“Under oath, the defendant stated he was asked no less than six times. You have stated you asked him twice. According to your earlier testimony, six would define coercion, inducement, and or entrapment, and you merely asked him twice. I’m wondering, are you telling the truth or is he?” Kurt asked flatly. “Objection!” the prosecutor howled. “Counsel…” the judge said flatly. “I’ll advise you not to answer the question,” the judge stated as he turned toward the witness. The judge turned toward the jury. “Be it known the witness is under oath and sworn to tell the truth,” the judge said. “How long was your investigation of the Hell’s Fury?” Kurt asked. “Two years and one month,” Blackburn responded. “And in that time, twenty-five months, how many arrests were made?” Kurt asked. “One,” Blackburn said. “One? A twenty-five-month long investigation of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, and it only produced one arrest?” Kurt asked. “Yes,” Blackburn responded as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Did the ATF make a decision not to prosecute the other cases?” Kurt asked. “There were no other cases,” Blackburn said. “You successfully infiltrated an outlaw gang of motorcycle thugs for twenty-five months, and produced this as your only case? Seems more like they were a group of good old boys, not an OMG,” Kurt said flatly. “Your honor, I object. It appears the defense counsel has chosen to provide his own testimony,” the prosecutor snapped. “I’ll ask the jury to strike the last statement made by the prosecutor. Counsel, you have been warned,” the judge said as he raised his index finger in the air. Kurt leaned onto the lectern and pressed his chest onto the platform. Now staring at the ATF agent, he cleared his throat. Avery slapped my arm and whispered into my ear. “He’s going to make a point. He wants the jury’s attention.”

“In discovery, I requested the voice recording of the conversation on the night of the instant offence. I was advised it did not exist in legible format. Are you aware of the lack of availability of said recording?” Kurt asked. “Yes Sir, I am. Unfortunately, the recording device did not work properly on that evening, and background noise made the recording worthless,” Blackburn responded. “I was provided recorded conversations before and after the date in question. In fact, I have a few hundred hours of recorded conversations. Almost four hundred hours if memory serves me correctly. Now, my question to you is as follows…” Kurt paused and turned to face the jury. “Agent Blackburn, how many conversations through the course of the investigation were unintelligible, to the best of your knowledge, that is?” Kurt asked as he continued to face the jury. “One,” Blackburn breathed. Kurt turned toward the witness stand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your response. Can you speak into the microphone?” Blackburn leaned forward and responded into the microphone. “One.” Kurt nodded his head and chuckled lightly. “I’m curious. During your infiltration of the group of outlaw bikers, did you give them your actual name?” he asked. Blackburn chuckled a light laugh as if the question amused him. “No.” “Did you make one up?” Kurt asked. “Yes, I did,” Blackburn responded. “Did you give them an accurate history of who you were?” Kurt asked. “No Sir, I provided fictitious information. Information believed to be more acceptable to the type of people I was investigating,” Blackburn said. “So you lied. You told lies to the bikers to get them to either like you or accept you, is that correct?” Kurt asked. “I object!” the prosecutor bellowed as he stood from his seat. “Your honor,” Kurt said. “The witness stated he provided inaccurate information to the group during his investigation. I’m simply…”

“I’ll rephrase the question,” Kurt said as he gripped the edges of the lectern in his massive hands. “Was the information you provided the bikers regarding your background and or name the truth?” Kurt asked. “No,” Blackburn said. “Was it a lie?” Kurt asked. “Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor said as he stood. “I’ll allow it, but you shall make your point in a timely manner, counsel,” the judge said. “Yes,” Blackburn said as he leaned into the back of his seat. “Explain your thought process to me on lying to these men during the investigation. Why would you feel compelled to tell them lies?” Kurt said as he stepped to the side of the lectern and raised his hand to his chin. Blackburn turned to face the judge. The judge in turn nodded his head. Blackburn then turned toward Kurt, who was now studying the jury. “To preserve the investigation, we are taught to give either limited information, or false information. It provides protection to the bureau and to the agent,” Blackburn responded. “You’re taught to lie during your investigations?” Kurt asked. Blackburn glanced toward the judge. The judge nodded his head. “Yes,” Blackburn grunted. “So, through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?” Kurt asked. “Objection, your honor, asked and answered,” the prosecutor hollered. “I’ll allow it,” the judge said. Kurt turned toward the jury and spoke as he continued to stare at the jury. “I’ll ask the question again. Through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?” he asked without turning away from the jury. “Correct, we’re often required to lie, as you say, to preserve the investigation,” Blackburn responded.

“Are you being paid for your testimony today, agent Blackburn?” Kurt asked. Blackburn sat stone faced and didn’t answer. “You must not have heard me,” Kurt said as he turned from facing the jury to facing Blackburn. “You testified that you told lies through the course of your work to preserve the investigation. My question was this: Are you being paid for your testimony today? Are you working?” Kurt asked. “Yes, I am,” Blackburn grunted. “No further questions,” Kurt said as he turned away. “Boom!” Avery whispered as she slapped my knee. After two short closing arguments, and the judge providing the jury with an instruction booklet, the jury was released to their deliberation room. After they were carefully tucked away, we were dismissed. As we filtered into the hall amidst the ATF agents and US Marshals, Axton stepped to my side. “Pretty good trial, that attorney is on the fucking ball,” Axton said. “God damned right he is,” Avery snapped back. “So what now?” Sydney asked. I reached over and patted Sydney on the shoulder. She looked exhausted, and I suspected she probably didn’t sleep at all the previous night. Toad also looked as if he hadn’t slept for a few days, and appeared to be on an entirely different planet. “The jury deliberates. They read the instructions, and they decide guilt or innocence. The court will call Kurt when a decision is made, and he’ll call us. It’s 3:30 now, so he’ll probably dismiss the jury at 4:45. There’s really nothing that will happen tonight. Sometimes it takes six or eight hours, and other times it takes two or three days. You never know,” Avery explained as she walked around me and toward Sydney. Sydney shrugged her shoulders. “I just. I want this to be over. I feel so sorry for him. I hate for him to get his hopes up and then, you know…” I watched as Sinners got on the elevator eight or ten at a time, and went down to what I assumed was the ground floor. Several others took the stairs, talking quietly as they did so. I turned to Axton and shrugged my shoulders. “Slice, I feel like I’ve been on trial; that was fucking exhausting. What’s the plan, boss?” I asked. “Hell, I had no idea when we’d get out of here, looks like we’ve got the afternoon to ourselves. Hell, the suns shining and it’s a beautiful fucking day. What do you say we gather up the fellas and go terrorize a bar?” he said.

“We go rolling in sixty deep, everyone wearing their cuts, and they’ll think we’re gonna shoot the place to pieces,” I said. “Let ‘em think what they want,” Axton said. I nodded my head. “Sounds good to me.” “Up for a beer, Toad?” I asked as I slapped Toad on the shoulder. “I’m up for whatever. I’m just fucking tired, brother. Haven’t been sleeping for shit, been worried about Syd’s brother and all,” Toad said. We hadn’t been in the hallway ten or fifteen minutes, and Kurt stepped into the corridor, holding his phone in his hand. “Jury’s reached a verdict,” Kurt said. “What?” Avery snapped as she spun around. Kurt nodded his head. “They’ll be bringing them back in.” “Holy shit,” Avery said. Sydney covered her mouth with her hands and spoke between her fingers. “Avery, what’s this mean?” “Well, they say a verdict like this means only one thing. The jury decided the case long before they trial was over. Just take a deep breath, either way, it’ll be fine, Syd,” Avery said as she leaned over and hugged Sydney. The few of us who remained in the hallway walked back into the courtroom and sat down while we waited for the judge to enter the room. After about a ten-minute wait, the judge entered, and we stood and after he was seated, we all sat down. Instead of sixty Sinners, there was maybe fifteen or so seated. The ATF agents watching the trial, however, remained in full force. As I glanced down the row of Sinners, I watched as Axton gave one bearded ATF agent the shittiest stink eye I’ve ever witnessed. Only after the ATF agent broke the stare did Axton lean into the back of his seat and exhale. “Counsel, please stand,” the judge instructed. The prosecution and defense attorneys stood. “I want it understood there will be no outbursts in the courtroom, regardless of the verdict,” the judge said firmly as he studied the group. I nodded my head. The judge turned toward the jury.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked. “Yes, your honor, we have,” the foreman responded. I reached to my left and right, and after a moment of fumbling, grabbed both Sydney’s and Avery’s hands and held them firmly. “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States of America, what say you?” the judge asked. “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States, we the jury, find him not guilty; as he was entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime listed in the indictment, your honor,” the foreperson responded. Holy fucking shit. Kurt reached down and patted Jackson on the shoulder. As the judge questioned each juror regarding their finding, Sydney leaned forward. Tears streamed from her face as she made a few attempts to speak. After collecting herself, she began to whisper to Avery, who was bouncing her right leg a hundred miles an hour. “What now?” Sydney blubbered. “How long…uhhm…how long does he….uhhm…go back to prison for?” “He doesn’t go back to prison,” Avery responded. “He goes home. He’s free.” “He doesn’t have…” Sydney sobbed. “He doesn’t…uhhm, he doesn’t have a home.” “The hell he doesn’t. We’ve got two extra rooms. He’s got a home,” Toad said. And he’s got a family. Most of them are out in the street, and the rest are right here.



OTIS Feeling somewhat frustrated Axton and Toad had women in their lives, and Biscuit was arguably close behind with Kat - while I continued to live a life of solitude - I sat at my kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee. Wondering if my way of living life and the precautions I took regarding outsiders was possibly a little stricter than it should be, I stared blankly through window and into my back yard. Attempted to count the possibilities I had over the years of women I felt comfortable allowing into my life - but didn’t - I searched my mind for those who had escaped me. After an entire cup of coffee worth of consideration, I came up with one woman in fifteen years. Avery. Avery’s participation during our botched gun deal with the MS-13, along with her quick thinking, reacting, and accuracy with a handgun not only saved my life, but provided me with all the reassurance I needed to understand she was a woman who I could trust. Looking at Avery with a broader field of vision provided a view of a woman who was confident, intelligent, brave, beautiful, and responsible. Prior to Axton’s acceptance of her into his life, I considered inviting her into mine. After Axton’s claimed her as his Ol’ Lady, she became off limits, and now remained nothing more than a close friend. Realizing there was one woman through the course of fifteen years who provided me with a level of comfort great enough to allow me to let my guard down was nowhere near reassuring. In fact, the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. My life was one I was living not for me, but for the betterment and the security of the Selected Sinners MC. I had been in the club since the beginning, and although I wasn’t close friends with every member, I viewed each and every one of the Sinners as a brother. After moving me from Sergeant-At-Arms to Vice President, I fully understood I was no longer responsible for their protection as far as the club was concerned, but releasing me from the responsibility completely was impossible. The club was family to me no differently than my father and mother were, and I was naturally a protector of what I loved and cherished. Living the life of a Sinner allowed me to understand the camaraderie shared by military members who had spent time in combat together. Being a member of the club was not much different. Knowing a brother had my back was reassuring, comforting, and provided an odd sense of balance to an otherwise askew life I seemed to live. I gazed down into the empty cup of coffee and began to wonder if forfeiting a conventional way of life was something I was willing to do. The answer was as clear as the blue sky outside - I had already done it. Consciously or not, I had cast aside anything conventional to protect the lives and preserve the rights of my beloved brothers. The Sinners were my family, and more than likely the only love I would ever know.

I stood from my seat and walked to the kitchen sink. After rinsing the cup of coffee and placing it in the dishwasher, I walked to my bedroom and grabbed my cut. My thoughts of Sam and the untimely death of her mother had begun to fade, but the event opened my eyes and allowed me to have a better understanding of myself, my life, and my true love. The Selected Sinners. I opened the door to the garage and pressed the button on the wall to open the door leading to the driveway. I stood on the steps and glanced around. An obvious extension of me and my beliefs, the garage was filled with tools and equipment for working on bikes, my two motorcycles, and my 1969 Z-28 Camaro. No second car, no flower pots or planters, and no indication of any interests other than the car and bikes. Satisfied my life was what it was meant to be, I grinned and fired up the bike. As the motor warmed up to operating temp, the low rumble of the exhaust filled me with pleasure. Riding a motorcycle wasn’t something I merely enjoyed, it was part of my being. Each time I rode was as exciting as the first, and for that I was extremely grateful. If riding a motorcycle ever became boring, I suspected my life would become the same. I rode to the clubhouse, enjoying the sunset against the few clouds that had developed along the western sky. With the warm summer air against my face, I gazed ahead at the slight curve in the highway leading into town. The empty highway invited me to twist back the throttle, and I did so without reservation. Now heading into the curve at eighty miles per hour, I leaned the bike to my left, dragging the toe of my boot against the passing pavement as I did so. The tips of my boots acted as a measuring stick of sorts for how far to lean my bike, and doing so until my boots drug against the road provided me a sense of worth. As the curve straightened into open road, I leaned right, bringing the bike back to upright. In the distance, a tractor crossing the highway reminded me of the summer soon coming to a close, a farmer obviously spending as many daylight hours as possible harvesting his crops, he attempted to cross the road before I arrived at the intersection. I downshifted, released the clutch and grinned at the sound bellowing from the exhaust. As the distance between me and the tractor quickly decreased, I downshifted again, then again, almost coming to a stop before the tractor completely crossed the road. As my bike slowed to an almost stop, the farmer reached out the side window of the tractor and waved, obviously realizing his poor judgement in crossing the road in front of me. I lifted my left hand, waved, and twisted the throttle. As the bike quickly accelerated, I shifted through the gears until once again reaching the eighty mile per hour mark. A quick glance in my rearview mirror revealed a dust cloud following the farmer’s tractor down the county road he traveled along. As I considered that he was probably going home to a late dinner, thoughts of having a woman in my life began to run through my head and filled my mind until I rode into town. Struggling with whether or not I’d ever be able to come home to a prepared dinner, under another person’s expectation of doing so, I slowed down for the first traffic light. I sat at the light, gazing blankly into the road ahead, as an old school Harley approached the light in the oncoming lane. A late 1960’s Shovelhead Springer with a face I recognized as being one of the local Patriot Guard came to a stop in the lane immediately to my left. Bill was a Vietnam Vet, rode with the Guard, and often attended the funerals of veterans who were being protested by Pastor Fred Phelps’ Westboro Baptist Church; providing a line of separation between the protestors and the families of the

vet. As the light turned green, Bill lowered his left hand to his side as he rode by. I did the same. Something as simple as lowering one’s left hand had become the universal biker wave over the years; and as easy as it was to do, not everyone did it. The few who did stood for one thing and one thing only, realizing it was as big a part of being a biker as anything else. In recognizing this, I felt I had my answer to my ability to come home to dinner on a nightly basis. The answer was no. And the wave stood for freedom.



OTIS Axton held his hands in the air as he studied the group of men assembled in the office. An uneducated glance at my brothers led me to believe if not all of the men were in attendance, almost all of them were. As the crowd quieted down from a dull roar to complete silence, Axton lowered his hands and sighed. “As you know from the announcement, we’re going to have a special vote. Those in attendance tonight will be considered the entire club, regardless of whether or not all patched members are in attendance. Be it known that any member not in attendance will forfeit their vote in said matter. I cannot vote, nor will I attempt to prejudice your thoughts on this, but we need to decide on something that’s been brought to my attention as a motion by a member of the Executive Committee, and was seconded by another member of the committee. All records of said conversation and motion were recorded by yours truly.” Axton extended his arm toward Fancy, who grinned and raised his hand as Axton pointed at him. “Here’s what we’ve got, fellas,” Axton said as he turned and surveyed the group. “Jackson Shephard, your Sergeant-At-Arms’ future brother-in-law, and the man we all supported in trial the other day, has been released from his former club at his request. He now is a local resident, and lives with Toad. The bylaws allow for the transfer of a fully patched member of another club into our club without prospecting, but it requires a vote of one hundred percent in agreement. Personally, I can’t vouch for this man, but I can say I’ve spoken to the President of Hell’s Fury. According to him, Jackson was not only a patched in member, but was solid as a rock throughout his legal battle and incarceration. When many men would have dropped a dime on their brothers, he kept his mouth shut. The vote tonight will be whether or not to allow him to come into the Sinners as a fully patched member. This will be a private vote, and as I said earlier, this will require a one hundred percent vote, fellas. Any questions?” “I ain’t saying I agree or disagree, and I know it’s in the bylaws, but just out of curiosity, why wouldn’t we have him be a Prospect?” Pete asked. “Respect,” Axton responded. “Toad and I discussed this at the meeting when the motion was made to allow the vote. Let me have Toad explain the analogy we discussed.” Axton turned to face Toad and nodded his head. After clearing his throat, Toad began. “If a man’s in the Army, Navy, or Air Force, and he wants to transfer to be a Marine, he must go through basic training all over again. It’s humbling, and although he may be a Sergeant or whatever in the Army, the Marine Corps won’t allow him to come in until he completes their basic training. But, if a Marine wants to transfer into any other branch, he can do so without any restrictions or going through the basic training of the branch he’s transferring into again. Basic training, for those who don’t understand, is basically being a Prospect for the military. The Marines are viewed by the other branches of the military as being trained in a superior fashion, and once a Marine has completed his Prospecting, and received his patch so to speak, he can transfer to any other military branch. Our bylaws are no different than any other 1% clubs bylaws in this regard. We view anyone as being in a 1% club as being trained in a superior fashion, and asking him to complete the process again is not only disrespectful to him, but disrespectful to the club he originally prospected for. And this bylaw

only applies to members who were released in good standing.” Pete, as well as many other men in attendance, nodded their heads. Gunner, a former Army machine gunner, pointed at Toad and nodded his head as Toad finished his speech. “He’s right,” Gunner said. “A Marine can walk in wherever he wants, but no one can walk into the Corps.” Toad glanced at Gunner and stared for a moment before nodding his head. For some reason, there always seemed to be a little military tension between the two, and I always dismissed it to being the difference between being a Marine and being an Army soldier. That, and the fact Toad didn’t particularly open up to just everyone. I patted Toad on the back and grinned. “Good fucking speech,” I said. “Appreciate it, Toad. So,” Axton said. “Fancy will pass around slips of paper. There’s about ten pens on the table to share, and to save any confusion, a yes vote means you agree to allow him in, and a no vote means you don’t agree. If there’s one no vote, the answer is no. If the answer is yes, it was agreed by the entire club, and I won’t allow any future bitching or complaining about him being a fully patched member. He’s paid his dues and then some, he just didn’t pay ‘em here.” Fancy began to pass slips of paper through the crowd. After everyone had a slip of paper, the pens began to float through the room. After roughly five minutes it was over, and the slips of folded paper were provided to Fancy. “Official count for the attendance?” Axton asked. Fancy glanced down at his notepad. “Thirty-four, including you.” “Count the slips as you read ‘em off, we’ll need thirty-three for a yes decision. You can stop counting as soon as you read off a no,” Axton explained. “And hand the slips to the V.P. for confirmation after you read them if you will.” Fancy nodded his head in my direction. “One yes. Two yes. Three yes. Four yes. Five yes…” Fancy said as he unfolded and read each vote individually. After reading each slip, he handed them to Toad, who in turn handed them to me. I confirmed each slip was marked as Fancy indicated, and then placed them on the table in a helmet sitting in the center of the table. “Thirty-two yes, and the last. Thirty-three,” Fancy grinned as he unfolded the last piece of paper. “Thirty-three’s a yes,” he said as he handed the slip to Toad.

I nodded in agreement as Toad handed the slip to me. “Well fellas, it’s unanimous. Toad, send him a text or call him and have him get his ass up here.” Axton paused and glanced around the group. Axton shrugged his shoulders. “Now, all we’ve got to do is name this poor fucker. His former club name was Killer, and that damned near got him life in prison. He doesn’t have any recommendations from what Brother Toad has said, so I’m open for suggestions.” “I say we call him Meathead. He looks like one of those meat-headed fuckers from the gym. He’s all swole up,” Pete said as he raised his arms and flexed his biceps. “We already got a Jack and a Government Jack,” Knucklelhead hollered. “I say we either call him Meathead or Big Jack. He’s a big fucker for sure.” “Anyone else?” Axton asked. “Meathead reminds me of that dumb fucker on the Archie Bunker T.V. show, I don’t like it. Big Jack sounds good, but Meathead just reminds me of that bald-headed fucker on the show,” Tater said. “Well, not everyone’s as old as you, Tater,” Axton said with a laugh. “Anyone else?” “Second Chance,” Gunner said. “Let’s call him Second Chance.” Axton shook his head and grinned. “Anyone else?” “Big Jack is a good one,” Mike said. “Well, when he gets here, we’ll see,” Axton said. “Anyone else?” After a few seconds of silence, Axton raised his hands. “Feel free to wander your asses around until he gets here. You don’t have to stay, but if you do, feel free to drink your beers or whatever. And remember, don’t toss your empties in my shit can. Toss ‘em in the shop.” As the crowd diminished and members either left or wandered into the shop, Toad and I were left in the office with a few other lingering members. “You’re looking good. Look like you’ve slept since I saw you last,” I said. Toad cleared his throat. “I tell you what, I don’t think I slept good on even one night for the two weeks before the trial. Bet I lost ten pounds. It’s all good now, and other than Jack being a little skittish just coming out of prison and all, he’s a damned good guy. I thought Corn Dog was bad when he got out, but Jack’s pretty damned nervous about people getting up close to him or walking behind him.” “Yeah, probably the difference between being in state prison and a maximum security fed joint. I’m gonna guess him being a 1%er and all, he probably had quite a few people who tried to challenge his willingness to stand up against them,” I said.

Toad nodded his head. “So far, he hasn’t offered to talk about it much, and Sydney and I decided not to ask, so I’m not sure. He seems pretty quiet, really. Sydney’s sure happy to have him back, that’s for sure.” I nodded my head, thinking about the day Sydney ran out to my bike at the bank. When she asked me to take her to Biscuit’s house, making the statement devil looks after his own, I knew something was up, I just didn’t know what. Later, when I found out the bank had been robbed, and Toad had single handedly apprehended the robber, I knew she was somehow involved with the robbery. Her reluctance to provide any information on the robbery, Toad, or anything to do with the person who robbed the bank caused me to immediately develop a feeling of appreciation for her and her ability to keep her mouth shut. The explanation that followed of her brother and his involvement with Hell’s Fury explained a lot about her knowledge of clubs, club procedures, and the importance of not talking before thinking long and hard about whether or not it was necessary. Sydney, no different than Avery, was a great addition to my extended family. “I’m glad he’s back. It’s good for her, that’s for sure. I’m sure he’ll make as good of a brother for us as he has for her,” I said. The sound of a bike pulling into the lot echoed through the shop and into the office. I wondered as the tone of the exhaust increased if it might be Jack. “Imagine so. Well, that sounds like my Softail, maybe we ought to walk out to the shop and greet him. He’s liable to smack the shit out of someone if they bump into him,” Toad said as he tilted his head to the side. As we walked out into the shop, I immediately noticed Jack sitting on Toad’s Softail in the drive. In boots, jeans, and a wife beater, he sure looked the part. Roughly the size of Toad from the waist down, it was apparent he wasn’t naturally a big man, and all of his size came from hard work on the weight bench. And size was something he did not lack. As he recognized Toad, he stood from the bike and stretched his back. His slim torso made his already massive upper body appear to be twice the size it already was. His short blonde hair and tan from all of the time he’d spent on the yard at prison made him look like the meathead Pete had joked about. If I didn’t know him, I’d certainly think twice about going one round in the ring with him, and I’d fight just about anyone. “Well, Jackson. We voted,” Axton said as he stepped into the drive. Jack stood stone faced and waited for Axton to finish his thought. Axton spread his arms wide. “Welcome to the Sinners.” Jack grinned as he embraced Axton. After a few slaps on the back, Axton and Jack separated, and Jack took a few steps in our direction, stopping a few feet from where Toad and I stood. “Come into the office in a few and I’ll get you fitted for a cut. I make my own, so it’ll be

tomorrow before it’s done. The fellas all spoke, and it looks like they want to call you Big Jack. We’ve got a few; Jack and Government Jack, but don’t have a Big Jack. Your thoughts?” Axton asked. “Big Jack sounds good,” Jack nodded. “Well, you’re a big fucker, that’s for sure. Now, when you get done mingling with the fellas, I’ll be in the office. One of these two can show you around,” Axton said as he turned toward the shop. “Got a question, boss,” Jack said. Axton turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. As he stood and studied Jack, he flexed his biceps. A small show of testosterone, and one of Axton’s signature poses, it was obvious Axton needed Jack to know regardless of his size, just who it was that was the bigger man. “What might that be?” Axton asked flatly. “Who put the money on my books?” Jack asked. “The club,” Axton responded without any emotion. As Axton turned around, Jack cleared his throat. “Who put the money on my books?” Jack asked again, placing emphasis on the word who. Axton turned around and shook his head. “Semantics,” Axton said. “His name’s Biscuit. Big barrel-chested fucker with brown hair and a beard. He’ll be the one telling some bullshit story in the shop. Just listen for the loudest voice, and look for the crowd. Why?” “Appreciate what the club’s done for me, boss, I really do. And I appreciate the money on my books, much fucking more than the Fury did for me, that’s for Goddamned sure. But someone had to take the time to send it. You know, take the risk of being on the Fed’s radar for sending money to me. Just wanted to thank him, that’s all,” Jack explained. “Introduce him to Biscuit,” Axton said as he turned around. “I’m Otis, we met in the courtroom,” I said as I extended my hand. “Heard plenty about you from Syd and Toad here. They say you’re good people. If you’re good with them, you’re good with me,” he responded as he shook my hand. “Likewise,” I nodded. “Follow me? I’ll introduce you to Biscuit,” I said. Jack nodded his head.

I turned around and slowly walked inside, making certain to choose my path wisely, and trying to avoid all of the large groups of men who were gathered talking. As we walked into the shop, most of the men stopped what they were doing or talking about, and took a second glance at Jack. There wasn’t much that would typically intimidate a Sinner, but if there was, Jack just might be it. As the men gawked at his sheer size and obvious attitude, I walked up to Biscuit. As Axton hinted, he was in the corner of the shop with five of the fellas who stood eagerly listening to a story he was telling. “Biscuit,” I said as we walked up to the group. “What’ shakin’ O?” Biscuit said as he stopped talking and turned away from the group. I raised my chin slightly and tilted my head toward Jack. “Man wanted to talk to ya.” Biscuit studied Jack for a second, and stepped to the side of the group. Biscuit was as full of shit as a Christmas turkey, but intimidating him would take an army of men, not one. “What can I help ya with?” Biscuit asked as he looked up and down Jack’s frame. “Heard you were the one who put the money on my books,” Jack said. Biscuit shook his head and glanced down at Jack’s boots. “Money came from the club.” “Heard you were the one who sent me the money. The money the club raised for me. You were the one who put it on my books,” Jack said flatly. Biscuit shifted his gaze to mine, then toward Toad, and quickly shifted his eyes to meet Jack’s. “You got the right fella. Is there a problem?” “Just wanted to personally thank ya for sending it. I appreciate ya. If you ever need anything, just let me know. Name’s Jack. Big Jack,” Jack said as he extended his hand. Biscuit grinned and shook his hand. “Biscuit. Stick around and have a beer.” Jack crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded his head once. “I’ll be back. Just got to see the boss about my cut.” “I’ll be right here,” Biscuit said as he leaned forward and immediately began talking. “He good people?” Jack asked as we turned to walk away. “One of the few I’ll run with,” I responded. “Biscuit, Slice - the President, and Toad here, that’s about it.” Jack nodded his head in acknowledgement as the three of us walked toward the office. As we stepped through the door, Axton held a cut up in the air and studied it. “This is an extra-large, try it,” he said as he handed the cut to Jack.

“Everything’s American made as far as the leather goes, and I sew it all myself. Sometimes the patches look shaky, but I embroider the name’s myself,” Axton explained as Jack tried on the cut. “Fits perfect,” Jack said. Axton nodded his head in agreement. “Looks good.” ‘Sew ‘em up yourself, huh?” Jack asked as he removed the cut. Axton nodded his head as he reached for the cut. “Can’t think of doing it any other way.” “Says a lot about your pride in being the boss of the club, that’s for damned sure. Can’t ever go wrong with American made, either,” Jack said. “We’ll agree on that, and I appreciate it. I take a lot of pride in this club, my brothers, and the quality of members. No worries about some ATF wannabe fucking with you in here,” Axton bragged. “We’ll see about that,” Jack growled. “Far as I’m concerned, I’ll stick close to the three of you and that Biscuit fella. I’m not here to swap stories, make friends, or learn how to be a bad-ass. Nobody’d believe my stories, I’ll never have many friends, and I ain’t met a man yet who’s big or mean enough to whip me,” he paused and glanced toward me. “Except maybe this big fucker here,” he said as he slapped his hand against my back. Axton crossed his arms in front of his chest and grinned as he alternated glances between us. “Some fellas are lovers and some are fighters. Toad? He’s a little of both. Otis? He doesn’t know a damned thing about loving, but fighting? He could probably write a best-selling book on the subject.” “Good to know,” Jack said. “Have the cut ready tomorrow night,” Axton said. Jack shifted his gaze to meet mine and tilted his head toward the door. “Appreciate it, feel naked without one. We’ll leave you to your business.” After we walked through the door and into the shop, Jack turned to face me. “Any chance you two and that Biscuit fella want to get a little riding in? It’s been a bit since I spent any time on a bike, and I’m itching to get out on the road.” I shrugged my shoulders as I glanced at Toad. “I’m game,” “Same,” Toad responded. “Head to town and get a beer?” “As long as we’re headed to Avery’s old joint, I’m sure Biscuit’ll agree,” I said with a laugh. “Why’s that?” Toad asked.

“New girl in there. Tall, thin, and kind of a dirty blonde named Kat. Cute little bitch. She’s Biscuit’s new bitch,” I said. Toad shook his head as we walked toward the group of men gathered around Biscuit. “When you gonna find you an Ol’ Lady?” Toad asked over his shoulder. I shrugged my shoulders. “You heard the man. I’ll leave the loving up to you and Slice. I’m not a lover, I’m a fighter.” And, as much as I wanted to embrace the statement, and had truly come to believe it was where I’d remain, I had my reservations as to whether or not it was where I belonged.



OTIS The forty-minute ride in the hot summer air made each of us more than ready for a cold drink by the time we rolled into the bar. The atmosphere wasn’t much different than the night Biscuit and I met Kat; with the exception of us, four patrons, a waitress, and a bartender were all that occupied the establishment. Kat not working was a minor setback as far as Biscuit was concerned, but in my eyes it allowed us to get to know Jack without any distractions. “Otis tells me you been fucking some college girl who works here. What the hell’s wrong with you, Biscuit?” Toad asked as we sat down in the booth. Biscuit ran his hand through his hair as he shook his head. “Shit brother, ain’t a damned thing wrong with me, wait ‘till you see her. I think you’ll agree Biscuit’s doin’ pretty damned good with this one, college girl or not. We’ve been fuckin’ like a couple of Catholic rabbits. That girl’s got the sexual drive of a three-peckered billy goat.” “She is cute as fuck,” I agreed. “Right now, I think I’d fuck anyone who agreed to hold still long enough for me to poke ‘em,” Jack said. “And that’d be about ten seconds worth, it’s been quite a stretch for me.” Biscuit leaned into the table and rubbed his beard with his hand as he turned toward Jack. “I bet you’re hornier than a fourteen-year-old boy who just found daddy’s Playboy collection.” “Pretty damned close,” Jack said. “Kitchen closes in twenty minutes if you want food. If not, the bar’s open till two. Want to see a menu?” the waitress asked. “What? Just get some beers?” Biscuit asked. “Budweiser. I don’t want Toad trying to order beers. We’ll end up with some pale ale orange apple cider bullshit,” I said jokingly. The thirty-something year old waitress was attractive, but looked like she probably had a houseful of kids and a husband at home. The diamond ring on her finger could have been a gimmick, but the depression that had developed in the skin on her finger came from wearing it for many years if it was. “Four Bud’s?” she asked. “Make it twelve. We’ll go through the first four in about a minute,” Biscuit responded. She titled her head to the side playfully and turned toward Biscuit. “I’ll bring eight and as soon as you set your empties at the side of the table, I’ll bring four more. You don’t want to drink hot beers, do you?”

“Smart girl right there,” Biscuit said as he tossed his head in her direction, “Make it eight.” “Be right back,” she said as she turned away. Biscuit glanced around the group and eventually shifted his gaze upward as he rubbed his beard. It appeared he was thinking of which story he wanted to grace us with. As he searched through his memory for something to reveal to the group, Jack broke the silence. “So you fellas take any long rides? Go to Sturgis?” Jack asked. I shook my head. “Don’t go to Sturgis, but we make some pretty good runs. Austin for the ROT Rally, and down to Phoenix for the Arizona Bike Week. Some of the fellas go down to Daytona, but it’s a long ride and still winter here when that fucker pops off.” “No Sturgis, huh?” Jack chuckled. “Sturgis has become a trailer-fest. Every swinging dick in the country drags his bike there on a trailer and then rides the fucker around town for a few days. Some of the fellas head up there alone, but we don’t make a club run,” Toad responded. Jack nodded his head and grinned as the waitress dropped off the beers. After he nervously grabbed the first beer, we all reached for a bottle. “Never cared for that Rally myself; bunch of amateurs,” Jack said as he held his beer elevated over the center of the table. Each of us grabbed a beer, opened it, and raised them for the obvious toast Jack intended. As our bottles clanked together, Jack spoke. “Here’s to being free, riding hard, and sleeping on a soft bed,” Jack said. After drinking half his bottle of beer in one gulp, he raised his bottle again. We immediately followed and waited for his next bit of wisdom. “And here’s to Slice’s Ol’ Lady Avery. Without her, I’d still be eating Star Crunch and drinking cold instant coffee in my cell,” he said as he tilted his bottle into ours. “Damned fine woman right there,” Biscuit said as he lowered his bottle to the table. I gazed toward the bathroom entrance blankly as Citizen Cope’s Sideways began to play over the sound system. As I mentally faded away for a moment and became engrossed in the words of the music, I realized I was seated in a position which made me slightly uncomfortable. Naturally, I always tried to position myself facing the entrance of any bar I was seated in. If not, I generally stood by the door, and felt as if I was guarding the fellas from any potential harm or threat who might choose to enter. Having my back to the door made me nervous. Toad’s PTSD made him far more skittish than I was, and he always demanded he never be seated with his back facing the door. Tonight, Jack and Toad sat facing the door with Biscuit and I facing the restrooms in the rear of the bar. Although I felt a little uneasy, I realized

having Jack’s back to the door probably wasn’t an option considering his just having been released from prison. As I tried to comprehend what Jack had been through for the many years he was locked up in prison, Biscuit’s elevated tone brought me back to a conscious state of mind. “So, we were supposed to leave to go to the ROT Rally in about a week. There was this cute little Asian bitch working at this Thai place, and at the time, I hadn’t fucked me an Asian yet. So I’d been goin’ in there and bein’ sweet on this little bitch.” Biscuit paused and took a drink of his beer. He rested his forearms on the table, leaned almost to the center, and widened his eyes. “So she’s a little fucker ‘bout four foot nothin’ and has these little titties that look big because she’s so damned tiny. Had an ass about the size of a Jonathan apple, but on them skinny little legs and against that eighteen-inch waist it looked like Kim fucking Kardashian’s ass. So anyway, we’re a week out, and I head in there to get me some Asian pussy before the run.” “So I get in there, and she ain’t my waitress, this other cute little chick is. But that ain’t what this is about. So I order my food and get that spicy peanut chicken shit they sell. You guys eat Thai food?” he asked with wide eyes. “Had some,” Toad nodded. I shook my head. Jack shook his head and laughed. “Don’t fuck with the stuff.” “Well, lemme tell ya, it ain’t spicy, it’s fucking hot. So anyway, I order this shit, and after a bit, a big plate of it shows up. Now I’m about half pissed this little Vietnamese princess ain’t working, so I gobble this shit down. Now I’m waitin’ on my check, and my gut starts making them noises. You know them noises when you know something’s gonna happen and it ain’t gonna be good?” Jack nodded his head and lifted his beer. “Like after eatin’ a burrito out of the toilet.” “What?” Biscuit snapped back. “A toilet burrito?” Jack nodded his head and laughed. “Contraband. If you get caught with them, you go to the hole, so you can’t leave ‘em out in the cell, and you need to keep ‘em cold anyway. So the Mexican’s would steal the food from the kitchen and smuggle it to the cells and make up burritos. They’d sell ‘em for stamps and store. They’d come wrapped in a piece of plastic, like from a garbage bag. The end was tied and it’d be air tight, and we kept ‘em in the toilet to keep ‘em cold until we wanted to eat ‘em. Toilet’s kind of like a ‘fridge in the joint. Got sick on a few of those fuckers, that’s for sure. Sorry for interrupting, go ahead.” Biscuit leaned away from the table and widened his eyes. “You ate shit out of a toilet?” Jack nodded his head. “Didn’t have a choice. Food, drinks, everything. You tie a string to it, shove it in the toilet, and pull it out when you want it. If the cops come, you flush it. After they leave, if they don’t find the end of your string, you pull it back out of the sewer and either eat it or drink it.” “God damn,” Biscuit said as he shook his head from side-to-side.

I felt the same way, but didn’t dare embarrass Jack by saying so. Life in prison was without a doubt different than life on the outside. To imagine living every day confined, under the watchful eye of the guards, and having a few thousand people who wanted to try and test your ability to fight on a daily basis was more than I wanted to try and imagine. “Go ahead,” Jack said. “I apologize for interrupting.” Biscuit narrowed his gaze as he stared down at the table and shook his head. “Okay, so I’m waitin’ on my check, and my gut’s a rumblin’ and makin’ noise, and I know it’s time to go. I reach into my wallet, pull out a twenty, and drop it on the table. I run out to my bike and ride that fucker home like I’d stole it. Whole way, it’s a coin toss as to whether I’m gonna shit my pants or make it on time. I pull that fucker in the drive, hop off, and run into the house, dropping my pants as I’m runnin’.” “So I get into the shitter, and just explode. A miracle I even made it, I’m tellin’ ya. So for about four hours, I got the shits. Now for situations like this, I keep them pills, the anti-diarrhea stuff, Imodium AD. I take about ten of those fuckers and finally it stops.” He paused and reached for another bottle of beer. He held his finger in the air as he took a drink to make sure we all knew the story wasn’t over. As he lowered his bottle to the table, he continued. “So that ain’t even the story, the story’s this. I took so many of those damned pills that I didn’t shit for a week, and we got the rally comin’ up in two days. Finally, it came. When it did, it was a week’s worth, and about the size of a ten-year-old boy’s arm. Fucker ripped my ass to shreds. Now, although I finally took a shit, I’m in pretty sad shape and I got a hemorrhoid the size of a Johnsonville Bratwurst hanging out of my ass.” He widened his eyes and waited for a response. “God damn,” Jack said. “That’s a bitch. And the run’s a few days out?” I’d heard the story ten times over the years from half a dozen different people. The first time it made me about half sick, but every time after the first, I couldn’t help but laugh. I was curious to hear Jack’s response to Biscuit’s problem solving skills, and sat anxiously waiting for Biscuit to continue his tale. “Precisely. Two days until we’re gonna spend ten hours on the road, and I’ve got a little friend hangin’ outta my ass like I just gave birth. So I know I can’t make it with this hot dog hanging out of my ass. Hell, I can’t even sit down. Sleepin’ on my belly and shit, and I fuckin’ hate sleepin’ on my belly, I’m a back sleeper. So I get me a rubber glove and I poke this fucker back up in there. Hell, after a few minutes, I feel pretty good and forget it’s even there. I stand up and take a few steps.” He paused for effect and took another drink. He shoved his beer to the side and leaned into the center of the table. After making eye contact with each of us individually, he continued his story. “And bloop - out the fucker comes. Another rubber glove, poke him back in there, and everything’s fine. Take a few steps and bloop - out he comes again. Now I know I can’t ride to Austin

with my finger in my ass, so I start to thinkin’. And all of a sudden it comes to me, so I have Tater come get me in his truck and take to me that dildo shop out east. After a look around a bit, I find one of them butt plugs. Did you know they come in about ten different sizes?” Toad, who I was quite certain had heard the story no fewer times than me, shrugged. Jack, obviously slightly uncomfortable, sat back in his seat, wrinkled his nose, and crossed his arms. “Had no idea,” Jack responded. “Well they do. Picked me out a little red number on the small side of things. And it had this little ring in the end made it look like a pacifier. So Tater takes me home, and I glove up, shove the hotdog inside, and poke the little pacifier in my ass. After I wiggle around a bit, it feels pretty good. Now as far as I’m concerned, problem’s solved. I’m a day out and ready to ride. Just for shits and grins, later on that night, I reach back there to check on things, you know, make sure everything’s where it should be. And I’ll be damned if that little ring, you know the part you hold on to? It’s fucking gone!” Jack shrugged his shoulders and wrinkled his nose. “Huh?” Biscuit nodded his head. “Yep. Fucker sucked right up there in my ass. So, now I got to go fishin’ for this little fucker. I glove up again, stick my finger up there, and fish around and find it. I pull her out, wash her up, and grease it with Vaseline and poke it back inside. Couple a minutes, and bloop. You guessed it, it disappears.” “So I just say fuck it. At this point in time, I feel pretty good, other’n knowing I got a butt plug in my ass. I hop on the bike and ride out to the snow ski and mountain climbin’ store out on Central. Buy me one of those spring loaded carabiner D-rings. After I rode home, I gloved up one last time, found the little fucker, pulled it out, and hooked that D-Ring to it. Then I shoved her back in, and let the hook just hang out of my ass.” He paused and nodded his head proudly as if he’d just cured cancer. Jack winced. “Rode to Austin with a rappelling D-ring hanging out of your ass?” “Sure did, left it there for a fucking week. Don’t know if it was a conscious thing, or just because I had that little rubber plug in there or what, but I didn’t shit for a week. When we got home, I reached back, grabbed the D-ring and gave it a tug. Damned thing popped out, and my little friend the hotdog was gone. Problem solved,” he said. Biscuit sat back in his seat, crossed his arms, and nodded his head. As Toad shook his head in what was probably a combination of disbelief and disgust, Jack leaned forward and grabbed his second beer from the table. After he took a long drink, he shook his head and laughed. “You’re funnier than a motherfucker,” Jack said. “Club joker, that’s me,” Biscuit responded proudly. Jack shook his head and took another drink. He inhaled a shallow breath and appeared to be preparing to speak when his eyes widened and his jaw dropped open. Toad’s eyes widened slightly immediately following, and his head tilted to the side.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit. Now, that’s a woman,” Jack said as he craned his neck to see. Toad tilted his head to the side as his eyes appeared to bulge out of his head. I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder toward the door. Holy fucking shit was right. A lump began to immediately rise in my throat. I blindly fumbled for my beer as I continued to study the tall blonde woman as she slowly walked toward the bar. After taking a drink of my beer and washing the lump down my throat, she was directly in front of me, facing sideways. My eyes fixed on her, I fumbled to find the table, and released the bottle of beer. As my heart began to pound from my chest, I stood from my seat and turned to face her. It had been fifteen years, but I was pretty damned sure. Not based so much on what she looked like, but how she made me feel when she walked into the room. I swallowed heavily and rubbed my sweaty hands against the thighs of my jeans. “Sam,” I said. Nothing. “Sam!” I said with a tone of authority. Slowly, she turned around. Her eyes immediately widened, and she raised her hands to her mouth as if in shock. “Steve?” she whimpered. As our eyes met, it felt as if my heart completely stopped beating. Somehow, in spite of it, I found a way to take the few steps across the floor of the bar and open my arms. As soon as she wrapped her arms around me and rested her face on my chest, my heart began to beat again. After a long hug, she released me and pulled away slightly. As she stood in front of me, I glanced up and down her long frame. She looked no differently than she did fifteen years prior. What little she had aged did nothing but add to her beauty. Eventually, I fixed my eyes fixed on her left hand. No ring. And my heart stopped beating again.





SAM I sat in the kitchen wondering if one day an answer would come. I knew - or at least I suspected - my mother’s death would come long before mine; but knowing did little to prepare me for her departure from my life. As I was sure all children did, I wished I had spent more time with her, called her more frequently, and came home on a more regular basis. Changing it now would be impossible, and all I hoped for was to ease what little pain remained. I lifted my coffee cup halfway to my mouth and gazed down into the cup. Realizing it was one of the cups I used to drink out as a young girl brought back memories, and as they filtered through my mind, a smile came to my face. Although I was a girl, blonde, and somewhat of a ding-dong, I wasn’t so idiotic or mentally impaired that I wasn’t able to accept her death as being just what it was. The completion of her cycle of life. No newcomer to losing someone I loved, I grinned and lifted the cup to my mouth with my mind filled with fond memories of my childhood. As my mind slowly searched for even more tender recollections from my youth, her not so dead cat walked into the kitchen and meowed. Fucking cat. I hated cats. Now, along with everything else in the home, I had inherited a fucking cat. The grey tabby looked like a small version of her larger vermin cousins, and was possessed by none other than the devil himself. In the several days I had spent inventorying the contents of the house and searching for small pieces of my mother’s life, the cat followed me everywhere I went. When I stopped, it stopped. As I worked, it sat and stared at me with golden snake-like eyes that seemed to burn holes through my skin and into my flesh. The one thing that prevented me from stepping on it or placing it out with the many bags of trash was the fact it was my mother’s only true friend, and my single living tie to my mother’s former life. “Go away!” I hissed as I swatted my hand in the direction of the filthy feline. “Meow!” it responded. “No,” I screeched. “This,” I swatted my hand in her direction again. “Means go away.” She meowed again, obviously confused regarding my demand, and began walking toward me. As I watched in sheer horror, she walked alongside the table, turned at the last moment, and before I could lift my leg, slithered to the side and rubbed her body against my shin. The many hours I spent at the gym combined with my quick reflexes paid off in the form of a swift leg extension which sent her sliding across the kitchen floor. “Stay over there before I put your sickening ass in the freezer,” I snapped as I stood from my seat.

I stared down at my leg as if I expected to see my calf withering away from some form of staph infection. After brushing her residue from my skin, I finished my coffee and walked to the sink. Gazing into the back yard provided a rush of memories from my high school years, and the time I had spent with my then lover, Steve. If anyone ever was, we were meant for each other. The type of couple that made everyone else sick when we showed up at a party, we were the two people who always finished each other’s sentences, poked food into each other’s mouths, and tasted each other’s drinks we concocted at parties or fast-food restaurants. My life had never felt as in order as it was then. In Steve’s presence I was able to exhale, and had no worries whatsoever. He was a huge guy, standing more than six feet five, wasn’t overweight, and actually was quite the opposite. In high school, he played football and basketball, and always stayed in great physical condition. After school was over, he continued to stay in great shape by constantly lifting weights and running. His physical presence combined with his protective nature made me feel comfortable that no matter what, no harm would ever come to me. Other than spending time with me, his only other true love was riding his Harley. He found freedom in riding it, and often spent countless hours on the road - often with me on the back – riding to a place that we rarely planned on going. I was young at the time, but there was no mistaking that our love was not only genuine, but it was the type of love most women would never find in a lifetime. To try and describe the love we shared would be impossible. Words like perfect and phrases like once in a lifetime came to mind when thinking about it, but there were no words in my vocabulary that would accurately describe our relationship with any level of justice. When we were twenty-one years old, I decided I needed to act as if I was an adult, and the selfish side of me desired children. Steve wanted nothing more than to live his life free, and love me until the end. In time I’m quite sure children would have been possible with him, but at the time I asked, I gave very little, if any, room for negotiation. His response was not what I wanted but what I should have expected. And we parted ways. Incapable of living in the same city as Steve lived without having him in my life, I left the city with tear-filled eyes, a broken heart, and no plan for my future. I moved as far away as geography and common sense would allow, and came to rest in New York City. Within a year I was married to a workaholic who could care less about anything but how many commas were in his paycheck. After a year of marriage, a terrorist flew a commercial airliner into the building he worked in, and he never came home from work. No body, no clothes, no jewelry, and no closure to a loss I was ill prepared for. I recovered quickly, as I always did, with the understanding living life was a mystery; and solving it, no different than watching a movie, didn’t come until the bitter end. With the exception of losing Steve, I had accepted everything life had thrown my direction, and never once complained. Losing him, however, remained the one thing for the last fourteen years I never accepted. I knew I

couldn’t change it and would never be granted an opportunity to fix it, but accepting it as being a good decision haunted me on a daily basis. After the death of my husband, I left New York and moved to St. Louis - the second worst decision I ever made in my life. There I remained, single, uninterested, and gainfully employed as a hairstylist at an upscale salon I dreamed of one day owning. The untimely death of my mother brought me back to Wichita, a city I had very little intention of ever returning to full time, and in fact I dreaded even the short visits to my mother prior to her death. My underlying fear of encountering Steve, and finding him living a happy life with someone other than me made me feel ill. Immediately following our breakup, I had snooped on Myspace hoping to find a glimpse of him or a morsel from his life without me. As the years passed, I had spent countless unsuccessful hours attempting to find him on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and even scoured the popular dating forums. It came as no surprise that I never found anything; Steve was always a person who enjoyed living out of the view and away from the scrutiny of others. A few years into this century, and I’d given up any hope of ever learning anything about him. In time, I began to live my life as the single arrogant bitch most of my clients described me as. Arrogant? No. Dissatisfied with the loss of the one man I loved, and the other who I had simply settled for? Yes. I gazed at the concrete bench situated underneath the pergola, recalling the time Steve and I had spent there. As my focus shifted to the entire yard, I appreciated the small changes my mother had made since I’d seen it last. The sides of the brick walkway leading to the fountain in the rear of the yard once adorned with large leaf periwinkle and various hostas was now beautifully landscaped with lavender, daisies, and an occasional black-eyed Susan. The back yard had always been my mother’s place of escape, and in many respects, it was mine as well. She used the yard for therapeutic reasons after the death of my father, and I sometimes felt guilty for my less relaxing use of the beautiful space she had created. The smell of the flowers combined with the seclusion created by the depth of landscape made it a perfect area for sex. Steve and I had spent countless hours in the yard fucking on various large stones, the concrete bench, and even in the fountain. I loved fucking him in my mother’s back yard, and generally speaking, I preferred it to my bedroom. Steve’s bad-boy attitude, his take charge personality and my willingness to please the man I truly loved caused me to agree to some pretty risqué sexual situations in the five years we were in a relationship. My eyes once again shifted to the bench and became fixed. I grinned, wondering just how many times I had pressed my chest against the cold concrete while arching my back, forcing my ass high enough in the air for Steve to satisfy my sexual desires. Many times I had bit my lower lip so hard while he fucked me that impressions of my teeth remained in my lip for an hour after we returned into the house. Although my mother never questioned me, I always felt she knew I loved the yard just as much as her, but for different reasons. There were times when I would lay on the bench with my eyes closed as he knelt beside it. As I lay in wait, he would take his hands and… His hands.

Oh dear God, his hands. He was a master with his hands; where to place them, and just how delicately or deliberately to use them. And there was always the issue with the use of his lips. He spent more time kissing my body than he did my mouth. He seemed to enjoy dragging his lips, teeth, and tongue along my body; teasing me until I was a frantic mess. Only when I was no longer mentally, physically, or sexually able to allow him to continue would he agree to stop. To describe Steve as sexually torturous would be an accurate understatement. I rinsed the cup, placed it in the dishwasher, and turned off the kitchen lights. After quickly checking the house for other lights I had left on through the course of the day, I walked to the front door, reached for the door handle, and hesitated. I turned and gazed into the house which was illuminated solely by the glow of the lamp in the living room. I stood and grinned at the memories the home brought, sad I wasn’t able to bring myself to stay overnight. As I gazed down the hallway toward the door of my childhood bedroom, I felt something press against my ankle. Somewhat confused, I glanced down at my feet. “Meow…” Fucking cat. Reluctantly, I reached down and patted the cat on the head. As I turned for the door, I wiped my hand against my thigh, freeing it of the matter the cretin was certain to have left. I opened the door, stepped onto the porch and glanced inside; making certain the cat hadn’t followed me. Sitting in the entrance, the cat stared back at me with golden eyes now filled with huge black pupils, undoubtedly allowing it to sneak through the house in the dark and wreak havoc on the organized piles I had created. I glared at her and shook my head. “Good night Taylor. I’m going to the hotel. I’ll see your nasty little ass tomorrow.” I closed the door, locked it, and turned toward the driveway. I glanced down at my watch as I walked to the car. As it was still quite early and not quite dark yet, I decided to stop for a much needed drink before I retired for the night. A drink would allow me to relax and get a good night’s sleep, something I felt I desperately needed. Stopping at the shitty little bar beside the hotel would be easy, and no doubt would allow me to enjoy a drink without seeing anyone I knew. I didn’t need any sympathetic apologies for the loss of my mother. I needed to relax alone and try to rid my mind of memories of the only man I ever loved and how my selfish wishes tore us apart.





SAM I pulled into the parking lot of the bar and parked the car. The bar’s lot, as I had suspected, was all but empty. Having passed by it for more than a week in my evening drives back to the hotel, it seemed to always be empty during the weekdays. There were times when I wanted a drink, and times when I felt I needed them, and tonight was a need night. Having made contact with the disease ridden feline no less than a dozen times throughout the course of the day- combined with my walk down memory lane - left liquid sedation as my only hope for a good night’s sleep. My stroll to the door produced four motorcycles parked along the sidewalk leading to the entrance. Carefully parked in a perfect line side by side, they reminded me of Steve and his friends, and how they used to make sure their motorcycles were always parked neatly and in an almost picturesque manner. Great, another reminder of him. Frustrated and suffering from more than a decade of sexual deprivation, I considered kicking the first motorcycle in the line and causing them to spill over like dominoes. After a moment’s worth of hesitation, I admired the motorcycles, turned to the door, pushed it open. As I stepped through the door, Lenny Kravitz’ Can’t Get You Off My Mind played. A great choice of music, and one of my all-time favorite songs, but it was about as ironic of a song as anyone could have chosen. After rolling my eyes and shaking my head lightly, I stepped into the empty bar. A muscular tattooed biker in a ribbed tank top and another seated beside him with olive colored skin and a gorgeous smile sat in a booth facing me. Two other bikers outfitted with their motorcycle gang attire had their backs facing me. As I turned to the bar, the muscular one in the tank top craned his neck to catch another glimpse. Stare all you want, gym rat, I’m not available. Memories of Steve again began to float around in my head as I walked toward the empty bar. I glanced along the barstools, grateful the bar was empty. I should be able to toss down a quick triple vodka before any of the bikers developed enough courage to approach me and escape without incident. “Sam,” a voice from behind me hollered. My muscles tensed as I stopped right where I was standing. Half scared to turn around, I stood, petrified of encountering an old friend from the past who would assuredly provide me with stories of how my high school sweetheart, Steve, had eventually married and now lived happily with his wife, children, and two pet cats. The endless silence that followed filled me with hope that whoever had shouted was talking to someone other than me. “Sam!” the voice bellowed in more of a commanding tone.

It seemed… I slowly turned around. Oh dear God. Every emotion imaginable filled me at once. I raised my shaking hands to my face and pressed them against my cheeks, attempting to hide the tears that were sure to come next. He was gorgeous. Much bigger and in what appeared to be the best physical condition I’d ever seen him in, he stood and stared. It had been fourteen years since I’d seen him, but he hadn’t aged one bit. It seemed he had simply been transformed from a boy into the man who stood before me. As I stood still and fought back tears, he slowly approached me with his arms outstretched. I wanted to turn and run away. I glanced at the palms of his hands as he excitedly made his way to where I stood. Before I could see if he was wearing a ring, he had me wrapped up in his muscular arms. I can’t do this. As he released me, I couldn’t help but admire him as I fumbled for a way to explain my desire to leave. I considered pulling my phone from my purse and claim to have received a text message emergency. To have him even begin to explain of his wife, children and what the past fourteen years had graced him with would crush me. He crossed his arms in front of his chest as he seemed to study me, and as he did, the fingers of his left hand rested on the outer portion of his right bicep. No ring. Not one hundred percent certain if my eyes were seeing what was truly in front of me, or what they desired to see, I blinked my eyes and gazed at his hand. No ring. I blinked again. Oh fuck it, I’ve never been known being subtle. “So, are you divorced?” I asked as I nodded my head toward his hand. He uncrossed his arms and glanced down at his left hand as his mouth formed into a grin. “Never married,” he said as he shook his head from side-to-side. Oh dear God.

Please make him single, available, and interested. I stood like a loon, exchanging glances between the muscles in his arms and his gorgeous face. He appeared to have gotten a dozen or more tattoos since the last time I had seen him, which did nothing more but add to his already striking outward appearance. I found a man with tattoos to be far more attractive than a man without, and his recent additions weren’t helping the situation. Struggling to devise a way to save myself from seeming over eager or desperate, I stood with my mouth agape as he began to speak. “You look great, Sam,” he said as he folded his arms in front of his chest again. I blinked my eyes. “Where’s your husband?” he asked as he tossed his head playfully toward the door. I widened my eyes and shrugged my shoulders. Jesus, Samantha, speak. He raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples. It was something he had done since he was a kid when either confused or angry. Now quite certain my silent shrug regarding my husband caught him by surprise, I swallowed heavily and searched my mind for the right words. “Dead,” I blurted before I had a chance to filter my thoughts. “Sorry to hear that. And I’m sorry about your mother, Sam. I really am,” he said as he reached for my arm. Thoughts of a life with Steve in it began to fill my head. No longer was I concerned with my mother’s house, inventorying the boxes of trinkets, or keeping the cat alive. Riding on the back of Steve’s motorcycle, having him fuck me breathless in the back yard, and feeling his magical hands against my skin became the only thoughts available within the confines of my biased mind. “Join me for a drink?” I somehow muttered. “Sure. Let me introduce you to the fellas first,” he said as his hand lightly gripped my upper arm. I allowed him to guide me to his side. His arm wrapped around me as soon as he turned toward the booth where the other men were seated, and in a few short steps, he was introducing me to his biker brethren. “Fellas, this is Sam. Sam, this is Toad, Biscuit, and Big Jack,” he said as we approached the table, pointing to each man as he said their name. Immediately, the three men stood. As soon as the man he pointed out as Big Jack stepped from the booth, the one he identified as Toad slid from between the table and bench and stood in front of us. As he extended his arm to shake my hand, he widened his eyes and tilted his head to the side,

motioning toward me. As I shook his hand, I glanced at Steve, who nodded his head and grinned in return. “Pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you, Sam,” Toad said as he shook my hand. I grinned and nodded my head, not quite knowing what to say. As the bigger barrel-chested man stepped in front of us, he reached up and ran his hand through his thick brown hair, as if attempting to make himself more presentable. His full beard and sheer size made him rather intimidating, but as he spoke, he seemed to have a very calm and pleasant demeanor. “Sorry about your mother, Sam. Name’s Biscuit. Nice to finally put a face with the name,” he said as he reached for my hand. I glanced at Steve. You told them about me? And about my mother? I swallowed a lump of sentiment which began to rise in my throat. The thought of him telling his friends about me caused me to once again become the emotional little girl I’d spent almost fifteen years trying to abandon. As I gazed at the profile of his face, hoping for him to say something, the man in the ribbed tank cleared his throat. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Otis is a damned fine man,” he said as he reached for my hand. I turned toward Steve as I shook the man’s hand. “Otis? You’re going by Otis? The name your grandfather gave you?” He shrugged his shoulders and grinned as he pointed to an embroidered patch on his leather vest. Otis. Steve’s grandfather called him Otis since he was a small child. Although his parents never really adopted the practice, I never heard his grandfather call him anything other than Otis. The thought of Steve using it as his biker name filled me with warmth. “How’s he doing?” I asked. “He passed about ten years ago,” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Nice to meet all of you guys,” I said somewhat nervously. “We’re going to go have a drink at the bar, fellas,” Steve said as he motioned to toward the bar. “Let’s sit here,” I said as I pointed toward the oversized booth where they were seated. “Unless

this is private?” “Nothin’ private about this little meetin’. Hell, sit down,” Biscuit grumbled as he found his seat. “Want to sit here?” Steve shrugged. I glanced toward Steve and grinned. “I’d love to.” And, to be brutally honest, I didn’t want to sit in the booth with his friends. I didn’t want to be anywhere with his friends. I longed to be alone with Steve, catching up on lost time. If it were up to me, he’d follow me back to my mother’s house. And bend me over the bench.



OTIS Being in Sam’s presence caused me to realize not only how much I had missed seeing her, but just how easy it was for the right person - the person we reserve our true love for - to completely right everything that may be wrong in our life by simply gracing us with their existence. I knew if I allowed her to escape my grasp again, my life would return right back to where I had been living prior to her return. Sitting in her hotel room talking made it immediately apparent that where I had been living my life was miles away from where I should have been living it. As she sat across the couch from me and playfully brushed her hair from her face, it became more difficult to accept her inevitable departure. “So, you’re going back to St. Louis?” I said as I stood. She stood from the couch, scrunched her nose slightly, and narrowed her eyes as she turned to face me. “Well, yeah. I mean, eventually I’ll have to. I live there,” she muttered. I shook my head as I studied her. Although I was grateful to have seen her, I was frustrated that in a matter of days, things would return back to the way they were. Immediately, my mind began to reel with thoughts of ways to repair what damage I had done to our fifteen-year-old relationship. “No chance of you staying? You know, making this your home again?” I asked. “I didn’t say that. It’s just. I’d have to have a good reason. I mean, I wouldn’t choose this place over any other place. Well, maybe I’d choose it over St. Louis, but right now, St. Louis is home. It’s been home for almost fifteen years.” “Gum?” she asked as she pulled a pack of gum from her purse. I shook my head and grinned. She stills chews gum. “A good reason?” I asked. “Uh huh,” she said as she tossed the pack of gum into her purse. I glanced around the hotel suite and eventually fixed my eyes on hers. “It’s really none of my business, but did your mother own her home?” She nodded her head. “Yes, she did.” I raised my shoulders slightly and widened my eyes. “I’m going to guess you inherited it?”

“I did, like I said earlier. That’s what I’m doing, going through stuff now. Why are we standing?” she asked. “I’m thinking,” I responded. “So, you’re going to tell me that you’d rather live in St. Louis, and abandon or sell the home you grew up in? There’s a lot of good memories there.” She inhaled a shallow breath and after short a moment, exhaled and fixed her eyes on mine. “That’s the problem; the memories. It’s the reason I’m staying here. I just can’t, Steve. It’s really tough, but I just can’t stay there.” “Why?” I said, somewhat saddened by the fact she couldn’t bring herself to stay in the home we had spent so much time in together. The thought of her getting rid of the home was almost unthinkable. We had spent the majority of our relationship in her mother’s home, and a good part of it was spent outside, fucking in the flower garden her mother had made. As a young man, the sensation of having sex in the backyard was almost equal to the initial excitement of having sex itself. Together, it provided a sense of enjoyment well beyond having sex in a bed. Soon, we were not only fucking in the yard, but anywhere and everywhere we could; and the more adventurous it was, the better. We soon learned we both had an inner sexual demon we needed to release, but it was her mother’s backyard that made us realize it. “My mind fills with too many memories when I’m there,” she responded through her teeth. Thank God. I hope you’re thinking of me. I widened my eyes. “And that’s a bad thing?” She glanced up and nodded her head. “Yeah. It sure is.” Her eyes were glassy and it appeared she was on the verge of crying. Even though it had been a little more than a week, I considered the possibility of her not being quite over the loss of her mother. Sam was always a strong woman, and one thing I always admired was her ability to roll with the punches so to speak. Growing up, it seemed regardless of what life tossed at her, she was able to accept it as being, and simply move on. Her mother’s death may have been more difficult for her, and I began to feel insensitive for pushing her about the home. She shifted her eyes to the ceiling. After a moment, she fixed her eyes on mine and sat down on the couch. “Sit,” she said in a half demanding tone as she patted the cushion beside her. I sat down, feeling selfish for acting the way I had acted. As I attempted to mentally form an apology worth offering, she began to speak. “You know, it’s tougher than I thought. Much tougher. I was in the kitchen tonight looking out in the back yard. It’s changed a lot, but just seeing it is tough,” she said.

I nodded my head. “I’m sorry Sam, I imagine it is.” I considered how I might feel if I lost my mother; and how seeing the things she loved and cherished - after she had passed away - would affect me. As she bit her lower lip and glanced around the room, I contemplated losing both my parents and how having no one might cause me to react. As my sorrow for Sam’s loss began to peak, I once again felt like a selfish idiot. “Sam, I’m…” She raised her hand between us to silence me as she inhaled an audible breath. I crossed my arms and leaned into the back of the couch, prepared for her ridicule. “You know the guy I married? Michael? I really didn’t even know him. Not really. I met him at the gym. He was really tall, muscular, and he had a tattoo on his bicep I’m sure he must have got as a result of some stupid college bet. But he was as close as I could get. He reminded me of you, Steve. When I looked at him, I saw you. But when he spoke or acted, he wasn’t you. It wasn’t long and I realized no one could be. After a while, I realized the kids, having a family…all of that…it wasn’t important. What I wanted wasn’t a family, kids, or him for that matter, what I wanted was a sense of security in having you.” She threw her hands in the air as if making the determination was a huge revelation. Okay, that wasn’t what I expected. “When he died, I hate to say this, but it’s true. You’re the first person I’ve said anything to about this…” She paused as her voice began to fill with emotion. “When they announced what happened, after the terrorists flew the planes into the buildings, and they were collapsing.” She swallowed heavily. After a moment of staring at the ceiling and attempting to steady her breathing, she continued. “I hoped…I wanted…” She shook her head as she bit into her lower lip. After a long and rather awkward silence, she stared down at the floor and continued. “When I got the word that he was dead, I was relieved. I know it sounds morbid and selfish or whatever, especially to everyone else who lost someone in the tragedy, but for me? I was relieved.” In some respects, the world we live in had just shrunk into a very personal sized ball. To think she had lost someone in what I assumed to be the terrorist act of 9/11 made the terrorist act much more real. Even though, I sat and stared, shocked by the statement she had made. “I was relieved he was gone, because it would allow me to move on and live my life with the memories of you without feeling guilty for doing so. I’ve never got over losing you, Steve, and I’m pretty damn sure I never will,” she said as she turned toward me. What? As somber as the mood had become, I felt there were many things I should have said in an effort to comfort her for the loss of her husband. My excitement after hearing her more recent statement made regarding never getting over losing me prevented me from saying what I should have, and caused me to

say what I was actually thinking. “You’ve never got over losing me?” I snapped back as I sat up in my seat. She shook her head from side to side as she wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “No, and I’m afraid I never will. It’s really hard seeing you again,” she blubbered. Fuck it, we’re both adults. I’m thinking you’re feeling the same way I am. “Sam,” I said as I slowly stood. She wiped her tear filled eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, she shifted her gaze upward. “Yeah,” she breathed. Here we go. “I love you, Sam,” I said as I opened my arms. She sat for a split-second and stared with wide eyes. Bad idea. You should have kept your mouth shut, Otis. She stood, screeched like she’d just seen a snake, and jumped into my arms. “Oh God, I love you, too. I never stopped loving you. I tried…I tried to change the way I felt, but…I couldn’t…” she whispered into the side of my neck. How quickly a person’s life can change... One simple statement or event can flip your life into a completely different direction. No differently than Jack being released from prison, or the bikers in Waco who were thrown in jail for being in a bar at the wrong time, holding Sam in my arms made an immediate and unscheduled change in my life. A change for what I assumed would be the better, but a change nonetheless. As I held her in my arms, a rush of memories filled my mind, and I quickly came to realize one thing for absolute certain. I wasn’t ever going to let her escape my grasp again.





SAM My entire life away from Steve, I had one desire and one desire only. To be with him again. Under the assumption I had lost him for good, and certain a man as attractive as him would have easily had women tossing themselves in his direction, I preserved what little remaining dignity I had by not exposing myself to him in the years which had passed since we were apart. Now, finding out we shared the same feelings over the years caused me to feel as if we had never been apart. “No, as soon as I’d meet a woman, I would compare her to you. They never measured up so I couldn’t see wasting my time - or theirs for that matter,” he said. Shocked, but quite relieved, I suddenly began to itch all over. “And you’ve pretty much been single? Since we broke up?” I said. “Yep,” he said as he nodded his head. “You know how I am about trusting people. I feel like I can’t really trust just anyone now. That was another excuse I used.” Steve was a very tall man. I had always perceived myself as being tall for a woman, and stood 5’-7”, but standing beside him made me feel small. The fact he towered almost twelve inches over me not only made me feel secure in his presence, but for some weird reason it excited me to no end. As I stood and absorbed just how large of a man he had become, I admired his handsome looks. And I couldn’t help myself. “So, you’ve loved me since then? Since I left?” I asked as I shifted my eyes toward the crotch of his jeans. Still rocking that big bulge, aren’t you? “I never stopped, Sam. I’ve always loved you. Felt kind of stupid for ever being so selfish that I let you go,” he said. You felt selfish? I felt selfish. But I’ll let you keep on feeling like it was your fault. “So it’s kind of like we’ve never been apart,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. He nodded his head and grinned. “Yep.”

“I want to fuck,” I said flatly. His eyes widened considerably. He raised his hands to his face and began to rub his temples, a strong sign he was either considering my request, or for some reason the thought of fucking me had become repulsive. I didn’t have to wait long to find out which one he was thinking. “Right now?” he said as he lowered his hands. “Now? No not here,” I responded as if I clearly had other plans. “Follow me,” I said as I turned toward the door. I stepped past him and opened the door. As he stood and gawked at me, I glanced down the empty hallway, reached for his hand, and began walking toward the elevator. As he followed behind me, he chuckled. “Where are we going, Sam?” he asked as we walked down the hallway. I silently walked to the elevator and pressed the button. As we stepped inside, he glanced in my direction and simply shook his head. “It’s a surprise,” I responded as I inhaled a whiff of his scent. Still wearing Acqua Di Gio. Good. 1996, the year we graduated high school, Acqua Di Gio was introduced. I loved the smell, and purchased a bottle for him at the mall for his birthday. While we were together, he never wore any other cologne to the best of my knowledge. It had become his signature scent, and every time I smelled it since, I thought of him. Now, smelling a faint hint of it excited me. Within a few seconds my pussy began to tingle. The elevator door opened at the first floor. After glancing down the hallway in each direction, I eagerly began walking toward the indoor swimming area. The indoor pool was separated from the adjoining workout room by a glass wall which was mirrored on the side of the gym. From the pool, a person could see inside the gym, but from the gym, a person attempting to look out at the pool saw nothing but their reflection. The remaining three walls in the pool room were constructed of brick, making it virtually soundproof. Although the lights weren’t on, the glow from the hallway entry and the door leading outside illuminated the area more than enough to provide a sexy luminescent lighting perfect for a late night fuck. I pulled my room keycard from the pocket of my shorts and pressed it into the card reader. Eagerly, I opened the door which led to the pool, pleasantly surprised to find no one inside. The room was hot, humid, and thick with the smell of chlorine. My joy multiplied tenfold when I glanced toward the gym and noticed a couple getting in their late-night workout.

“What are we doing, Sam?” he asked as he glanced around the room. “I don’t have my swimming trunks.” “You’re going to fuck me, Otis,” I said as I cleared the towels from the top of the glass table positioned between the edge of the pool and the glass wall. Through the one-way glass, I could clearly see the two people inside the gym on elliptical machines, working away while listening to their iPods. The thought of Otis not knowing they couldn’t see us excited me almost as much as me imagining they could. “Right here? There’s people in the gym, Sam,” he responded. I shrugged as I unbuttoned my shorts. “Lose your sense of adventure?” As he glanced toward the gym the side of his mouth curled into s light smirk. As he reached for his zipper he responded. “No, I sure as fuck didn’t.” Although he had always been in great physical shape, his arms were not only now covered in tattoos to his wrists, but they were solid muscle from his forearm to his shoulder. His unbuttoned leather vest exposed his massive chest covered only by a sheer white tee shirt he wore underneath his vest. As he pulled against his zipper, I watched intently as the muscles in his bicep flared. I glanced down and gazed at his zipper as I waited for him to pull his cock out. I’d seen it a million times, but I stood in wait, wanting to catch a glimpse of it, hoping nothing had changed. Not having been with a man for over a decade, and never having had sex with anyone as old as myself, I wondered if at 36 years of age, something might have changed. Thoughts of a wrinkled half shriveled up old man penis came to mind. As he unbuckled his belt and pulled his zipper down simultaneously, his thick dick flopped free of the denim which had restrained it. Oh dear God. A wrinkle-free cock with the girth of my wrist sprung from his jeans. My hand, which was resting between the upper band of my panties and my hip, quickly moved between my legs as if it had a mind of its own. Soaked. “See this,” I said as I raised my glistening finger into the air. His eyes shifted upward as I spoke. “That’s fourteen years of wait,” I said as I fixed my eyes on my pussy-soaked finger. “Fifteen, actually damned near sixteen, but who’s counting,” he said. I shrugged my shoulders. I had no intention of arguing over a few months, I was ready to fuck.

I glanced in his direction as he cleared his throat with a cough. “See this?” he asked. I shifted my eyes to his cock filled hand and nodded my head. “This isn’t fifteen years of wait, but it’s damned sure about ten inches of ready,” he said with a smile as he stroked his hand along the rigid shaft. Feeling an almost giddy degree of excitement I hadn’t felt since I’d seen him last, I pressed the waist of my shorts along my thighs and released them as they slid past my knees. As the fabric nestled around my ankles, I leaned over, pressed my forearms onto the top of the glass table and glanced over my shoulder. He stood ten feet behind me with his cock in hand, his jeans bunched around his thighs, and his eyes fixed on my ass. “That ass of yours is still incredible,” he said as he continued to stroke his cock. “Try this pussy out and see what you think of it,” I said with a laugh as I pressed my chest onto the table. “Smart ass,” he said. I exhaled as he rested his hands on my shoulders. As I felt the tip of his cock pressing against my wet pussy, I realized regardless of my overeager state of mind, I hadn’t been fucked in almost a decade and a half. As he pushed past my parted lips and began to fill my vaginal walls, I opened my mouth, widened my eyes drastically, and did the only thing I could think of which might provide a little relief. “Ohhhhhh,” I groaned like a woman possessed by demons. “That’s fucking painful…but it feels so good,” I moaned. “Jesus, Sam. Your pussy wasn’t this tight when you were sixteen,” he said. “When I was sixteen,” I said. “You were…” “Fucking me…” “Three times…” “A day…” I grunted as he continued to try and force himself inside of me. I bit my lower lip and laid my head to the side as he pulled against my shoulders and slowly pushed himself deeper and deeper into my not so receptive pussy. As he slowly pressed his cock further

and further into me, I gripped the sides of the table tightly and bit down harder on my lip. As long as I had waited for this day to come, and as excited as I was to be fucking him again, I realized there was no way I was going to last. As much as I wanted it, and even though it felt amazing in an oddly awkward way, having his arm-sized cock inside of me was painful as hell. As I prepared to try and explain my need to throw in the towel and offer him one hell of a blowjob, he pulled up on my shoulders, lifted my chest from the table, and sank his teeth into my neck. After thirty seconds or so of dragging his teeth along my neck and biting my shoulder, ear, and neck as he did so, his mouth came to rest against my ear. As he exhaled warm breath against my ear, a chill ran down my spine. “That tight little pussy of yours is pissing me off, Sam,” he whispered into my ear. Goosebumps rose along my arm and my upper body began to tingle. “I’m about to pull out, shove you down on your knees, and jack off on your pretty little face,” he moaned. The mere mention of having him jack off on my face opened a totally new chapter in my book of memories. The thought of it sent a tingling sensation through my lower region, and suddenly I felt my pussy open up like a blooming rosebud. Within a few seconds, the pain was gone, and Otis was sliding in and out of me not with ease, but definitely without much frustration. “Oh fuck yes,” I said as I glanced toward the glass wall. The two people were in the gym were running on their elliptical machines, staring at the mirror in front of them. In my mind, they were watching Otis fuck me and enjoying what they were seeing. As I felt each individual inch of his stiff shaft slide inside of me, I sighed and grinned, knowing it wouldn’t be long before I erupted into an earth shattering orgasm. “I’m going to pull out and cover your face in cum, you sexy little bitch,” he growled into my ear as he rhythmically worked his manhood in and out of my dripping pussy. Oh dear God. “Do it…but make sure they’re…watching…when you do,” I muttered as he continued to fuck me senseless. The feeling of his hands pulling on my shoulders, his mouth against my ear, and his cock deep inside of me not only brought back old memories, but was quickly creating a new one as I watched the people on the other side of the glass. While he continued to pound every inch of his swollen rod inside of my sexually out-of-shape pussy, I felt like he was taking my virginity again. When I was sixteen, I was a virgin. I gave my virginity willingly to Otis, because at the time, I knew not only that I was in love with him, but that I wanted to spend my entire life with him as my other. He was slightly smaller at the time, and stood roughly six feet tall, but his cock was every bit as large then

as it was now. As he pounded away, his hips slapped against my ass, filling the room with the sound of sex, and my mind with thoughts of whether or not losing my virginity the first time or this time was more pleasurable. “They’re watching you…fuck…me. You know that…right?” I said between choppy breaths. “They better be,” he said as he released my shoulders and slid his hands down to my breasts. His huge hands massaged my boobs as he continued to slide his cock in and out of my wetness. Each in stroke hit a spot deep within me that sent a sensation throughout every inch of my lady bits. As my swollen pussy tingled from the inside out, he began to pinch my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. Oh dear God. Hell yes. Squeeze my titties while you fuck me. With his hips pounding against my ass and my back arched, his cock was beating a tune against my g-spot. As his three available fingers continued to squeeze my boobs, his thumb and forefinger maintained pressure on my nipples. The sensation of it all became too much and my body began to shudder. And that was it. The beginning of the ever so miraculous orgasm that filled my body, mind, and spirit with hope, desire, dreams, and love shook me to my inner being. As it continued, I groaned into the room. “Ohhhh God yes,” I whispered as he continued to pinch my nipples and pummel my g-spot. As I continued to float out into orgasmic heaven, I didn’t realize he had released my nipples from his grasp. Only when his hand came down against the side of my ass did I realize through my shock, stinging ass cheek, and heightened sense of sexual sensation that he had freed his hands from my boobs. Slap! The sound of the skin-on-skin contact echoed throughout the room. I glanced at the glass wall, for some reason expecting the people in the gym to have heard it and now be eagerly watching him continue to fuck me like his little sexual play toy I was eager to become. “This tight little pussy of yours…” he grunted as he continued to pound his cock into my wetness. “Is almost…too much,” he groaned as he gripped my ass with both hands. My legs were rubber, my pussy was on fire, and my body felt like I was floating in a cloud of sheer bliss. As much as I wanted to continue to fuck, my poor pussy was incapable of even one more moment of punishment.

I was done. “Cum on my face,” I murmured as he spread my ass cheeks apart with his hands. I thought the offer alone would excite him enough to get him to stop fucking me for a moment and consider it. During his down time, I figured I could come up with something that might encourage him to pull out of my pussy and finish elsewhere. “Titty fuck me,” I said. “You horny little bitch,” he said as he slowly pulled his cock from my wet pussy. “Come here.” He grabbed a fistful of my hair. I had obviously aroused the alpha male side of him I so desperately desired. As he tugged against my hair, I stood from my position at the table, kicked my shorts and panties to the side, and followed him as he shuffled toward the glass wall, restrained from taking large steps by the jeans still wrapped around his ankles. As he came to a stop at the glass window, I looked upward and through the glass. The man and woman had stopped their workout, and stood talking beside the machines as they stared into the glass. “Knees,” he demanded as he released my hair. I eagerly dropped to my knees. “Open,” he said. I opened my mouth and raised my hands to my chest. As I massaged my boobs in my hands, he guided his cock past my waiting lips. He methodically began to work his manhood in and out of my mouth, allowing me to fantasize about the people on the other side of the wall actually witnessing me suck his dick. As I closed my eyes and drifted into la-la land, he slowly pulled his cock from deep inside my throat. “Watch me,” he demanded. I opened my eyes and anxiously watched as he stroked his cock vigorously. His swollen forearm and bicep were as much of a turn-on as him stroking his cock in my face. After roughly thirty seconds, he arched his back, began to moan, and pressed his free hand against my forehead, tilting my head slightly back. As I moaned in anticipation and continued to squeeze my boobs, he released my head and pounded his fist against the glass. Kneeling in front of him squeezing my boobs like the sexually deprived woman I undoubtedly was, my eyes remained locked on his throbbing cock as his clenched fist worked to milk it of the special gift he reserved for me. I moaned in a combination of excitement and relief as I watched cum spurt from the tip and onto my face, lips, and into my mouth. As he groaned in pleasure, he continued to beat against the glass and grin like a mad man. When he finally stopped plastering me with his warm wet sentiment, he shuffled to the side and

grabbed a folded towel from the table behind him. “Holy shit Otis, that was a lot of cum,” I said as I dragged my fingers across my face like little squeegees. “Here, wipe off,” he said as he handed me the towel. As I cleaned my face I noticed he glanced up at the glass and smiled. Knowing the people in the gym had no earthly idea of what we were really doing, I wanted to play along, hoping to prolong Otis’ wonder of their voyeuristic nature. “What?” I asked as I glanced up at him. He shrugged his shoulders as he reached down to pull up his jeans. “They left after the show was over, but they got to see me jack it on your pretty little mug.” “Well, at least they stuck around until the grand finale,” I said as I tossed the wadded up towel onto the top of the glass table. After I found my shorts and panties, I got dressed. Otis was good for me in a really, really bad way. Saying no to him was impossible, and I liked that about him. He fully realized he was my Kryptonite, rendering me powerless in his presence, but although he might press right up against a few boundaries, he never took advantage of me. Knowing when to stop was a strength he seemed to naturally possess. As we walked out of the room and into the hallway, he turned toward the gym and grinned. “They got a hell of a show at the end,” he said with a nod. I stopped and shook my head, laughing inside at the fact the glass was a one-way mirror. “It’s one-way glass,” I said. He shook his head. “Not when the lights are off in the pool room and dimmed in the gym. It reduces the reflective nature of the glass. They saw us, believe me.” I considered what he said, realizing my eyes were closed at the end while he pounded against the glass. After a short consideration, I decided he was simply toying with me. I’d worked out in the gym on several nights of my week long stay, and all I had ever seen was my reflection. “You’re full of shit,” I said. He reached toward the door handle and pulled the door open. “Go inside and look at the glass, smart ass,” he said as he tossed his head toward the door.

“Fine,” I huffed as I stepped through the open door and into the gym. Although the lights were on, they were dimmed to a very low level of light, no different than they were when the couple was working out. I glanced around the room, and after a few seconds of my eyes adjusting to the lighting, I glanced at the mirrored wall. The mirrored wall was no longer a mirror, but only a darkened sheet of glass. I gazed into the adjoining room and focused on the cum-covered towel I had wadded up on the glass table. As my mind filled with shock, my body and spirit filled with an eerie sense of sexual satisfaction knowing the couple had watched him fuck me and jack off on my face. As I reached for the door handle I realized my life was going to be turned upside down in a very short period of time. Having Otis as a lover was something I knew very few women on this earth could handle, and I was one of the select few who were able. Hell, I was probably the only one. I opened the door, turned toward him and grinned. “What are we going to do when we get back to the room?” “Could you see through the glass? See the pool?” he asked over his shoulder as he turned away. “Yes,” I said. He nodded his head. “So what are we going to do when we get back to the room? Sleep?” I asked again. “Back to the room? We aren’t going to the room,” he said as he turned down the hallway which led to the parking lot. “Where are we going, back to the bar?” I asked. “Nope, going out to the bike,” he said. “I want to lick your pussy while you’re sitting on my bike.” Somewhat shocked by his statement, but excited at the thought, I spun in his direction. “In the parking lot?” I asked excitedly. “Yep,” he responded as he opened the door. I glanced out into the parking lot at his motorcycle. As I gazed at the silhouette in the glow of the parking lot lights, I began to itch all over. Within a second or so, my pussy began to tingle. I glanced up at him and grinned as I stepped through the door. “Sounds good to me,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders and walked past him.

Having Otis in my life again was not only going to be a challenge, but would require some significant adjustments. Adjustments I was more than willing to make.

OTIS When I was eight years old, I wanted a B.B. gun for Christmas. After what seemed to be a lifetime of wait, Christmas morning came. I realized the elongated box Santa Claus had left by the tree could have contained anything, but as I tore the wrapping paper from the box, I hoped it was what I desperately felt I needed to move forward into manhood. Living in the Mid-west, a boy’s receipt of a B.B. gun was not only confirmation he was becoming a man, but proof he was a responsible young man worthy of the power the weapon possessed. Much to my surprise and complete satisfaction, the box was clearly marked Daisy, the manufacturer of the undisputed king of B.B. guns. With my heart racing, I cautiously opened the box, being careful not to rip the precious cardboard. As I hefted the gun from the box my heart swelled with pride. Fighting back tears of joy, I stood in my pajamas with the gun in my arms. “He knew, Pop. He knew I was ready,” I exclaimed. My father nodded his head. “Did he get you the right one?” “Pop, it’s a Daisy,” I said with a grin. “The Red Ryder.” He narrowed his gaze as he shifted his eyes toward the weapon. “Is that a good one?” I grinned and nodded my head. “The best, Pop. It’s the best one on the entire planet.” He grinned as he turned toward my mother. “Well, sounds like Santa Claus has got his shit together.” And so began my love and respect for guns. I cherished the weapon, and at least initially I took it with me everywhere I went. It sickened me to go to school without it, certain I just might need it for something Axton and I encountered in our walk to school or on our way home. The excitement didn’t soon fade, and on a typical morning I’d immediately check the wooden rack on the wall of my bedroom as soon as I woke to make sure it remained where I had left it the night before. At the time, the thought of separating myself from my cherished gift left me feeling empty and exposed. Although I didn’t necessarily need it, being without it caused me to feel as if I didn’t appreciate it for everything it provided me. With it in my presence, I felt a sense of self-worth and purpose I didn’t feel in its absence. Separating myself from things I cherished for even a moment’s time had always been a difficult thing for me to do. The MC was a prime example of my inability to spend time away from something I

truly held dear to my heart. I glanced at my gun safe and grinned, knowing it still contained the B.B gun I had received twentyeight years prior. Being at home while Sam continued to inventory her mother’s house was driving me insane. Similar to going to school without my B.B. gun while I knew it was at my disposal, being at home without Sam at my side left me feeling empty and alone. I looked at my two motorcycles for a moment and eventually shifted my gaze to the car. Covered with a custom cover to preserve the perfectly restored condition, the car beneath the cover was an absolute pleasure to drive and a high-horsepower beast. I had purchased the car as a basket case when I was sixteen years old. In shambles, incomplete, and without a motor, transmission, or rear axle, my father had trailered the car home in piles and boxes. Together, over an almost two-year long time frame, we pieced the car together, and he loaned me the money for a driveline. One of my father’s police force friends painted cars and did bodywork on the side for spare cash. After some negotiation and a little persuasive nature, my father convinced him to repair the car and paint it with a show quality paint job for my return of yard work. Halfway through my senior year in school, we completed the car. Just in time for my senior prom and graduation. Now, no differently than most other bikers, the thought of riding in a cage was repulsive to me. I reserved trips in the car for special occasions, often driving it once a month on a Sunday evening or taking it to local car shows. From time to time I’d remove the cover, drive it to Wichita, and street race some unsuspecting Corvette or a local teen with a Subaru WRX turbo he’d tricked out. My special occasion 1969 Camaro Z-28. I glanced at my Harley bagger. I shifted my eyes to my Heritage Softail. After a few moments of staring blankly at the bikes, I sighed, took a sip from my cup of coffee, and stared at the Camaro. I raised the coffee cup to my lips, finished the coffee, and placed the cup on the shelf beside the door. I slowly walked toward the car, carefully removed the cover, and opened the door. Fuck it. If this isn’t a special occasion, I don’t know what is.





SAM Squatted in the corner of the back bedroom, I began to dig through a box I had found in the closet marked Samantha School. As I pulled each item from the box carefully, I realized just how much my participation in school activities meant to my mother. Report cards, photographs of me, and various newspaper articles announcing my successes in track, basketball, and debate were amongst the items I was surprised to find. As much as I enjoyed the memories the newfound items brought to the surface, I realized I could spend nothing short of forever digging through the boxes in my mother’s home. Although she was a very neat woman, it was apparent she was somewhat of a pack rat, boxing up everything her life produced, keeping it for future reference or simply for the joy it brought her. I glanced around the room as I dropped my 4th grade report card into the box. My mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotion, I tried to comprehend not only the work which was in front of me at my mother’s house, but the fact Otis was now back in my life. Living in St. Louis wasn’t an option now, and although I knew after receiving my inheritance I didn’t need to work any longer, I felt I should to keep my sanity. Moving back to Wichita was going to take a little time, and thoughts of where I’d live and when I’d be able to move began to swirl in circles in my head. I stood, stretched my aching legs, and gazed at the doorway. “Meow…” You disgusting furball. Realizing my only way out of the room was blocked by the fuzzy varmint, I stomped my foot on the floor in an effort to scare her away. Although it appeared to initially startle her, she immediately settled into her sphinx-like posture again and stared at me with her golden glassy orbs. As she stared at me, she blinked her eyes slowly a few times. You nasty cretin. I glanced around the room for something soft I could throw in her direction, and eventually decided it didn’t necessarily need to be soft. After some thought, I reached into the box, removed one of my brass medals from playing basketball, and slid it across the wooden floor, past her, and into the hallway. Being the utter idiot she was, she quickly turned and ran toward the medallion, assuming it was alive. While she attempted to bat the medal across the floor with her disgusting paw, I escaped the room, stepped past her, and down the hallway toward the living room. Feeling as if I needed to try and assemble

a plan for my near future, what I was going to do about moving, and where I intended to live, my mind instead began to think of Otis and what little precious time we had spent together. As I sat on the loveseat recalled my best version of our pool room sex, a loud rumbling sound from outside caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. It sounded like the world was coming to an end. Curious as to what the noise might be, I stood and walked across the room. As I got closer to the window, the level of the sound increased and seemed to become closer and closer to the house. As the noise reached an all-time high, I pulled the curtains to the side and peered outside. Immediately, my stomach filled with butterflies. Is this even possible? You still have it? I ran to the front door and yanked it open. In the driveway, grinning from ear to ear, Otis was seated in what appeared to be a very nice likeness of the 1969 Camaro he drove throughout the latter years of our relationship. There was no doubt he had the ability to excite me sexually, but his car absolutely drove me into an entirely different type of sexual frenzy. His car made me wet. “Looks just like your old car,” I shouted over the sound of the exhaust. He turned off the car and stepped into the driveway. Standing beside the car in a tee shirt, jeans, and his sneakers, he looked just like he did when we were in high school. As I stood on the porch admiring him and the car it seemed as if we had never been apart. “It is my old car,” he said. “You still have it? Seriously, is it?” I screeched. He nodded his head proudly. I jumped from the porch, ran to the passenger side of the car, and carefully opened the door. A quick glance of the glove box provided all the confirmation I needed to see. The Sublime sticker I had affixed to the center of the glove box door remained right where I had stuck it in 1996. The lead singer of the band had died of a heroin overdose the day before we graduated high school. Paying tribute to him and my love of the band, I had stuck the sticker on Otis’ glove box while I waited in the car as he and Axton discussed our after graduation plans. I glanced over the top of the car. “It’s still there,” I said.

“Right where you left it,” he said. “I wanted to kill you for sticking that fucker on there, but I could never bring myself to remove it.” “The memories this thing brings back,” I said as I glanced up and down the side of the car. “Good ones,” he said as he walked around the front of the car. “Take me for a ride,” I said as I reached for the door handle. He turned around and walked back to the side of the car. “Get in,” he said as he opened the door. As the engine started, it startled me. The sound of the rumbling exhaust, thoughts of all the times I had sucked his cock while we’d driven to the movies, and the sheer excitement of seeing the car again caused me to begin to shake. I held my arm to the side and flattened my hand as he backed out of the driveway. “Look,” I said as he shifted the car into gear. “What?” “I’m shaking,” I said as I nodded my head toward my hand. “Why?” he said as he released the clutch. I shook my head. “This car, you. Memories. Jesus, Otis. This is just crazy. I can’t believe…” “Well, believe it. I’m not letting you get away this time,” he said over his shoulder as the car inched along the street. “Promise?” I asked. He released the gear shift, held his right hand at his side, and extended his pinkie finger from his otherwise clenched fist. “Pinkie promise,” he said. A chill ran down my spine. He remembered. We had made dozens of pinkie promises as kids, but he would never pinkie promise we would be together forever because he said he couldn’t guarantee it. According to Otis, and to his father, breaking a pinkie promise was punishable by cutting off the pinkie of the one who broke the promise. I pointed my extended pinkie finger at him. “If you break a pinkie promise…” “I’ll let you cut the fucker off with my dad’s pocket knife,” he said before I finished speaking.

“You sure you want to do this,” I asked. With lightning-like speed, he reached for the gearshift, shifted gears, and thrust his hand into the air, locking my pinkie with his. Now with our hands in the center of the car with our pinkies intertwined, everything I had sat in the room and worried about no longer mattered. Now, I had Otis right where I wanted him. In my life forever. “There, now you’re stuck,” he said. I stared down at our locked pinkies. “Couldn’t be happier,” I said. He released my finger and shifted gears again. I gazed at him admiringly, and realized he wasn’t wearing his motorcycle vest. Maybe, I decided, it was because he wasn’t riding his motorcycle. To let him know I noticed, I opted to mention it. “Not wearing your biker vest today?” I asked. He shook his head as he turned the corner onto Central Avenue. “Not allowed to wear them in cars. The vest is called a cut. And we call cars or any kind of vehicle a cage. And there’s no cuts allowed in cages.” I nodded my head as I glanced down at my pinkie. “I see.” Considering Otis was now in an actual motorcycle gang made me a little nervous. Although he and a few friends - Axton included - had ridden motorcycles since they were kids, he was never in a gang in the past. My experience with motorcycle gangs was limited to what I saw on the news, and although I hadn’t seen much, I couldn’t help but see the nationwide coverage the biker gunfight in Texas was given. “So, this gang you’re in, do you…” “It’s a club, not a gang,” he interrupted. “Okay,” I said. “Your club, what is it that you guys do?” With his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he responded without emotion. “We ride bikes and drink beer.” “That’s it?” I asked, somewhat relieved and slightly shocked. “Can’t really say, Sam. It’s like this,” he said over his shoulder and he changed lanes, “We’re a

private club. Club business is club business, and no one else’s. We don’t discuss it with anyone. It’s nothing against you, and even though you’re the only woman I truly trust, for sake of the club and everyone in it, I’m sworn to secrecy so to speak.” I turned to the side and faced him directly. “Secrecy? So we’re going to keep secrets?” “Sam…” he said. “You aren’t like those guys down in Texas, are you? The ones that got in a gunfight?” I asked. I stared at him as he gripped the steering wheel in his hands. Obviously he was slightly offended by my question - the muscles on his biceps flared as he clenched the wheel. After swallowing and giving his response some thought, he glanced in my direction. “There’s motorcycle clubs, and there’s 1%er motorcycle clubs. The 1% club is a name that dates back to World War one, and is indicative of the belief that only one percent of people who ride motorcycles are outlaws. A 1%er club is called an outlaw club. They were an outlaw club,” he explained. “Are you…or is your club an outlaw club,” I asked. He nodded his head. “Yes we are.” “So how long until you guys decide to shoot up a bar and go to prison, Otis?” I asked sarcastically. “We don’t shoot up bars, Sam. We’re not like that,” he said over his shoulder. I glanced up as he turned the car into the parking lot of a Starbucks coffee shop. Although I’d been to the intersection, the last time I had been there, there wasn’t a coffee shop, but a gas station. “When did they put this here?” I asked. “Ten, maybe twelve years ago,” he responded. As I glanced at the building over my shoulder, I realized in my time away a lot of things had changed. I turned toward Otis and crossed my arms. “Well, I don’t like the secret thing,” I huffed. He raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples for a long moment. As he lowered his hands, he sighed. “Look at it this way, Sam. I just made a pinkie promise with you. Do you think I’ll break it?” he asked. “No, I sure don’t. I know how you’re weird about promises. I like that about you,” I responded.

“Okay, look at it this way. I took an oath with the club. I made a promise, under oath, to never discuss the intricacies of the club or club business with an outsider, all in an effort to protect the club and the men in it. For me to break that promise would be no different than breaking my pinkie promise with you. I gave my word. It’s all I’ve got, Sam.” As much as I didn’t like it, everything now made perfect sense. Otis was a prideful man, and he had always been a man with tremendous moral values. I’m sure he took great pride in being able to offer the club his absolute silence when questioned of their activities. “Okay, I’ll respect that,” I said with a nod. “What are we doing here?” “Well, now that we’re done arguing about that, I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I thought we’d relax out here in the sun before it gets too hot, maybe get lunch, go to a movie, and then we’ll see,” he said. “You going to let me suck that big cock of yours in the movie?” I asked. He reached for the door, opened it, and turned to face me. “Does a shark shit in the sea?” he responded. “Sure does,” I said. “Answer’s yes,” he responded. As thoughts of sucking Otis’ cock in a half-filled afternoon movie filled my mind, concerns and worries about his involvement in an outlaw motorcycle club slowly vanished. One thing about being in a relationship with Otis was that all the time I had spent with him was filled with love, sex, and passion, leaving very little time for anything else. And, as love, sex, and passion were on the top of my relationship priority list, I didn’t complain one bit. “Well, let’s choke down a cup of coffee and get to the movie,” I said over my shoulder as I reached for the door handle. “I haven’t been to the movie in years.” “Been a bit for me, too,” Otis said as he opened his door. I paused and glanced at him over the top of the car. “Last movie you saw?” “Fight Club,” he said with a nod. “Fight Club? Like Fight Club with Brad Pitt and Edward Norton?” I asked. Fight Club was the last movie I had seen with Otis, in the fall of 1999, immediately before we split up. Immediately after that, I moved away. It was late October of 1999, right before my favorite holiday, Halloween.

Otis shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head to the side. “First rule of Fight Club is…” “First rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about fight club,” I said as I walked around the edge of the car. “Second rule of Fight Club is…” he said as he stepped toward me and reached for my hand. “Second rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about fight club,” I said flatly. He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Third rule of Fight Club is…” I gazed at him and grinned. For me, this was easy. I’d seen the movie on Netflix and owned the DVD. Watching the movie reminded me of him, and I had watched it no less than fifty times. “Third rule of Fight Club is, if someone yells stop, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over,” I responded. “I love you, Sam,” he said as he leaned forward and began to kiss me. As we stood in the middle of the parking lot kissing, I couldn’t help but admit that I loved him too. It was almost as if when we split in 1999, progress for both of us had stopped completely. Our lives continued, and the world’s clock ticked at the same pace, but neither of us made any progress toward building a new life or moving on. Now, fourteen years later, we were both ready to make up for what we had missed out on for so many years. As our lips parted, I stood and stared at him admiringly. Although he had gone through changes in his life, he was still very much the same person I fell in love with as a young girl and continued to love until this day. A little older, more than likely a lot wiser, and now in an outlaw motorcycle gang, he was still the same playful, loving, protective person he had always been. And in considering all of the good he offered me, I decided to cast what little bad he had embraced aside. For me to be critical of him for something he so wholeheartedly believed in would be selfish. And I had no intention of being selfish. Not again. It was time for me to become grateful. As we walked toward the coffee shop, hand-in-hand, I glanced back toward the Camaro. After all these years he still had it. He had kept it for whatever reason, but ultimately, he had kept it. To me that was all that mattered. And for that, I was grateful.



OTIS There was never a doubt in my mind that I had the ability to love. I loved the MC. I loved the passion the men shared, my MC Brothers, and the concept of the club entirely. I loved the brothers I held close to my heart - Axton, Toad, and Biscuit - and without a doubt I loved Avery and Sydney. The love I felt for my parents was indescribable. Loving a woman - truly loving a woman who I believed to be my other half - was different. Much different. Sam wasn’t in my world, she was my world. I would do anything for her, everything to protect her, and whatever I was required to do to preserve what we had together. As soon as I had her in my arms again, I realized the depth of my love for her. Although I knew all along that I loved her, I don’t think I realized exactly what loving someone completely meant. I was no longer a selfish boy, I had developed into a selfless man, and loving Sam was proving to be something I was not only capable of, but obsessed with. Sam provided me with an entirely new list of reasons to want to live life to the best of my ability. Loving her didn’t keep me from pushing her to her limits. In fact, pushing her was always something she loved about me, and I hoped it would never change. “You sure as fuck better,” I growled. “Seriously, Otis. There’s like…” She turned her head and glanced around the theater. “Like twenty people in here.” “Look at me, Sam. Look at me,” I said sternly. “Okay Otis, I’m looking at you,” she whispered. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” I asked. After a few seconds of studying me, she shrugged her shoulders. “No.” “Okay. Now, do me a favor. For me. Stick your finger inside your shorts and feel that little pussy of yours. Tell me if it’s wet, Sam,” I said flatly. After glancing around the theater nervously, she lowered her hand between her legs. I gazed toward her lap and watched as she slid her finger beneath the fabric of her shorts. After a few seconds, she sighed, raised her finger in the air, and wiped it on the seat beside her. “Soaked,” she said.

“Now, let’s agree on something,” I whispered. “Let’s hear it,” she said. “Well, without a doubt, there are times when a guy wants to fuck, and his cock isn’t very cooperative. He might want to go at it, but his junk is limp. And, there are times when a woman spends half an hour kissing a guy, thinks he’s pretty hot, and decides she wants to fuck him. The problem is that her pussy isn’t wet yet. Now can we agree these types of things happen, and these situations actually exist?” I asked as I glanced down the rows of seats. “Yeah, I agree,” she whispered. I turned my head to the side and focused on her beautiful face as I continued. “Okay. Good. Now, conversely, if a man’s cock is rigid as a piece of steel, or a woman’s pussy is dripping down her leg, would you not agree that she or he is ready not only from a mental state of being, but physically as well?” “I suppose so,” she said. “Damn, we agreed on something. Good. Okay, now, let me ask you one more thing. Do you love me,” I asked as I reached for my belt buckle. Even though the theater was quite dark and the movie hadn’t started yet, it wasn’t difficult to see her wrinkled brow or detect her huge attitude. “You know I do,” she hissed in a half-whisper. “Okay. Well, if you love me, and your pussy is currently a wet little dripping mess, why would you deprive not only me - but your willing and wanting self - of a little cock?” I asked as I unbuttoned my jeans. She glanced downward, studying my hand as I unbuttoned my jeans. As I pulled my cock free of my pants, she nodded her head toward it and glanced upward. “That’s why. In your hand. Look at it, Otis. I’m not depriving myself of a little cock. Your cock needs a fucking zip code. It’s huge. Now, let me ask you something,” she said as she alternated glances between my cock and my face. “Okay?” I said as I began to stroke my cock. “You’ve taken a shit before, right,” she asked. I rolled my eyes and glanced up at the ceiling before answering. “Yes,” I said. “Okay. Now you’re a pretty big dude, so I’m going to guess you take a pretty big shit. Let’s just agree on that, okay?” she said as she nodded her head.

“Alright,” I said, feeling somewhat frustrated with her line of thinking. “Okay. Now if you’ve taken pretty big shits over the years, I’m going to guess your asshole is about as receptive to having something stuffed in it as my pussy is. Probably a pretty good match. Your ass and my twat. Now ask yourself this. Do you think I could shove that fucker in you and have you not squeal so loud you’d wake the dead? Do you?” she asked. I shook my head and chuckled. I had no idea where she was headed with the shit-talk, but she made a good point. Sam never had a problem challenging me if she disagreed, and I respected her for it. My job, in my opinion, was to make sure she felt the way she believed she felt. I continued to stroke my cock as I stared at her. “Guess not,” I said flatly. “Huh. Point made,” she said as she turned to face the screen. As the lights began to dim, and the sound system began to emit Dolby THX bouncing ball bullshit around the room, I stroked my cock and tilted my head in her direction. “One more question,” I said as I leaned toward her. “Shoot,” she whispered. I leaned my head onto her shoulder and glanced up into her eyes. “When you’re watching a movie, do you ever turn around and watch the people behind you?” I asked. She shook her head. “No, I watch the movie.” “Who’s behind us?” I asked. “Nobody, Otis. We’re in the back row,” she whispered. “So the only people who can see us are in front, right?” “Yeah,” she responded. “And we just agreed they’re not going to turn around, right?” I asked as I lifted my head from her shoulder. “Forget it, Otis,” she said. I released my cock from my grip and reached for her hair. After lifting the blonde strands over her left ear and carefully draping them behind it, I admired her beautiful face. After a few seconds of admiration, I leaned toward her and bit the bottom of her ear between my teeth. With her earlobe in my

teeth, I growled into her ear. “You sexy little bitch,” I breathed against her ear. I reached over with my left hand and grabbed her boob. As I began to squeeze it in my hand, she started to moan quietly. While she wiggled in her seat and groaned, I inhaled an audible breath through my clenched teeth and exhaled slowly into her ear. “Reach over here and grab my fucking cock, Sam,” I said. Without speaking, her hand fumbled in my lap until she found my rigid cock. As she began to slowly stroke it, I bit into her earlobe with slightly more force and exhaled into her ear again. Immediately, her shoulder jerked and she tilted her head to the side, pressing against the side of my face. “You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered. “And you’re pissing me off. Since when do you not listen to me? This time I’m not asking, I’m telling. Get your sexy little cock sucking mouth down there in front of me and suck my cock, Sam,” I said as I released her and pointed to the floor. Without releasing my cock from her grasp, she lowered herself to the floor and leaned forward. Wedged between the front of my seat and the seat in front of me, she glanced up and grinned. “I’m so wet,” she said as she began to stroke my swollen shaft. I grinned and glanced around the theater. In front of us, three rows down, were two people on one side, and two people on the far other side. In the lower portion of the theater, and entire row was filled with a group of fifteen or so people, and another couple sat to our immediate left, two rows down. All told, roughly twenty people were in attendance. As the movie began to play, I felt her mouth encompass my cock. I glanced down and sighed at the sight of her head moving up and down in my lap. Although I’m sure not all women enjoy having a cock stuffed into their throat forcefully, Sam was no stranger to the tip of my dick pummeling her mouth like a woodpecker pounding away at a tree trunk. After a quick inventory of the theater again, I lowered my hands onto the back of her head and slowly raised my ass from the seat. As the cowboy on the screen pulled an old man from a burning car, I began to fuck Sam’s face like I was trying to put out a fire deep within her throat. The sound of her sloppy slobbering and gagging was pretty evident where we were seated, but the sound effects and dialogue from the movie masked the sounds of our sexual adventure from everyone else’s ears – especially those seated in the in the front of the theater. I knew it would take no more than a minute of my cock in her mouth to drive her insane, and after holding her head tightly in my lap for a few eye-watering seconds, I released her head and leaned forward. As she pulled her head from my lap she gasped for breath. “Holy shit, Otis,” she said as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Take off your shorts and turn around,” I said flatly. She glanced over each of her shoulders as she raised herself into a crouched position. After a few seconds of struggling to get them off, she sighed and stood. Now standing beside me, she mumbled a few unintelligible expletives and yanked against the waist of her shorts, pulling them and her panties down to her thighs. A few expletives and a little more struggling later, and she was naked from the waist down. I glanced around the theater. Everyone remained focused on the movie as the cowboy walked to the door with a bouquet of flowers. “Turn around and ride my cock, Sam,” I whispered. “No shit, Sherlock,” she said though her teeth. “I thought I’d just stand here.” She turned around, reached back and grabbed her ass with each hand, and as she attempted to spread her glistening pussy as wide as she could, lowered herself onto the tip of my cock. As I guided the tip into her pussy with one hand, I pressed my other into the small of her back. Although fucking in the hotel pool room was torturous, this time I slid with exceptional ease into her wet warm fold. “Jesus,” she said as my cock bottomed out. I reached forward with my right hand and covered her mouth. As I pulled the back of her head toward my chest, I sat up in my seat slightly, forcing her to arch her back. Now incapable of speaking, her back arched, and her hands still gripping her ass, she began to rock back and forth along the length of my swollen shaft. Her soaking wet but still ever-so-tight pussy worked magic along my stiff dick. Each time she raised her ass or lowered herself onto my lap, I felt as if the tip of my cock was going to explode. Swollen to an all-time high girth and as hard as a diamond, it seemed the skin was hypersensitive to the perfect rhythm of her reverse cowgirl ride. As she bit into my hand, her speed increased and she seemed to become a little more daring. With muffled groans bellowing into my hand, she bounced up and down on my cock as she continued to stretch her ass cheeks apart with her fingers. Watching her fuck me with such force was beyond any level of exciting I could recall from our past. Maybe I wanted it more. Quite possibly I wanted her more. Perhaps it was nothing more than being in love as a man instead of being in lust as a boy. The inside of theater wasn’t bright by any means, but the movie provided enough illumination for me to watch my cock disappearing into her pussy. As I glanced up and made note of the cowboy and a blonde girl having a lakeside picnic, Sam groaned into the palm of my hand. To spice things up a little, and to force Sam to exercise a little self-control, I moved my hand from her mouth and twisted her hair in my hand. I pulled her hair tightly, forcing her head to the side of mine. With her back now against my chest and her ear beside my lips, I turned my head to the side and pressed my mouth against her ear.

“Slow down, little girl. You’re going to get us thrown out of here,” I whispered. She continued to bounce up and down on my cock like we were filming a porno movie and this was going to be the climactic ending. Her very audible breathing was animal-like and increasing in volume with each stroke. “Lose…” “Your sense…” “Of adventure?” she asked. I pressed my mouth firm against her ear and exhaled my response. “You little smart ass.” I pulled her hair back and raised my butt from the seat. In perfect timing against the predictable rhythm of the movement of her ass, I forced myself into her as deep as I was able. Almost standing in my seat, I pressed the front of her thighs into the back of the seat in front of us, grabbed my belt, and pushed the waist of my jeans to mid-thigh. Now fucking her as if to prove a point, she was grunting each time my cock bottomed out inside of her. As she released the cheeks of her ass and gripped the backs of the two seats directly in front of us in her hands, I pounded myself into her like I was in some kind of grudge fucking contest. “You smart mouthed little bitch,” I said. “You need to remember who’s fucking boss.” I grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged it toward me. The sound of my hips slapping up against her bare ass echoed over the sound of the quiet conversation the couple was having on the screen. A person in front of us turned around and immediately turned back toward the screen after seeing what was going on. Within a few seconds, several people turned around. The thought of them seeing us, even for a split-second, fueled me to continue to fuck her without mercy. I felt my cock begin to swell and realized my breathing was not only labored, but quite loud. The theatre was filled with the sound of sex. My hips against Sam’s ass, her groaning from me pulling her hair, and her grunts with each in stroke were enough to make even the more focused moviegoers understand fully what we were doing in the rear of the theater. As I felt my scrotum begin to tingle, I realized I was on the verge of climax. I released Sam’s hair and gripped her neck in my hand. As I squeezed her neck with my fingertips and pulled her body backward against mine, her pussy began to contract around the shaft of my throbbing cock. In perfect timing, I exploded into her wet pussy as she groaned in pleasure into the not so vacant theater. I arched my back and bit my lip as I continued to enjoy what seemed to be a never ending orgasm. “Oh dear God…” she moaned as her knees buckled. I exhaled, opened my eyes, and gazed down into the theater. More than half of the people in the

theater were focused on Sam and I. After a few seconds of standing motionless and regaining my senses, I released her neck, slid my hand up to her cheek, and turned her head to the side. A very long passionate kiss and a solid heartfelt hug later, and I collapsed into the seat, exhausted from the excitement of our sexual escapade. “Take off your boot and give me your sock,” Sam whispered over her shoulder. I turned to the side and scrunched my brow. “What?” “I’ve got about a quart of your cum trying to fall out of my pussy, Superman. I need something. Give me a sock to mop this up with,” she said. I reached down, pulled up my jeans, and unlaced my shoes. After removing them both, I handed her my socks. The thought of having on only one didn’t seem to appealing. She stared down into her hand and chuckled. “You wear no-shows?” she said with a laugh. “Huh?” I responded. “No-shows. Little bootie socks. You wear these?” she asked. “When I’m wearing shoes, yeah,” I nodded. “I fucking love you,” she said as she reached between her legs. “Love you too, Sam,” I said as I reached down and pulled on my shoes. After what seemed to be a matter of minutes, the movie ended. Fully understanding it had been much longer than the few minutes it seemed to be, I realized I had watched the remaining portion of the movie in a daze, daydreaming about my future with Sam. She, on the other hand, sat quietly and enjoyed the romantic movie. As the credits rolled across the screen, I held my hand in front of her chest, and cautioned her from immediately standing. “Let’s wait a minute,” I said. “Right,” she agreed. After several minutes, the theater emptied, short of the long row of people still seated in the front. Realizing for some reason they had no intention of leaving the theatre, I stood from my seat, held Sam’s hand, and began to walk toward the steps. As we walked down the steps, a few of the people turned around. As the theater was well-lighted now that the movie was over, I could clearly see the group was a combination of college aged couples, without a doubt out of school for the summer. As we passed the group and turned toward the aisle leading to the exit, the sound of a person clapping caused me to pause and turn around.

After a few claps, another joined. Within a few seconds, the entire group stood, faced us, and continued clapping. Half embarrassed, and half proud, I stood and stared blankly at the group and smiled. Sam released my hand, situated one arm in front of her and the other behind, and performed a very well executed bow. After standing, she reached for my hand and glanced up at me. “Neither one of us have a tremendous amount of sense, you know that, right?’ she said. “Well aware,” I said as I turned toward the door. And almost more than anything else, that was what I had always loved about Sam. Now, more than ever, I was able to be myself around her, which was something I hadn’t really done since she left. As we quietly walked toward the door hand-in-hand, I realized the person I was becoming was the person I had always been, but that I had no one to share being myself with. Sam caused me to act without inhibition or concern. Anxious to see just who it was that resided beneath my exterior shell, I released her hand, turned to face her, and pressed her against the wall. I kissed her passionately, as my hands fumbled along her body, exploring every inch of her as we continued to kiss. Eventually, I raised my hands and cleared her hair away from her face and our lips parted. As I stared into her beautiful brown eyes, incapable of speaking exactly what I was thinking, one of the couples of college kids walked past. “Get a room,” he laughed over his shoulder as he walked through the door. “We don’t fuck in rooms!” Sam shouted back. I shook my head and grinned. “Do you think there’s something wrong with us?” “No,” she snapped back. “It’s everyone else who’s losing out. Fucking prudes.” As we walked toward the door, Sam reaching into her purse, pulled out my wadded socks, and tossed them into the trash can. “I want to see Axton,” she said as we walked down the hallway. I nodded my head. “I was thinking the same thing. And there’s a few others I want you to meet. A few of the girls. Axton’s Ol’ Lady and Toad’s Ol’ Lady.” “Am I your Ol’ Lady, Otis? Is that what I am?” she asked. “You God damned sure are,” I responded. As strange as it seemed to say, and as much as she may not understand the sincerity and seriousness of the label, Sam was none other than Otis’ Ol’ Lady. And now it was time I made her part of my family.





SAM Accepting a woman as a friend was something I never did without tremendous resistance. Their competitive nature, catty attitudes, and unstable emotions made me reluctant to invite one into my life as a true friend. Over the years I had developed several friendships with women, but oddly enough, I never really considered them to be true friends. Opening up and being me around them never happened, and it seemed the person I often chose to be in their presence was a small portion of who I really was. An abbreviated version. Something seemed different about the two girls in front of me. Much different. “No, I work at an attorney’s office as a para. Her brother’s Jack, you met him at the bar the other day, he’s the one who’s all buff and covered in prison tats. I’m the one who wrote the appeal and got him a new trial. I’m Axton’s Ol’ Lady, she’s Toad’s, you got us mixed up,” the girl with the darker hair said in one breathless sentence. She talked a hundred miles an hour, and was difficult to follow, but she had a great outgoing personality. “Sydney? Syd?” I said as I pointed toward the more reserved blonde. She raised her hand in the air and nodded her head. “That’s me. I’m Jack’s sister.” “And I’m Avery. She’s Syd, and I’m Avery. Just remember, Sydney, shitty haircut. Avery, awesome bitch. It’s easy that way,” Avery said. Sydney glanced in Avery’s direction and rolled her eyes. “Shitty hair’s right, but you’re far from an awesome, bitch,” she laughed. Avery shrugged her shoulders as she puckered her lips and kissed the air. I nodded my head and grinned. “Hair. Awesome. Got it.” “And you’re engaged? To Toad? The cute Italian guy?” I asked as I turned toward Sydney. “Yep. That’s me?” she smiled as she reached for her glass of tea. “Okay, well. Let’s get to know each other. Where’d you guys meet?” I asked. “You’ll love this,” Avery blurted.

“You really want to know?” Sydney asked. “Sure,” I responded. “Why not?” She shook her head and pushed her glass of tea to the center of the table. “Well…” She inhaled a deep breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled. “It was at a bank robbery. I guess it’s kind of common knowledge now, so I’ll tell you the real story. I was homeless at the time, and I had used this guy the night before for a shower, and no I didn’t fuck him.” She paused as she raised her eyebrows comically. “You were homeless?” I asked, shocked at the statement. She nodded her head. “Homeless, jobless, penniless, yep. All of the above.” “Oh. Wow,” I responded as I reached for my drink. The thought of such a gorgeous woman who also seemed to be so well put together being homeless was almost unbelievable to me. As I attempted to wrap my mind around the complications of being homeless, she continued to tell her story. “Okay, so I went into the bank with this guy while he was taking me back to my car, thinking he’s going to deposit money or make a withdrawal or whatever, and the fucker pulls out a gun and starts robbing the bank. No shit. I’m standing there confused, scared, and wondering how long of a prison sentence I’m going to get when they catch us, and this guy who I’d watched walk into the bank in front of us leans over and says stand by the door, I don’t want you to get hurt.” She paused and raised her eyebrows. Okay, this is exciting stuff. “Toad?” I asked. She nodded her head. “And he asks me if I want a way out of this deal. Of course I say yes. So anyway, the numbskull I’m with walks up to Cambio - that’s his real name by the way - and he asks him for his deposit bag. Toad shrugs his shoulder and acts like he’s scared, and the guy points the gun right at his face.” She paused and pointed her finger at my face. “Holy crap,” I said as I drained my drink. “Not really. Cambio pulled some Marine judo shit and snatches the gun from the guy’s hand, kicks him in the chest, and knocks him on the floor in like one half a second. The dumb fucker’s on his back on the floor now, and Cambio’s got the gun in his face.” She shook her head and grinned. “Wow. That’s kind of sexy. So what did the cops say when they got there?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know really, I left right after that.” I shook my head and stared blankly, causing her to explain further. “While he had the gun on the robber, he turned to me and said go tell the big fucker outside that the devil looks after his own and tell him to take you to Biscuit’s house. Hell, I was scared to death and I took off running. I had no idea who these guys were, but it just seemed right at the time. Being around bikers my entire life, I figured they were good solid dudes, so I ran into the parking lot like I was leaving a burning building, and ran up to Otis and said devil looks after his own,” she said as she reached for her tea. I widened my eyes and swallowed heavily. “Oh dear God. The guy in the lot was Otis? My Otis?” “The one and only, yes ma’am. He didn’t ask any questions, just grinned and fired up his bike. The only thing I remember is him saying you better hold on right before he gunned it and shot out of the lot,” she said as she lowered her glass to the table again. “Devil looks after his own?” I said as I shook my head. “Huh?” I turned toward Avery and gazed past her as I tried to think of being a part of a bank robbery in the first place. Avery nodded and tilted her head to the side playfully. “Club motto.” “I see,” I said. “So, the cops showed up, the news interviewed Cambio, and the rest is history,” she said. “Wow,” I said as I lifted my glass and stared into it. Empty. Avery turned toward the bar, raised her hand, and waved at the waitress. “Went a lot better than the next time a guy pulled a gun on Toad, that’s for sure. Now that was scary,” Avery said as she turned around. I widened my eyes and glanced at Sydney. “There was another time?” “Guy in Texas,” she said as she took a drink of tea. “Shot him in the chest. Collapsed lung, coma, damned near died,” she said flatly. What the fuck have I got myself into? “Let’s hear it,” I said as I picked up my glass again.

“Get her another, make it a double,” Avery said as the waitress walked to her side. “It was a double,” I said with a laugh. Avery raised her eyebrows. “Triple?” “Hell, why not,” I said as I turned toward Sydney. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and began talking as if it was just another day. “Okay, they all rode down to Texas, Biscuit, Cambio, Slice, and Otis. They had a meeting down there. When the meeting ended, a guy walked out of the building who Cambio recognized as one of his former Marine friends he hadn’t seen for years. He’d actually lived his entire life, post war, thinking this guy was dead. After a little reunion in the parking lot of sorts, a car pulled up alongside the group, and the driver pulled out a gun, threatening Cambio’s Marine friend. And, Cambio being Cambio, he jumped in front of the barrel just before the guy pulled the trigger, saving the life of his friend. He took the bullet in the chest. It collapsed his lung and broke his collarbone, but he’s fine now. Well, pretty much anyway.” “Oh dear God. When did all this happen?” I asked as the waitress handed me my drink. “Uhhm. Let’s see. The bank robbery was about four months or so ago. Give or take. The Texas deal, maybe two months ago,” she said. “All of that, in the last four months?” I gasped as I raised my glass to my lips and drank half the drink in one gulp. She nodded her head. “Yep.” I glanced at Avery. She grinned and shrugged her shoulders. I turned toward Sydney and stared for a long moment. “So the homeless thing, what happened there?” I asked. “Oh, right after the robbery Cambio gave me a house to live in. It was one of his rental houses. And he gave me a job at his barbeque restaurant as a waitress, which I love by the way. Then, we got engaged, I moved in to his house, and now we live together,” she responded. “Wow,” I said as I drank my remaining vodka cranberry. “And you and Axton? How’d that come about if you don’t mind me asking?” I asked. “Don’t mind at all. We met at the bar I was working at. I was still in school, a senior. I hit on him, and hit on him, trying to get him to like me, but it didn’t work. We were just hanging out every now and again, but no sex or anything. You know, just me riding on his bike and stuff. One night a few months later,

we were at a party at the clubhouse, and some doofus started hitting on me. Axton just lost it. He beat the guy half to death, tossed him in the street, and told me to get on his bike. I got on, and the rest is history,” she blurted. I glanced at Sydney, stared blankly for a moment, and turned to face Avery. “Beat the guy half to death?” I asked. “Yeah, it was pretty bad,” she said. “Couple of shootings and a beating in the course of a few months?” I asked as I reached for my glass. The two girls turned to face each other and started laughing. As they each turned to face me, they nodded their heads at the same time. “Yeah, that’s about it,” Sydney said. “I wouldn’t trade or change Cambio for the world.” “Me neither,” Avery said. “Axton’s as good as gold.” As I stared at my glass, wishing it was a quintuple, the waitress passed. As she noticed me gazing into the empty glass, she pointed at me and raised her eyebrows. I nodded my head as I raised my glass in the air. She raised her hand and extended two fingers. I shook my head. She raised three. I nodded. She turned toward the bar and walked away. “That’s a good waitress,” I said as I turned toward the girls. “Kat?” Avery said. “She’s the best.” “You know her?” I asked. She nodded her head. “She went to school with me and played volleyball. She’s a year younger than me. She graduates this year.” I nodded my head. “She’s fucking Biscuit,” she chuckled. “Big guy with the beard?” I nodded. “That’s Biscuit,” she said. As the waitress placed the drink on the table, Avery stared down at it and laughed. “You’re going to be a mess here pretty quick, Sam. That’s what, eight shots in half an hour?” she asked.

She was right for the most part, but I was already a little more than half drunk. Generally speaking, my limit was one drink, knowing if I had two, I’d be drunk. Having had a double, and a triple, and now having another triple, it would stand to reason with a matter of minutes I’d need someone to take me home in a shopping cart. I felt an almost necessity to tell some kind of a story to compete with what they had shared, but I had very little to offer. I glanced down at the drink, shifted my gaze to meet Avery’s, and shrugged my shoulders as my mouth curled into a smile. “Hell, I walked here. I’ve only got to stumble about two hundred feet to get home. It’s been a long day. Otis and I went to a movie and he fucked me half senseless in the theatre, which was fabulous by the way. Now I’m just unwinding and trying desperately to be social. I normally hate girls because they’re so competitive and catty, but you two are fun,” I said as I reached for my drink. “You had sex in the theater? Which one, that ratty one on east Kellogg?” Avery laughed. I shook my head. “No, the Warren Theater. The really nice one right up the street here.” “You fucked in the Warren?” she gasped. “Sure did,” I said as I took a sip of my drink. “Holy shit,” Avery gasped. “Like fucked? Fucked around, or fucked?” she asked as she leaned into the table. I took another short sip of my drink and grinned. “Well, I got down on my knees in front of him while the movie was starting and sucked his cock first. Then I got up and rode him reverse cowgirl until I came all over his cock. It was awesome. Oh, and we got a standing ovation on the way out. No joke, the entire front row stood up and clapped as we left.” Avery raised her hand in the air and turned her palm to face me. I raised my hand in the air and slapped it against hers. As she shook her head from side-to-side, Sydney raised her hand. I slapped mine against hers and nodded my head. “To the Sinners,” Sydney said as she raised her glass of tea. “Never a dull moment.” “To the Sinners,” Avery said as she raised her glass. I glanced down at my glass. With blurred vision and an unsteady hand, I picked it up and somehow raised it to the toast. As our glasses clanked together, I burped, sloshed half my drink onto the table, and said my own toast. “To the Sinners, and to being stuffed full of so much dick that it hurts to sit down,” I said. “And to getting standing ovations, and cleaning up the quart of cum with Otis’ no-shows.” “Otis wears no-shows,” Avery asked. “He sure does, and gather ‘round, ladies. I’ve got a few stories to tell you about Otis,” I said as I

raised my glass to my lips. Yeah, I think we’re going to get along just fine, ladies. I clanked my glass onto the table, sat back in my seat, and began to tell the story of the night Otis duct taped me naked to a tree while wearing a kilt. Not because I felt a need to be competitive, but because I wanted to make sure they knew I was one of them. An equal. The Ol’ Lady of a Sinner.



OTIS If the life of a Sinner had taught me nothing else, it taught me to always keep my guard up, regardless of the company I was keeping or the events surrounding me. When life seemed too good to be true, it was always time to glance over my shoulders and make sure of who or what was behind me. It wasn’t that I believed life wouldn’t offer me what was good, it was more my belief that the laws of average would always make sure to keep me in check by tossing me a shit sandwich from time to time. The thing about a shit sandwich is this. As soon as you bite into it, you know one thing for absolute certain. You just bit into a shit sandwich. “So both of you want to go in there with me?” Jack asked nervously. “If you really think we need to,” Toad shrugged. “Same as going to talk to the cops in the joint far as I’m concerned. You never go alone to talk to the man. Always go in pairs, that way nobody can start the he said she said shit. I just want witnesses,” Jack said as he peered into the shop. “Sure, we’ll go,” I said as I stepped past him. “Come on.” We walked to the office door together, and after making sure they were at my side, I knocked on it sharply. Axton, obviously recognizing my knock, responded through the closed door. “Otis? Come on in.” I pulled the door open slightly and peeked inside. “It’s the three of us, Slice. Toad and Jack are with me, got a minute?” “Always, as far as you three fuckers are concerned. Come on in,” he responded as he closed the book in front of him. “Come on,” I said as I waved my arm toward the two men. I pulled a chair from the table and sat down, and Toad did the same. Jack began to nervously pace back and forth across the floor, staring down at his boots as he walked. “You alright, Big Jack?” Axton asked as his eyes followed Jack’s steps. “Be fine boss. Just thinking,” he said as he glanced up. After walking back and forth a few more times, he stopped, pulled out a chair at the corner of the

table, and sat down. “Permission to speak candidly,” Jack said. Axton glanced at me, shifted his eyes toward Toad, and eventually fixed his eyes on Jack. “What the fuck’s going on?” Axton asked as he stood from his seat and crossed his arms. Immediately, Jack stood from his seat. “Sit down,” Axton snapped, “What the fuck’s going on here?” Jack sat down, glanced down at his boots for a moment, and cleared his throat. “Permission to speak freely?” “Sure, whatever. Speak freely,” Axton huffed. “Think we’ve got a cop in the club, boss?” Jack said as he glanced up. What the fuck? “What the fuck are you talking about?” Axton bellowed. Toad immediately stood and turned toward Jack. “Sit the fuck down, Toad,” Axton demanded as he uncrossed his arms. “There ain’t a cop patched in in this MC, I can guarantee you that much. Now what brought you in here? What happened?” Axton barked. Jack stood from his seat. “Sorry, boss. I got to stand. Hear me out, okay?” Axton nodded his head. “Fuck it, I guess you can walk. And I’m listening.” As Jack paced the floor, he began to speak. “Well, when I was in the joint, we had cops that took us to the hole in the elevator when we got a write up. They had this special key, it looks like one of them round keys for a soda machine, but it’s about half inch longer. Elevator repairmen have ‘em too, but that’s about it. It lets you stick the key in the elevator, turn on an override, and make it go to the roof or the basement or whatever. Now when I was in court the first time, and the second time for that matter, I saw the same thing. The US Marshall and the ATF fellas that took me to court in the beginning, and again the other day, they both had ‘em. They had to put ‘em in the elevator to get down to the basement to their cars.” Axton crossed his arms in front of his chest and inhaled a long slow breath as he waited for Jack to continue. “There’s only a couple of elevator manufacturers, Dover and Otis. Most of the keys say one of

those two names on ‘em. Kind of looks like a Harley key too, now that I think of it,” he said. “God damn it, Big Jack, get to the point,” Axton growled. Jack stopped pacing, turned to face Axton, and crossed his arms. “That fella they call Gunner, boss. He’s got one of them keys on his key ring. It says Dover on it for sure, I looked at it. And unless he’s repairing elevators on the side, he’s probably a fed or a prison guard.” “I fucking knew it. Phony ass piece of lying shit. Motherfucker says he was in the shit, I never trusted his phony ass,” Toad blurted as he stood from his seat. “God damn son of a motherfucking bitch,” Axton said as he turned toward the cabinets on the wall. “Hell, he’s been here for years, he can’t be a cop. Who vouched him in the club?” Axton asked as he reached for the Members book. “Don’t need the book, Slice. I can tell you who vouched him in,” I said. “Who?” Axton asked as he turned around. Simultaneously, Toad and I responded. “Hollywood.” “Fuck!” Axton shouted as he kicked the table with the toe of his boot, almost knocking it over entirely. He glared at Toad for a long moment, and then fixed his eyes on me. I sat silently, and attempted to think of why Gunner would need an elevator key. As I drew an absolute blank, Axton kicked the table again. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he screamed as he turned toward the door. “Who’s that cock sucker run with?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. Axton turned to face Toad. “Ran with ‘Wood. Well, till ‘Wood committed suicide,” Toad said. “Fuck!” Axton yelled as he kicked the table again. “You God damned one fucking hundred percent sure he’s got an elevator override key? One fucking hundred, not ninety-nine. You sure?” Axton asked as he turned toward Jack. “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t boss. Hundred percent,” Jack nodded. “Fuck!” Axton shouted.

In an attempt to settle Axton down, I stood from my seat. “Let’s talk about this, what are we going to do?” I asked. “Torture his ass, get him to admit it, and kill the fucker. Pretty simple shit,” Axton said. “I’ll do it,” Toad said as he stood. Axton shook his head. “I’ll fucking do it.” “Hold up, boss,” Jack said as he raised his hand in the air. “You kill this fucker now or you even kill him later, fed’s will be on this club like shit on a shoe. Whoever sent him knows he’s here. He comes up missing or turns up dead, we’re fucked,” Jack explained. Axton turned toward Jack and shook his head from side-to-side and said. “Well, what the fuck do you suggest?” he growled. The thought of a cop being in the group was unthinkable to me. Gunner being the cop was much more believable than anyone else, he seemed to always be around, but in the same respect, he wasn’t around when he needed to be. As I sat and thought about it, he did seem to ask a hell of a lot of questions. He damned sure didn’t look like a typical cop, but after seeing what the ATF agent looked like in court, he damned sure could be an ATF agent. Doing life in prison under the RICO act didn’t appeal to me at all. “I say we kill the prick,” I said as I looked up. Jack shook his head. “It’ll bring the heat in here so God damned quick, it’ll make your heads spin.” “What’s the answer?” Axton asked. “Well, he’s gonna be wearing a wire, you can bet on that. So we need to get him where we can talk to him and the wire ain’t any good. Won’t be easy, him being a cop and all, but we’ll have to do it. Anybody got a swimming pool?” Jack asked. “A what? A fucking swimming pool?” Axton huffed. Jack nodded his head. “Yeah a pool. Make his ass get in the pool. Water will ruin the wire. Only way I know for sure, other than stripping him down, and then you still don’t know.” “Fucking things can be in their hair, ears, hell some of the fellas in the joint said they even had ‘em sewn into their clothes. So if you make him strip, and he tosses his clothes in a pile beside him, he can still be listening,” Jack said as he raised his hand to his ear.

“Biscuit’s got a pool,” I said. “Sure does,” Axton agreed. “Fuck. Alright. I’ll get with Biscuit. We’ll need to get him over there without making him nervous. How in the absolute fuck are we going to do that?” Axton shrugged. “Have Biscuit tell him we’ve got some pussy over there?” Jack said. “But don’t tell him there’s a pool, fed’s hate being around pools. He’ll know what’s up for sure and he’ll call in the troops.” “And we won’t say anything out loud. I know that much,” Axton said as he pulled his note pad out and shook it. “I’ll write everything down and make him do the same. Son of a fucking bitch, I hope you’re wrong,” Axton said as he tossed his pad on the table. “You fellas go out in the shop and act like nothing happened. Is the fucker out there now?” Axton asked. I nodded my head. Axton swung his leg up and kicked the table hard enough to lift it from the floor three feet. “Fuck!” “Biscuit?” he asked. “Nope, think he’s fucking the girl from the bar,” I responded. “Alright, I’ll call him. Stay out in the shop, and just follow my lead. I’ll be out in a minute,” Axton said. As we walked to the door, Axton cleared his throat. “Big Jack?” “Yeah boss,” Jack said as he turned to face Axton. “Cut looks good. And about this…” Axton said and shook his head as he gazed down at the floor. As Axton glanced up, he continued. “Good lookin’ out, Jack. Good lookin’ out.” Jack nodded his head. “Just doin’ my job, boss.” An ounce of devotion is more powerful than a lifetime of knowledge or a heart filled with faith. Devotion has the ability to make even the weakest men develop strength, and the fear-filled become brave. Jack was devoted to the club, there was no doubt in my mind. I was devoted to the club, and to the woman I loved, Sam. If Jack was correct, and Gunner was a

cop, he threatened to take the two things from me I was devoted to and truly loved. And in no way was I going to let that happen. Not without one hell of a fight.

SAM I sat on the porch with my head in my hands and cried. I had never really cried much as a child or an adult, but I seemed to be making up for it now. The loss of my father as pre-teen was difficult, but I somehow accepted it. The loss of my mother, although untimely and by a very odd series of circumstances, had also been accepted. The loss of her beloved cat, however, was the straw that broke the camel’s back. In my excitement to see Otis’ car, I had left in a hurry, leaving the front door open. After the movie and my trip to the bar, I stumbled to my hotel room in a drunken stupor. Returning to my mother’s house the next day revealed the door had been left open, but my thoughts didn’t immediately include the cat. Only after an entire day of working without interruption did I realize the cat was gone. I wiped my eyes and glanced to my side. A dish of food, another of water, and three small stuffed toys sat beside me. I gazed out into the dark yard and attempted to regain my composure. After a moment of sniveling and wiping my tired eyes, I raised my cupped hand to my mouth. “Taaaaaylor. Kitty, kitty…Taaaaaylor…come here kitty,” I blubbered. I scanned the yard for any movement. Nothing. As I lowered my face into my hands, my phone beeped. I picked it up and swiped my finger across the screen. A message from Avery revealed her best advice regarding the loss of my mother’s cat. I stared down at the screen. Avery: Shake a bag of cat food and make it rattle. It works every time. After typing a quick thank you response, I set my phone aside and picked up the sack of cat food. It seemed ridiculous, but I stood up and began to shake the sack violently. After what seemed like no more than a few seconds of shaking it, I heard a rustling sound in the shrubbery beside the house, and Taylor jumped onto the porch. “Meow…” I dropped the sack of food onto the porch and reached down with both hands and picked her up. Immediately, she began to purr. I held her close to my chest, walked into the house, and closed the door. I’d never actually held a cat before and therefore had no experience doing so, but she seemed to like the way I was holding her. I walked to the loveseat, sat down and placed her beside where I was sitting. She immediately jumped in my lap, walked in a few circles, and flopped down on her side. As she lay in my lap continuing to purr, she gazed up at me with her golden eyes and blinked a few times very slowly. Within a few minutes, she was asleep. I sat on the couch for some time, thinking of my mother, and what satisfaction she must have received from having the cat as her only house mate. There was no doubt

in my mind my mother had loved the cat, and out of respect, I decided I needed to do the same, even if it proved difficult. Carefully, I lifted the cat from my lap and set her aside on the loveseat. After cleaning the porch of her food, water, and toys, I walked back to the loveseat and sat down. Still asleep in a ball, Taylor appeared to be unaware or uncaring of the grief she had caused me. I shook my head, grinned, and sent Avery a text message letting her know I had found the cat. Tired, relieved, and slightly bored, I opened the browser of my phone and typed a few words into the Google search window. What does it mean when a cat blinks slowly A screen full of answers popped up, and I clicked on the first one and read the article. Slow blinking by a cat (sort of an eyes-almost-closed look, almost trance-like) is a good sign — one that says, “You’re my buddy, and I feel comfortable hanging out with you.” I finished the article, tossed the phone to my side, and shifted my eyes toward the sleeping cat. After a few seconds of watching her sleep, I reached down and ran my hand along her body. Her fur was soft, similar to the faux fur coats for sale in the mall at wintertime. I ran my hand along her fur again, amazed by the softness of it. She turned her head and opened her eyes. As the slits in the center increased into large black dots, I smiled at her and blinked my eyes a few times. Slowly.



OTIS Axton sat in a chair on Biscuit’s patio staring down at the table in front of him. On the table - a Sig Sauer pistol, Axton’s pistol, a keychain, and Axton’s note pad. The clothes that Gunner had been wearing were in Biscuit’s garage. Although we didn’t find a wire, and Gunner swore he wasn’t wearing one, we had found enough evidence to believe Jack was correct in his assumption. The pistol we found in the saddle bag on Gunner’s bike had magazines in it marked “Law Enforcement Only” and his keychain included an elevator override key. After several minutes of awkward silence, Axton picked up Gunner’s pistol and walked along the edge of the pool. “Do not say a fucking word until I ask you to,” Axton said as he reached the area of the pool where Gunner was treading water. “Don’t think for one motherfucking minute that I won’t kill you and make it look like a suicide, you piece of shit,” Axton said as he knelt beside the pool. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, and based on your responses, I’ll make a few decisions on what’s in the club’s best interest,” Axton said as he raised the pistol in the air. “This is yours, by the way. Just to clear things up,” Axton said flatly. “I realize contrary to popular belief you’re not bound by law to answer this question truthfully, but I’ll ask you anyway. Are you law enforcement?” Axton asked without so much as an ounce of emotion. As Gunner continued to tread water, he closed his eyes momentarily, opened them, and spoke. “Yes.” Axton closed his eyes and shook his head. “Fed?” “ATF,” Gunner responded almost breathlessly. He had been treading water for at least thirty minutes, and was breathing pretty heavily. “Outfuckingstanding. Now, if you’re a fed why are you telling me this?” Axton asked as he opened his eyes. “Far as I know…there’s only one way…out of this…and it includes me walking away…from here. Anything else happens and they’ll…come down on you…and the Sinners…like the wrath of God. Let me out of the pool…and we’ll discuss it,” he responded in a broken sentence. “Fuck you, motherfucker. Shoot this prick, Slice,” Biscuit hollered as he reached out with the long rod and pulled the pool cleaning net over Gunners head again.

As Biscuit pushed Gunner under the water for the umpteenth time, Axton shook his head and stood. “God damn it, Biscuit, I don’t like it any more than you do, but our options are limited. Let him up,” Axton growled as he pushed the pistol into the waist of his pants. “Hear what he’s got to say, boss,” Jack said. Axton glanced toward Biscuit and shook his head. “Let him up, Biscuit. He can swim his fucking ass over to the shallow end and stand there.” He shifted his eyes toward Gunner and his face changed to one of disgust. “Go down there and stand, I’m not letting you get out of the fucking pool,” Axton said as he pointed to the shallow end of the pool. After Biscuit lifted the net from Gunner’s head, he struggled to swim to the other end of the pool. Clearly exhausted, scared, and uncertain of what his future held, I hoped whatever he planned on telling Axton was enough to convince all of us of what he hoped to convince us of. Right now, the majority of the men in attendance preferred him dead. As he waded through the shallow water, Axton barked out his order. “Stop right there, whatever your fucking name is,” Axton said as he reached the thigh deep water. After Axton walked to the shallow end of the pool and crouched down, Toad, Jack, Biscuit and I followed. Upon our reaching the other end and standing behind Axton, Gunner began to speak. “You’ve been my field assignment for two and almost one half years. There’s no one else on this investigation. I swear to you. I had a meeting a few weeks ago with the director, and he’s pissed because I claimed I wasn’t ready to testify before a Federal Grand Jury…” Axton interrupted him as he stood from his kneeling position. In his signature I’m not very fucking happy pose, he crossed his arms and flexed his biceps. “What in the fuck does this have to do with anything? Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like cops. You’re a cop. If I took a vote right now, at least four of these fellas would agree to kill you. My math skills aren’t too damned shabby, and that’s eighty fucking percent, excluding you. Damned sure a majority,” Axton said. “Look,” Gunner said as he raised his hands in the air. “I started investigating you on guns. In the last two years, you really haven’t done anything contrary to law. Might be a stretch, but possibly selling guns to a prohibited person is all I can come up with. To indict you, I need to testify and turn in my reports. Reports come first. If I don’t, there’s no case. Period. End of story. I’ll agree to not testify, how’s that?” Gunner asked. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ shittin’ me,” Biscuit said as he swung the ten-foot-long pole from the net into Gunner’s head.

Whack! The pole glanced down across his brow and cut his nose. As Biscuit raised the steel rod over his head, obviously preparing to smack him again, Toad, Jack, and I all stood chuckling at Biscuit’s behavior. Axton, however, wasn’t amused. “You no good son-of-a-fuckin’-cop-bitch,” Biscuit howled as he raised the pole. “I’ll just beat you to death if they won’t let me shoot you.” “God fucking damn it, Biscuit. Put the pole down,” Axton hollered as he raised his hands in the air. “Ain’t happenin’, Slice. These fuckin’ cops, you can’t trust ‘em. Probably got a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum shoved up his ass as a backup piece. I’m keepin’ the pole,” Biscuit said as he held the pole in his hands like a Lacrosse stick. Axton shook his head as he looked down at Gunner, and eventually he began to laugh. “Well, don’t hit him with the fucker again unless I tell you to,” he said. “I don’t trust you any further than I can throw your fat ass. Don’t think I can agree to that,” Axton said as he knelt down at the edge of the pool. “You’ve got two options,” Gunner said. “Kill me, or let me go. That’s it.” “Fuck this motherfucker, Slice. He’s tryin’ that cop psycho-babble mind game shit on us,” Biscuit said as he raised the pole over his head. Axton raised his hand in the air. “Put it down, God damn it, Biscuit.” “Man’s got a point, boss,” Jack said. “We’ve got two options. Kill him, or let him go.” Axton, clearly well beyond frustrated, tossed his hands in the air as if giving up. “Well, what the fuck do you four fuckers want to do?” “Kill him,” Biscuit said. “Same. I say we kill him,” Toad agreed. “Want to kill him boss, but it isn’t too practical. Soon as he doesn’t report in, they’ll come to the clubhouse,” Jack said. My thoughts mirrored Jack’s. My knee jerk reaction was to kill him, but for some reason I questioned my natural thoughts and considered what might be more sensible, something I had not always done in the past. In matters regarding the club, I almost immediately went with my gut feeling and dealt with the consequences later. I stood quietly thinking, sensing all of the men’s eyes were fixed on me; waiting on my response. I glanced up at Axton, fully realizing it was Sam and my love for her that caused

my reservation to murder him, but knew not to reveal my thoughts. What it is we love immediately becomes sacred, and we’ll do whatever we must to preserve it. “Hand me the gun,” I said flatly as I extended my arm. “We need to talk about this, my fucking head’s spinning,” Axton said as he shook his head. I rolled my shoulders back, flexed my chest and changed my tone to a very demanding one. “Hand me…” “The fucking gun,” I said as I took a step toward Axton. Axton’s eyes widened as he took a step back. I turned toward the deep end of the pool and stomped toward the table where Axton had been sitting. After grabbing his personal pistol from the table, I slid the slide back and checked to ensure there was a round in the chamber. As I took the few steps back toward the shallow end of the pool, all five men began to speak at once. “Shut the fuck up. Every fucking one of you. Just shut the fuck up, especially you,” I said as I pointed the pistol at Gunner. Gunner stood approximately five feet from the end of the pool in thigh deep water. As long as my legs were, reaching him in one surprising step wouldn’t be difficult at all. Without a hint of revelation of my thoughts, I leaped into the pool and before he was able to react, grabbed a handful of his hair in my left hand. As I pulled his head back, I pressed the barrel of the pistol into his eye socket. “God damn it, Otis,” Axton screamed. “Shoot the motherfucker!” Biscuit hollered. “Otis!” Axton yelled again. “Shut the fuck up!” I screamed over my shoulder. I turned my head to face Gunner, and fixed my eyes on his one available eye. As I spoke, I twisted the barrel of the pistol into his eye socket, making the situation as uncomfortable for him as I could. “Listen to me, motherfucker, and listen good. I’m not like these other four fuckers. I’m the quiet one you need to worry about. You’ve been here two and a half years, so you know I’m the protector of this fucking MC, regardless of who wears the SAA patch,” I growled. “You’ve got one opportunity to answer each question I ask. One. If you don’t, I’ll pull this fucking trigger,” I said as I pulled the hammer of the pistol back until it clicked into place. Axton’s pistol was a double action H&K, and didn’t require that I pull the hammer back to fire it.

Pulling the trigger without pulling the hammer back required a lengthier pull of the trigger, and more force. Pulling the trigger with the hammer cocked required minimal effort. Some called the trigger effort required in this position a hair trigger, because all you had to do to fire the weapon was move the trigger a hair, and with his ATF training, Gunner would know this if anyone did. “Otis!” Axton screamed as I cocked the hammer. “What’s your God given name?” I demanded. “Allen. Allen Pintler,” Gunner coughed. “Current place of residence,” I grunted. After no more than a long second of silence, I pushed the pistol into his eye and closed my eyes. “Wichita. Right here in Wichita,” he cried. “Got a wife and kids?” I asked. “Uhhm. I uhhm, yeah. I have a family,” he blubbered. Good, then this should be easy. “You’ve got one option and one option only, and I’m going to explain it to you. You’re going to get out of this pool, dry off, get dressed in some of Biscuit’s clothes, and you and I are going to go to your house in Biscuit’s truck. You’re going to prove to me that it’s your house by showing me your fucking mail, pictures of you with your fucking wife, and pictures of you with your kids. Your kids old enough to have laptops?” I asked. “What? Laptops?” he muttered. “Easy question, motherfucker. Do your fucking kids have laptops?” I growled. “Yeah, they both do,” he snapped back. “Alright, again, listen carefully,” I said as I changed my voice to a calmer tone. “You’re going to allow us access to their laptops, and we’re going to put a LoJack on them, just to make sure you don’t try and run anywhere. We’ll track your kid’s whereabouts, and we’re going to put one on your bike and your personal car as well. And we’ll track you. You either refuse to testify to the Grand Jury, or I’m going to kill your wife and kids. It’s that simple. This isn’t a threat, it’s a solemn promise. If I’m going to spend life in prison, it isn’t going to be on your terms, it’s going to be on mine.” I paused and raised my eyebrows, giving him a moment to consider what I had said. “You agree to these conditions?” “Oh fuck. Uhhm, yeah, I agree. Don’t hurt my kids, just don’t hurt my kids,” he sobbed. “It’s all up to you, Special Agent Allen Pintler. It’s all up to you,” I said as I pulled the pistol

away from his face, lowered the hammer, and extended my right arm back. As I continued to hold his hair in my left fist, someone took the pistol from my grasp. I released his hair and walked to the corner of the pool. After walking up the steps and onto the deck, all eyes were fixed on me. “Sorry, Slice. It was the only thing I could think of,” I said. Axton shook his head and grinned. “LoJack’s? Where the fuck did you come up with that?” “Got one on my car and my laptop,” I said. “They work good; you can track them in real time on the internet.” “Get out of the pool,” Axton growled as he handed Toad the agent’s gun. “Toad’s going with you. Toad, if he tries anything, and I mean anything, do whatever a war torn Marine thinks is best,” Axton said. “Got it, Slice,” Toad responded. Agent Pintler surely loved his children, and he was doing what he must to preserve that love, and keep it sacred. And in many respects, I was simply doing the same.



SAM Yet another week and a half had passed, and as much as I knew at some point in time I would need to go back to St. Louis, doing so was a different story. To leave Wichita, even for a few days, was unthinkable to me. Leaving my mother’s home, leaving the only girlfriends I felt I ever had, and leaving Otis was more than I was able to agree to do. Although I believed they would all be waiting for me upon my return, the thought of walking away from the ones I loved wasn’t something I was comfortable doing. The longer I thought about it, the clearer it became - my fear was the potential loss of one or all of them. I had lost everyone I cared for in my life; my father, Otis, and then my mother. Now, feeling as if I had reconnected with Otis, leaving him, even for a short period of time, was to risk losing him. And losing him was not an option. I pushed the box to the side, stood, and glanced around the room. As my head began to spin from the thought of it all, my stomach began to heave. What my mother had warned me of since my childhood was actually happening – I had clearly worried myself sick. I ran down the hallway and reached the toilet just in time to vomit. As I knelt on the floor, hugging the cold porcelain in my arms, I decided if I was going to leave, right now wasn’t the time to think about it. Maybe I just needed to see if I could convince Otis to go with me and help me pack. After the patch in party was over, I could see if he would go. At that time, he’d have no real reason to stay, at least there was nothing scheduled with the club as far as I knew. When I finally felt like I was done vomiting up what little breakfast I had eaten, I stood, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and wandered into the back bedroom. Having a family is somewhat of an assurance that there will always be people you can confide in, trust, and will be there when you need them to be; all because of the binding love of family. Family will always provide unconditional love because they are, well, family. It is not a conscious decision or a choice, it just is. Choosing to love a person is different. At any point in time, the person you have chosen can change their mind, fall in love with someone else, or be scared away by some ridiculous statement, exposed belief, or expressed desire. Losing Otis the first time was proof of a long love filled relationship’s ability to crumble over an expressed desire. My longing to have children was more than likely a result of me feeling a need to secure my place with Otis, but the expression of my thoughts provide results which were the exact opposite. In hindsight, I should have known. Otis had always been a person who needed to feel as if he was free from what bound most everyone else on this earth. Conforming to society’s beliefs, systems, and procedures was something he was never comfortable with. Even as young boys, Axton and Otis thumbed their noses at authority, society, rules, and regulations. A little internet research confirmed my suspicions

of his motorcycle club standing for nothing more than the expression of freedom, therefore nothing had changed. For me to attempt to take his freedom from him then, or attempt to take it now would result in nothing short of disaster. Our pinkie promise was all I needed to spend a lifetime with Otis, and I could do so happily knowing I needed nothing else from him to feel secure. As I gazed blankly into the room I considered my position on matters may not be clear to Otis. I walked to where I had been sitting before, picked up my phone, and drafted a text message to clear things up. I want you to know the fact you’re in a motorcycle club doesn’t bother me, and in fact, I’m happy you are. I’ll be here for you always, Sam I stared down at the message. After reading it several times, I backspaced through it and erased it. A few taps with my very capable fingers, and I stared once again at the screen. You and Axton seem right at home with the motorcycle club, and I like it that you appear to be at peace now Jesus, Sam. That looks ridiculous. I backspaced until the message was gone. I fumbled with the phone for a moment and gazed down at the screen. I want you to know something. I love you and will always support you I grinned and pressed send. I glanced around the room at the various boxes scattered on the floor. I would have a lifetime to inventory my mother’s house, and doing so now wasn’t necessary. It provided me with a sense of selfworth, and allowed me to feel I was paying a tribute of sorts to my mother by doing so, but it wasn’t necessary. “Meow.” I turned toward the door. Taylor sat in the opening, staring in my direction. After a few second stare-off, she blinked her eyes slowly. I returned the gesture. “I think I’m done for the day, Taylor. Let’s go lay on the couch and listen to music. Maybe I’ll see if the girls want to come over and hang out later,” I said as I walked in her direction.

As I passed her, I glanced over my shoulder. By the time I was halfway down the hallway, she turned and began walking in my direction. Maintaining her pace, but following ten feet behind me, she followed me to the loveseat. I no more than sat down and placed my phone at my side, and she jumped into my lap, walked in a few circles, and flopped down. A few blinks of her eyes later, and she was asleep. As I sat and stared at her, watching her body expand and contract from her breathing, it dawned on me why my mother had the cat as a pet. The cat offered her the same thing it offered me. No differently than family, the cat didn’t question her - or me for that matter. Without thought and without prejudice, the cat offered her love. Unconditional love. As I stroked the cat’s fur, my phone beeped. Being cautious not to wake the cat, I leaned to the side and picked up my phone. Otis: Love you, Sam. And I’ll always support you. Hey Moms cooking dinner. Eat around 4. You want to come? Using my thumb, I pressed the keys for my one-word response and pressed send. Yes I hadn’t seen Otis’ parents for fourteen years. When we were together, I perceived his parents no differently than I perceived mine. To me, they were an extension of my family, and losing them, in many respects, was as difficult as losing Otis. Having them in my life would provide me with a sense of family I would never be able to feel again in their absence. Eager to see them, and excited for the dinner, I lifted Taylor from my lap, stood, and walked into the kitchen with her. Although it was only 8:30 in the morning, it wasn’t too early to try and make something to take to the dinner. Holding Taylor in my arm, I opened the refrigerator door and gazed inside. Empty. After realizing I wasn’t in my home, I closed the refrigerator door, frustrated there wasn’t anything in it to prepare a dessert. I dropped the cat on the floor, pulled my phone from my pocket, and sent Sydney a quick message. Help? Good dessert to take to dinner at Otis’ parents? Almost immediately, the phone beeped. I glanced at the screen. Sydney: Bee’s apple pie. Best in the entire world. Too long to text. Want me to come over?

I grinned as I read the message and promptly responded. IDK if you want My phone beeped instantly. Sydney: Text me your address. Be there in 20. Toad and Jack are doing yardwork. I typed my address into the phone, and sent it to Sydney, beyond grateful to have her help with the dessert. I didn’t cook much, but I was a woman, and knew how to. Having a family recipe would make taking the dessert much more enjoyable than getting something from the internet. I slipped my phone into the pocket of my shorts and glanced around the room. Although the house was empty short of Taylor and me, I felt as if I was blessed with having a family of sorts. Albeit unconventional, it seemed like it was a family nonetheless. And my sister I never had while growing up was coming over to help me make a pie.



OTIS “Well, it just seems like a weird choice to serve to a guest, Marge. Not everyone likes shit like this,” my father said as he glanced down at his plate. “Ken, it’s not shit. And if Sam doesn’t like it, she doesn’t have to eat it,” my mother responded. Sam reached down and turned her plate a quarter of a turn and glanced toward my mother. “I love stuffed peppers, Mrs. Milner. It smells wonderful.” “What’s this pile of stuff, Marge?” my father asked as he poked his fork into the potatoes. My mother looked up from her plate and shook her head. “It’s a casserole. Potatoes, cheese, sour cream, butter, and cream of chicken soup. Taste it, you’ll like it.” “Get the recipe off Facebook?” My father asked as he scooped up a forkful of the potatoes. “No, not Facebook. I got it from Pinterest. Same as the stuffed pepper recipe. Just eat it, Ken,” my mother snapped. I glanced at Sam. Her head swiveled from side-to-side as she followed my parent’s conversation, watching each of them intently as they spoke. As our eyes met, I pointed the end of my fork at the countertop where her apple pie was sitting. “Sam didn’t get her apple pie recipe from Pinterest, so maybe you’ll like it,” I said. “Family recipe?” my mother asked without looking up from her plate. “Sydney gave it to me. It’s her friend’s mother’s recipe. We made it together this afternoon,” Sam responded. “Sydney is the Marine’s fiancée from the barbeque joint, ma. And the big black kid that works for him doing the yard work around town, it’s his mother’s recipe,” I said as I cut into my stuffed pepper. My mother looked up from her plate and turned toward Sam. “Shirley. She won an award down at the festival with that pie.” Sam nodded her head. “That’s what Sydney said.” My father thrust his hands in the air and shook his head. “Sam brings award winners, and you’re cooking shit some eight-year-old Pakistani kid is posting on the internet.” “Eat, Ken,” my mother said. “Good peppers ma,” I said as I swallowed a bite of the stuffed pepper.

“Thank you,” she responded. With her fork still stuck into her potatoes, and without taking a single bite of her food, my mother turned to face Sam. I often wondered if my mother ate small meals throughout the day to stay alive, because at the dinner table she often picked at her food while my father and I ate, never actually eating what was on her plate. As Sam turned in her direction and smiled, my mother spoke. “Now Samantha. Steve tells us you’re going to be coming back here to live. Is that right?” my mother asked. “Let her eat, ma,” I said. My mother slowly turned my direction and widened her eyes. “I was talking to Samantha. Eat your dinner, Steve.” I glanced at my father, who was finishing the mound of potatoes from his plate. As he shoveled another forkful into his mouth, he looked up and grinned. “She said no pie ’till we’re done with this shit. Better eat up.” Sam shifted her gaze back and forth between my mother and me as she spoke. “I’m going to go back to St. Louis one of these days, and get my stuff. I’ll just bring everything back here and probably live in my mother’s house.” “The house in Lakepoint? On the east side?” my mother asked. “Yes, the same house I grew up in,” Sam nodded. My mother tilted her head toward me. “Steve, you need to go with her and help her. She doesn’t need to go by herself and get her things. She needs a man to help her, so you go with her.” I glanced up from my plate and shook my head. “I’ll probably go, ma.” “No probably. You need to go,” my mother said. “Get you some tie down straps from work so nothing blows out,” my father muttered as he shoved a forkful of pepper into his mouth. “Let Sam eat, ma,” I said. “Speaking of work, Clyde had sex with the cock-eyed girl at the south register,” my father said as he glanced up from his plate. “Ken!” my mother gasped. “Well, he did. Sam - Sam from work, not this Sam - he caught ‘em back in the store room. Had that cock-eyed gal bent over a row of boxes.” He paused and swallowed the bite of food he was chewing.

“Ken, stop!” my mother said as she tossed her head toward Sam. “Does sex talk bother you, Samantha?” my father asked. Sam glanced at my mother, shifted her eyes toward my father, and shrugged. “She’s a lady, Ken. It’s rude,” my mother hissed. “Well, I wasn’t going to go into graphic detail, Marge. I’m just making conversation. So anyway, this cock-eyed gal that works the south register has the body of a porn star, but when she looks at you, her eyes are all cock-eyed.” He paused, glanced at me, and made his eyes go crossed. As he looked around the table with crossed eyes, my mother covered her eyes, and Sam laughed so hard she almost spit her food out. “Ken, that’s rude,” my mother said. “What’s rude is to see her body, and then have her turn around and look at you. That’s rude. So anyway, she gets a divorce maybe a month ago. And then she’d been complaining to the other gals at work that no one would take her out on a date.” He paused, sliced off a chunk of his stuffed pepper, and poked it with his fork. As he lifted the food in his mouth, he continued before he even started chewing. “So I told Clyde, I said Clyde, if she wasn’t cock-eyed, guys would be lined up to the bank, you know the one way up on the overpass, they’d be lined up to the bank to get a piece of that. And Clyde looks at me and smiles. He says Ken, as long as she’s facing the other way, what’s it matter. Hell, I thought he was joking, so I just shrugged my shoulders and said I guess it don’t, Clyde. I guess it don’t, that’s what I told him.” As my mother stared down at her plate, more than likely praying, Sam’s eyes were fixed on my father’s. Although she hadn’t heard his dinnertime stories for years, she was no newbie to his tall tales. Even back when we were in high school, my father told stories at dinner no differently than he did now. As he swallowed his food, Sam spooned a fork full of potatoes up and waited. “So it hadn’t been a couple days, and Sam goes to the store room to get one of them mini air compressors for this guy, and that gal was bent over with her pants around her ankles and her top off, and that damned Clyde was just a poking away. Sam said she spun around and hell he couldn’t even tell where she was looking. I told him she was looking at everything. She may be gaggle eyed, but I bet that gal’s got the peripheral vision of a god damned Owl. Anyway, Sam says her boobs are fake. She had her top off when the whole deal went down.” He nodded his head once toward Sam, turned toward me, and poked the last bite of pepper with his fork. “Ken, that’s not dinner table talk,” my mother said as she looked up. “Well, I want Samantha to feel like she’s at home, Marge. Damn. If I sat here and ate without speaking you’d wonder about me wouldn’t you, Samantha?” he asked as he glanced toward Sam. “I suppose so,” she said with a laugh.

“Never would have guessed her boobs were fake. Hell, they jiggle when she walks,” he said as he pushed himself from the table. “I’m going to get some of this pie sliced and ready. Marge, you haven’t touched your food, are you going to eat pie?” he asked as he stood from his seat. My mother glanced up from her plate and nodded her head. “I’d planned on it, yes.” “I’m done and Sam’s close, pop. Bring us a slice,” I said as my father walked into the kitchen. I pushed myself away from the table slightly and leaned back in my chair as I studied Sam. She looked exceptionally beautiful. Her hair was generally straight, but she had taken time to curl it and spruce it up. Now, it seemed she had ten times as much hair as she normally did. Curled, pinned, and placed just perfectly, she looked like she could be in a hair product commercial. The golden skin on her face was clear and smooth, and unlike many other girls, the color of her face matched the color of the skin on her neck, shoulders, and arms. One of my pet peeves had always been women wearing make-up that caused their face to clearly be a color in contrast with the rest of their body. In her sleeveless knit top, shorts and sandals, she looked adorable. As I sat and admired her while my father cut the pie, she sat and quietly talked to my mother. Unfocused on their conversation, I continued to sit and stare; grateful she was once again in my life. “What? What’s wrong?” she asked as she shifted her eyes to meet mine. I shook my head. “Nothing.” She cocked her head to the side. “You were looking at me funny.” “Just admiring you.” “Is something wrong with my hair?” she asked as she reached for her hair. I shook my head. “It’s perfect.” “Your hair looks wonderful, Samantha,” my mother assured her. “I was going to say the same thing. Don’t remember seeing you with so much of it. It looks real nice, Samantha. Here,” my father said as he slid a piece of pie beside her plate. “And here’s one for you,” my father said as he reached across the table. “Thanks Pop,” I said as I grabbed the plate. My father disappeared momentarily, and then walked back into the room with a plate in his hand. As he sat down, he glanced at my mother and grinned.

“You can have one when you’re finished,” he said as he sat down. My mother rolled her eyes as she took a small nibble of the potatoes. “I’ll get my own, thank you.” Sam looked up from her plate. “Thank you. It’s pretty much the same, I just fixed it.” “Looks big,” my father said as he pushed his fork into the corner of his pie. Sam nodded her head and chuckled. “That’s what they call it. Big hair. I’ve got big hair.” “Well, seems appropriate. It’s big. I like it. Reminds me of when Marilyn Monroe would fix hers all curly,” he said as he poked the pie into his mouth. As he chewed the pie, he dropped the fork from his grasp and it hit the plate with a clank. Immediately, he raised his right hand and held it to his chest as if having a heart attack. “Now that’s an apple pie. What’s in it that makes it so damned good?” he asked as he pointed toward the plate with his left hand. “I’m sworn to secrecy,” Sam said. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to make sure you’re going to be around a little more often, so you can bring the pie if nothing else,” my father said as he reached for his fork. “She’ll be around plenty, pop,” I said as I cut off a piece of pie. My mother glanced up from her plate and fixed her eyes on me. “So are you two dating again?” I shifted my eyes toward Sam. “We’re together, yes.” “But you aren’t dating?” my mother asked. “We’re together, ma,” I half shouted in response. She scrunched her nose slightly and stared. “What does that mean?” “Ma, we’re adults. Adults don’t date,” I said as I lifted the bite of pie to my mouth. “Since when?” she asked. “Since I don’t know when, ma. But we’re adults, and we’re together. She’s moving back here, and we’re going to be together,” I said as I poked the bite of pie into my mouth. The pie was fabulous. As I chewed it, I turned to face Sam, smiled, and pointed to my mouth. My mother pointed the end of her fork at me and shook it. “Together as in you’re a couple?”

“Yeah, ma. We’re a couple,” I responded. I glanced at Sam. She was grinning from ear to ear. I realized as I spoke that although she and I hadn’t discussed these things, I simply suspected it went without saying. I had expressed to her that I loved her, and she agreed she had felt the same. As she seemed to enjoy hearing what it was I had to say about us being a couple, I considered expanding on it. Before I had a chance to speak, my mother interrupted my thoughts. “Well, then you’re dating. When can I have a grandchild?” she asked flatly as she shifted her eyes back and forth between Sam and me. I shrugged my shoulders and glanced at Sam. Sam’s eyes quickly shifted toward my mother. Almost immediately her face was filled with shock and wonder. “No kids,” Sam said sharply as she shook her head from side-to-side. Shocked at her response, I sat and stared. “Oh?” my mother responded with wide eyes. “I’m past my prime,” Sam responded. “I don’t even know if I can have kids.” “Well, there’s one way to find out,” my father said as he slapped my shoulder. “Let’s just hope you can, and one day God blesses us all with one,” my mother said as she stood from the table. I sat and studied Sam and wondered what changed. Fifteen-years prior, her only reason for leaving was that she wanted kids and I didn’t. Now, it seemed she either no longer cared to have children or she wasn’t able to. Either way, I decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was that we loved each other, and we were devoted to each other. As I sat and watched her cut into the pie, I grinned. She was beautiful. I glanced around the table. If nothing else, I could offer her a family which included a mother, father, and me. And in my eyes, despite our individual faults, this family was perfect.



SAM Spending time with Otis’ family was so much more enjoyable than I expected it to be. I went to the dinner excited and a little nervous, not necessarily knowing what to expect. What I received was a heartwarming welcome from his parents, and in many respects, it felt as if I had only been away from them for a short period of time, definitely not the fourteen years I had been gone. His mother’s question regarding children caught me slightly off guard and made me extremely uncomfortable. I expected my quick no response comforted Otis, but I felt sorry for his mother and her desire to have a grandchild, knowing her longing for us to have kids would never be met. I hoped as time passed, having me for a daughter-in-law might suffice to fill the void. As much as the maternal part of me once wanted children, I realized the longing stemmed from my feeling of insecurity regarding my relationship with Otis. Losing him once as a result of my request was one time too many, and losing him again would crush me. Our pinkie promise had no clause in it for children, and I felt comfortable as long as kids weren’t in the picture Otis and I would be together for a lifetime. I stood, gazing into the mirror, and tried to recall the last time I had been on an actual date. After moving to St Louis, I had gone on a few dates, but eventually decided dating was senseless, as my heart belonged, and had always belonged to Otis. Michael died in 2001, and I moved to St. Louis immediately following his death. A year later I stopped dating. Maybe it was two years, but certainly not longer than that. So roughly 2003 would have been my last date. Twelve years. I lifted the hem of my dress slightly and spun in a circle, watching myself in the mirror as I did so. Wear a comfortable dress and shoes you’re comfortable walking in. I’ll be there at seven. I picked up my phone and glanced at the screen. 6:50. Out of my peripheral I saw Taylor approach the doorway. “Meow…” “I know, right?” I said as I shifted my eyes toward her. “I didn’t have one, so I ran to the mall and bought it. Cute, huh?” I asked as I turned toward the mirror again. “Meow…” “I feel the same way. Where do you think he’s going to take me?” I asked as I turned toward the

doorway and took a step in her direction. Silence. I walked past her, down the hallway, and toward the living room. As I reached the edge of the loveseat, I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t know either. Come on, we don’t have much time,” I said as I patted my hand on the arm of the loveseat. She ran down the hallway and leaped toward my hand, landing gracefully beside it. After peering down in my lap and studying me for a short moment, she carefully stepped between my thighs and curled into a ball. After a few seconds of petting her, the unmistakable rumble of the Camaro coming down the street broke the silence. “Well, it sounds like he’s here,” I said as I picked her up and placed her at my side. As he rolled into the driveway, I ran in the kitchen, grabbed my purse, and literally sprinted for the door. I pulled the curtains to the side slightly and watched, hoping he’d eventually step out of the car. After what seemed to be an eternity, he opened the door and stepped into the driveway. Dressed in dark designer jeans, black dress boots, and a well-fitted dark grey V-neck tee, he looked amazingly handsome. I loved the entire biker look thing, but seeing him dressed like this was a very nice change. After admiring his slow confident swagger as he worked his way toward the door, I pulled the curtains to the side and reached for the door. “Oh, wow. You look nice,” I said as I stepped onto the porch. He stopped in his tracks and glanced up at me. “Damn, Sam. You look incredible. That dress looks fucking good,” he said as he pushed his thumbs into his front pockets. His arms looked like they were about to bust right out of the shirt. It wasn’t too small, and it actually fit perfectly, but for him to buy a shirt that would allow his massive arms to actually fit the sleeves would be impossible. The upper portion of the shirt clung to his massive chest, and hung slightly loose around his rather trim waist. As I stood admiring his little thumbs in pocket pose, I had to consciously prevent myself from slobbering on my new dress. “Thank you,” I said as I did my best to curtsy. “So, you ready?” “If you are, I am,” he responded as he turned toward the car. I stepped off the porch and glanced toward the car. He stood at the passenger door, holding it open for me, grinning from ear to ear. As I held my dress to my thighs and attempted to slide gracefully into the low-sitting car, he bent

down and kissed me softly. As soon as our lips parted, I collapsed into the seat feeling rather satisfied I could get used to this type of treatment with ease. “So where are we going?” I asked as he got in the car. “Surprise,” he responded over his shoulder as he started the car. I clutched my purse in my hands and grinned. I liked surprises as long as they were well natured. A surprise date seemed more romantic to me than an unplanned one, and made me feel a little more special than if we’d have simply gone to some random restaurant to eat dinner. As he pulled out of the neighborhood and sped into traffic, the sound of the car and the sheer force of the acceleration did to me what it always did to me. Wet. “In a hurry?” I asked as I reached over to buckle my lap belt. He grabbed the gear shifter and slapped the car into another gear without letting his foot off the gas pedal, causing the car to lurch forward even more. “Kind of,” he said as he glanced in my direction for a split-second. “Okay,” I said. “Does it end soon? Are we going to miss it?” I asked. “Nope. Not really,” he said as he swept past a car on the right side. “Is it inside or outside?” I asked. “Good question,” he responded without shifting his eyes from the road, “Outside.” I nodded my head. “Is there a large body of water?” He shook his head and laughed. “No. There’s some water, but not much.” “Hmmm,” I said as I raised my index finger to my lips. “Just the two of us, or will there be more people?” I asked. “There will probably be a lot of people,” he responded. His focus on driving and having both hands on the steering wheel caused me to focus more on his flexing biceps that I probably should have. Regardless of how much time I had to admire him, not staring at his bulging muscles was extremely difficult. As I studied the tattoos on his forearms admiringly, he turned a sharp corner, causing me to look out at the road.

“Where are we?” I asked as I looked around the unfamiliar neighborhood. Several parks and a small river lined the streets on either side of the car. “Almost there,” he said as he down shifted the car into a lower gear. As he slowed the car to an almost stop and turned into a parking area, I glanced around, trying to determine where we were. Although I had grown up in Wichita, so much had changed since I’d spent any time in the inner city that nothing seemed familiar anymore. “What is this place?” I asked excitedly. He pointed out the window to a large wooden sign. Botanica. “Botanica? The flower garden?” I said. “It’s more than a flower garden, Sam. Website said they’ve got fountains, paths, A Shakespeare garden, a rose and wildflower garden, a Chinese garden, butterfly garden - hell I don’t even remember how many they have. Ten acres worth,” he said as he shut off the car. I stared out the window at the entrance. I would have never guessed he would take me to such a place, so it was in fact a huge surprise. As I sat and admired what I could see through the window of the car, he reached over and touched my shoulder. “I always loved your mother’s back yard, and I know you did too. I thought this would be just like it, only a lot bigger. It’ll be more enjoyable if you get out,” he chuckled. “I love you,” I said as I turned to face him. “Love you too, Sam,” he said as he reached for the door handle. We walked toward the entrance hand in hand, and as we entered the park, my breath was taken away by the sheer beauty of the landscape. A central fountain surrounded by various flowers, shrubs, and a walkway looked like something out of a fairytale, and it was only the entrance to the garden. As he paid for our tickets, I eagerly scanned the landscape for more to see. “This is beautiful,” I said as I gazed at the fountain. As we walked past the fountain and into the park, I gazed at the beautiful flowers, shrubs and trees in an almost trance-like state. Although there were people everywhere, it didn’t seem at all overcrowded. The aroma of the surrounding flowers created an almost sensory overload as I attempted to identify all of the individual flowers creating the beautiful scent. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly through my nose.

Roses. Honeysuckle. Gardenias. Uhhh, Uhhm. Garden Phlox. I opened my eyes to a beautiful display of purple Garden Phlox. “I love this place,” I said as I squeezed his hand in mine. He shifted his eyes from the garden ahead. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I nodded my head as we walked under an ornamental concrete structure marking the entrance to another area of the garden. The sound of running water made the entire area seem more peaceful than it already was. After searching along the landscape, I noticed a stone-filled creek beside the walking path with water flowing through it freely. On the side of the path as we curved to the left, a large pool of water with beautiful Koi fish playfully swimming about caught my attention. I pointed to the pool as we passed, incapable of saying anything to describe the beauty of it all. Two breathless gardens later, and I stood in the center of a rest area with my eyes closed, once again attempting to identify the aroma of a particular flower which had commanded my attention. As I inhaled another slow shallow breath through my nose, Otis’ hands on my cheeks caused me to open my eyes. “I love you, Sam,” he said as he leaned down and kissed me lightly. “I love this place, and I love you too,” I said. “Have you enjoyed it?” he asked. I wrinkled my brow and narrowed my eyes, “Enjoyed it? That’s a stupid question. Yes, Otis, I’ve enjoyed it.” “Good,” he said as he glanced over each shoulder somewhat nervously. “You know what would make it better?” he asked as he turned to face me. I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno.” “I want to fuck the shit out of you. Right here,” he said as he pointed to the side of the path. I glanced to where he pointed and stared. The side of the path was lined with flowers, and behind

them a more elevated row of shrubbery, and behind it, another row of various flowers. The entire height of the uppermost obstruction was maybe four feet high. People passing by could undoubtedly see us if they simply peered to the side of the path and over the flowers. “You’re crazy, not here,” I said. “Why? It’s beautiful,” he shrugged as he glanced around us. “It is,” I said as I stepped to the side, allowing a person walk past. I tossed my head toward the woman who had just passed and widened my eyes. “See? There are too many people, and it’s not even dark yet.” He glanced to the side of the path, turned around and peered around the corner of the display behind him, and reached down and gripped the top of an ornamental concrete bench at his side. As he grunted and pulled against the bench, slowly it began to rise from the concrete slab below it. “Mother…fucker…this is heavy…as…fuck,” he grunted as he lifted the bench. What the fuck? I watched in amazement as he carried what was probably a four-hundred-pound bench to the side of the flowers behind me, setting it on the grass beyond the four feet high row of flowers lining the path. As he walked around the end of the path to where he was standing before I stood with my mouth agape. “There,” he said as he wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Now we got us a little place,” he said. “People can see us. Like see us. No,” I huffed. He glanced over his shoulders, turned around, and sighed. Before I had a chance to do or say much of anything, he slid one arm behind my thighs, the other over my shoulders, picked me up from my feet, and held me in his arms. “Otis,” I said as I peered over my shoulder and along the path. He promptly walked around the entrance, to the bench he had placed on the grass, and plopped me down on the bench. “Lay down flat, and they won’t see you,” he said as he pointed toward the shrubbery behind us. I glanced to the side, and although I was able to see the concrete structure, I couldn’t see the pathway hidden by the shrubs and flowers. “If people walk by, they’ll see us,” I whispered.

As he shook his head from side-to-side, he reached under my dress and grabbed the waist of my panties. Somewhat reluctantly, I lowered my shoulders to the bench and hoisted my ass from the concrete, allowing him to freely pull the panties off. “Put your feet up on the bench and spread your knees apart,” he said in an almost demanding tone. “I’m not going to show the entire park my twat, Otis,” I snapped back as I clenched my knees together. He pressed his hands down in between my thighs and spread my legs against what little resistance I was able to provide. “The park isn’t going to see your twat, Sam. They’ll see the back of my head buried in your twat. Now spread your legs,” he growled. “Oh dear God,” I said as I eagerly flopped my legs to the side. There weren’t enough people in the entire world to keep me from letting Otis lick my pussy; even if we were in public. It was one of the many things he did extremely well. As I closed my eyes and gripped the sides of the concrete bench in my hands, I heard a couple walk past us, talking as they enjoyed the beautiful view of the flowers along the path. As I felt the sides of his head between my thighs, I inhaled a shallow breath in anticipation of what was certain to come. As his tongue slowly licked from the bottom of my pussy to the top, I exhaled sharply. His tongue began flicking against my clit, sending me into a frenzy of flinching with each touch of the tip of his tongue against my swollen nub. I sank my teeth into my lower lip, hopefully preventing me from howling out a moan of pleasure into the busy park. I raised my shoulders from the bench, resting on my elbows as his finger began to slide in and out of my wetness. As he continued to lick my pussy and nibble my clit with his soft lips, I stared down between my legs in shock. This was only the beginning. And as long as we didn’t get caught, it was certain to be a long and very pleasurable night.



SAM “The next time you try and squirm away from me, I’m going to slap that ass of yours so hard the entire park comes over here,” he said. He’d been fucking me from behind while I was bent over the park bench with my dress around my neck. My bra and panties were beside the bench in the grass, and the cold concrete against my bare boobs reminded me of when he used to fuck me in my mother’s back yard, adding to the sensuality of it all. Allowing Otis to fuck me however he wanted was a specialty of mine, but being quiet and holding still weren’t necessarily my forte. As the sound of his hips pounding against my ass rang throughout the entrance of the Shakespeare Garden, I bit into my lower lip so hard it began to bleed. I gripped the edges of the bench and lifted my chest from the bench, along my nipples to barely graze against the edge of the cold concrete. The consistent sound of not so distant voices kept my level of excitement elevated and provided an assurance my pussy wasn’t going to dry up anytime soon. My eyes naturally rolled back into my head as my overly sensitive nipples danced along the top of the concrete bench. The sensation was almost too much for me to bear. Although my pussy wasn’t ready for his thick cock a few weeks before, the excitement of him fucking me in the park combined with actually seeing people walk past as we did so caused my pussy to become a wet and very willing receptacle for his swollen rod. As his balls slapped against my clit for the thousandth time, I released my lip and groaned into the late evening air. One more thrust, and I made a feeble attempt to escape as his cock pounded deep into me, pressing my thighs into the end of the bench. “What the fuck did I tell you?” he growled. “Still,” I heaved. “Stay…” “Still…” He bent over, forcing his chest into my back and pressing me against the cool concrete slab. As he ground his face into the side of mine, he breathed into my ear. “And fucking quiet,” he whispered. The warm air that escaped from his lips caused me to shudder. As goosebumps rose along my left arm, he lifted his chest from my back and slapped my ass with the palm of his hand. As I felt his cock slide from my ever so wanting pussy, I gasped as I turned around.

“Don’t stop, I’m sorry, I’ll be good,” I begged. I watched in utter horror as he pulled his jeans up and over his still stiff cock. As he buckled his belt and narrowed his eyes, I stood and sadly pulled down my dress. He pressed his hands into his hips glared at me for a few seconds and eventually crossed his arms and sighed loudly. “Don’t fucking move, Sam. Sit right there, out of fucking sight,” he demanded as he turned away. “But…” I began. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.” In what was no more than a matter of seconds, but seemed to be an eternity, I sat nervously hidden by the shrubbery - and waited as I heard a hint of his voice as he was talking to someone. Although he wasn’t within my range of vision, he didn’t sound like he was very far away. Another male voice I didn’t recognize appeared to be talking to him. After a few seconds, the voices became closer, clear, and more distinct. As Otis came around the corner of the entrance another much younger man followed. Shocked, I stood from my seat. “Sit the fuck down,” Otis demanded. “Dude…” the other man said as we made eye contact. Before he had a chance to continue, Otis interrupted him. “Just shut the fuck up for a minute, before I slap the shit out of you.” The man, who appeared to be a hipster in his early twenties, stood immediately behind Otis, attempting to peer over his shoulder. As Otis stepped to the side, the tall, thin, bearded youngster stood in apparent shock staring at me. “She’s my girlfriend, there’s nothing funny going on, other than we’re a couple of sexual weirdos. All you’re going to do is hold her down,” Otis explained. “Otis!” I hissed in a loud whisper. He crossed his arms and sighed harshly as he shook his head. “I’m not going to warn you again, Sam.” As I gazed beyond him and focused on the tall thin man, the thought of him holding me down while Otis fucked me caused me to writhe where I stood in anticipated pleasure. If anyone could pull it off, Otis could. “Dude, I’m not…” the thin hipster began. Otis turned to face him.

“Name’s not Dude, it’s Otis. Do I look like a guy you want to argue with?” Otis asked as he flexed his biceps and flared his chest. The thin man shook his head. “Uhhm, no. No, you sure don’t.” “Look at it this way. It’ll give you something to tell your buddies about,” Otis paused and turned to face me. “Pull your dress up and bend over, Sam. Just like you were a minute ago,” Otis said as he reached for his belt. “But I had my dress up on my…” I began to explain. He released his belt and glared at me as if I were frustrating him to no end. “Just. Like. You. Were.” I turned around and pulled my dress to my shoulders, exposing my entire naked backside to the stranger. Instantly, my pussy began to tingle. The sensation was an entirely new one, and brought a level of pleasure to my mind that was incapable of compare. For the sole purpose of entertainment, I slid my hand between my legs and rubbed my two middle fingers along the length of my dripping wet pussy. Half bent over, I turned to the side, exposing my breasts to the stranger. As he gawked in obvious pleasure, I shifted my eyes to his crotch and held my gaze. As the seconds quickly passed, his bulge became more apparent. “Look babe. My pussy’s a mess,” I said as I raised my soaked hand, hoping to excite the stranger even more. “Go over there and hold her shoulders down,” Otis demanded as he pointed to the far end of the bench from where he stood. Still standing a few feet behind Otis, the man began with his best effort to talk his way out of the awkward situation. “I uhhm, I really don’t think she needs me to do…” “Tell you what. What’s your name again?” Otis growled. “Alan,” the man answered. Peering over my shoulder, I was enjoying the show in its entirety. Now standing with a fullfledged hard-on, Alan was obviously uncomfortable. The entire situation to me was nothing short of insanity, but with Otis involved, nothing was out of the realm of possibilities. As my swollen pussy continued to send shock waves up and down my torso, I waited for Otis to respond. “Tell you what, Alan. You either go grab her by the shoulders and hold her down on that bench or I’m going to just knock your skinny little ass out right now. How’s that sound?” Otis said flatly. “Sounds like I’m going to hold her down,” he said as he pressed the heel of his palm against his

crotch. As Alan walked in front of me, I straightened my stance slightly, showing him a full view of my perky boobs. As his eyes locked on my chest, I slowly reached for them, fully suspecting Otis to tell me to stop. Well, until you say something… I grasped my boobs in my hands and began to squeeze them and pinch my nipples as Alan stood and stared. As I heard the clanking sound of Otis’ belt buckle, I turned and glanced over my shoulder. His pants now around his thighs, it was pretty apparent he was as excited as I was. His stiff cock stood at attention, pointing up at the sky at a forty-five-degree angle. As I watched it twitch, I released my right boob, stood more erect, and stuck my first two fingers into my pussy. “Turn around, you horny little bitch,” Otis demanded. I turned away from Otis, and while still standing half erect, pulled my fingers from my pussy and slid them into my mouth while Alan watched in absolute shock. “Now, Alan, you do what I tell you to, and nothing more. You understand?” Otis asked from behind me. Alan nodded nervously. “Uhhm yeah. Sure.” “You’ll be fine,” I whispered. “Bend over Sam,” Otis said. I bent over the bench and pressed my tits onto the now very cool concrete. It wasn’t quite dark outside, but it was getting closer and closer with each passing minute. The sun had already set, and although there wasn’t any need for additional lighting to see, it was clearly almost dusk. As Otis spread my ass cheeks and slid his fat cock into my sopping wet pussy, I gripped the edges of the concrete slab beneath me. “Grab her shoulders and hold her down,” Otis demanded. Alan placed his hands against my shoulders lightly. The mere touch of his hands against my skin while Otis fucked me was enough to send me over the edge, but I wanted more. The thought of him holding me against my will was even more exciting. To test my theory, I raised my chest from the bench and began to turn my shoulders toward Otis. “God damn it,” Otis bellowed as he released one of his hands from my hips. “Hold her down!” he shouted. Alan’s hands pressed against my shoulders. I resisted considerably, and he pressed harder –

forcing my breasts flat against the bench. As Otis continued to pound himself into me, I glanced up at Alan’s stiff cock and stared. I didn’t want Alan to play a part in what we doing from a sexual standpoint, but knowing he was just some stranger - and that he was not only watching Otis fuck me - but participating in it… My tingling pussy stuffed full of Otis’ swollen dick, his hips slapping a rhythmic beat against my ass, the lingering aroma of the flowers, being fucked in public, and Alan’s hands against my shoulders were simply too much. My entire body began to tingle, from my ever-so-dripping pussy to my nipples and back, I trembled like I had been left naked in a snow drift. My pussy began to clench around Otis’ cock. I bit into my lip, and after a few seconds, began to release an orgasm from the absolute depth of whatever hell the big one’s come from. I released my lip and moaned like a wolf howling at the moon. “You noisy little bitch. Let her go, Alan,” Otis hollered. “Turn around Sam,” Otis demanded. Oh well, fuck it. As Alan released my shoulders, I stood from the bench, pulled my dress from my shoulders, and tossed it into the grass beside the bench. As a few distant voices added to the excitement of it all, I waited for my instructions. “Knees,” Otis said as he pointed at the ground in front of him. I lowered myself to the ground and began to squeeze my tits in my hands. “Grab her head and force her to suck my cock,” Otis bellowed. Fuck yes. I love it. “I uhhm, I…” Alan stammered. “Grab her fucking head and shove my cock down her throat,” Otis growled as he stood in front of me stroking his shiny stiff cock. As I felt Alan’s hands against the back of my head, I resisted, pushing with all my might against him. This, over and above all, excited me greatly. The thought of a stranger making me suck Otis cock was beyond sensual. A word to describe what I felt in anticipation of what was going to happen hadn’t even been invented yet. As Alan’s hands pressed against the back of my head, I glanced upward toward Otis. He gazed down at me, grinned, and interlocked his fingers. I opened my mouth further as he raised his arms and positioned his hands behind his head, arching his back as he did so. Still wanting to resist, but with his twitching cock now forced into my face, I leaned forward slightly. I desperately wanted Otis’ cock in my mouth. As he pushed forward, forcing the tip past my lips, I eagerly accepted it into my wet mouth. To

make the situation work out to both Otis’ and my advantage, I pushed myself, swallowing almost every inch of his length, held it for a few seconds, and pulled my head back quickly, falsely gasping for air as I did so. As soon as my mouth released the tip of his cock, I glanced upward, knowing full well he’d take care of Alan. “God damn you, Alan. Make her deep throat my cock. You fuck this up, and I’ll beat you senseless,” Otis barked. Voices along the path became more and more distinct. As they became close enough to understand what they were saying, Alan’s hand grabbed my hair and began forcing me onto Otis cock like a jackhammer. Truly gagging and coughing slobber from my mouth as Alan shoved my throat full of cock, my eyes began to water. As slobber dripped from my mouth and along the shaft of Otis’ dick, I reached up and cupped his soaked balls in my hand. As I rubbed and played with his slippery balls, I closed my eyes and became lost in the smell, sounds of voices, and Alan’s incessant slamming of my head onto Otis’ cock. With his cock deep in my throat, I felt as if I was going to either puke or die from lack of oxygen. I released his balls and slapped my hands against his thighs, hoping for a little relief. As I prepared to pass out, Otis pulled his cock from my mouth. I gasped for air and opened my eyes at the same time Otis barked out his final order. “Hold her head still,” he grunted as he stroked his fat cock. Within a matter of seconds, much to my complete satisfaction, Otis began to cum all over my face, tits, stomach, and mouth. As the warm cum droplets landed against my face, I reached for my pussy, moaning with pleasure. When he finally stopped ejaculating and stood still, I moaned a moan of newfound pleasure. With my fingers knuckle deep in my pussy, I extended my tongue and licked what cum from my face I was able to reach. Otis chuckled. “Thanks for your help.” “Sorry about the threats. It just kind of added to the excitement,” Otis explained as he pulled his pants up. I stood and took the few steps to my dress. After picking it up from the grass, I turned the inside of it outward and wiped the cum from my face. As Alan quietly walked away shaking his head, I got dressed and turned toward Otis. “Enjoy yourself?” he asked, smiling from ear to ear. “Best fucking date ever,” I responded, grinning from ear to ear.

He nodded his head as he buckled his belt. “Feel the same way.” And, as fucked up as most people would see it, and as few would believe it if ever told the story, the sexual adventures of our night were absolutely perfect. And I couldn’t wait to see what Otis dreamed up for our next date.



OTIS The exposure of Gunner as an ATF agent left me feeling as if the club needed to remain as it was from a membership standpoint, and never add anyone else. Knowing that was not only impossible, but certainly not in the club’s interest, I tried to wrap my mind around a better process of accepting prospects into the club. Cash had prospected for a year, and although I vouched for him to be accepted as a prospect, adding him to the ranks of Sinners seemed risky and potentially threatening. For the last year, I had supported Cash, his foolish behavior, and his childish antics. His constant discussions with outsiders regarding club business - often bragging about what was done and who was involved - had caused several meetings to be held between Axton and me regarding a means of forcing him to adhere to the code of silence. His patch in party was being held, and for lack of a better place to have a pig roast, the club voted to have the party at Cash’s home in the country and not at Tater’s farm as usual. The home Cash lived in had several acres of grass behind the home, and no farm animals. Tater’s home was an actual farm, and had livestock close to the home, making the smell of livestock – especially his pigs – a part of the party. Mentally struggling with adding anyone to the club, I dismissed my thoughts as nervous inconsistencies based on Gunner’s not having refused to testify to the Federal Grand Jury yet. His lack of adhering to his end of the agreement had me on edge and worried about the potential incarceration of not only me, but of every member of the club. As I sat on my bike contemplating what to do regarding Gunner, Sam walked out of the house and onto the porch. Dressed in jeans, Converse sneakers, and a short sleeved button down Harley-Davidson shirt, she looked adorable as she twisted her hair into a ponytail. “Ready,” she hollered as she released her ponytail. “Well get on,” I said sarcastically as I pressed the start button. After she was secure on the back of the bike and had her glasses on, I sped out of the driveway and down the winding road that led from her neighborhood. The ride from Wichita to Winfield typically took forty minutes, and although I had no real recollection of the trip from her mother’s house to Cash’s, our arrival at 7:00 indicated I had made the trip in a little less than thirty minutes. Bikes were parked in front of the garage, beside the driveway on both sides, and throughout the entire front yard. Counting them would have been impossible, but an educated guess would have been close to sixty motorcycles and several cages. As I slowly rolled into the driveway, cautious of the bikes parked on either side, I was a little embarrassed of my late arrival and the way I was feeling about adding Cash to the club. “There’s a lot of people here. Wow,” Sam said as we came to a stop in the drive.

As I positioned the bike beside one I didn’t recognize, I began once again to feel uneasy about the event. Being nervous about anything wasn’t typical for me, and considering everything about the night was making me feel ill, my soul searching for what was in the club’s best interest simply made matters worse. “Well, let’s go back there and mingle,” I said as I swung the kickstand into place. “Are we late?” she asked as she stepped off the back of the bike. “Kind of,” I said as I locked the ignition of the bike. “Should have got here at 6:00 with everyone else, patch in’s at 7:00,” I said flatly. “You didn’t get to my house until 6:30. That’s what time you said to be ready,” she said. “I know, Sam. I know. I’m not feeling this,” I said as we slowly walked up the drive. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I glanced over my shoulder and studied her as we walked. I loved her dearly, and the thought of losing her again was incomprehensible. My position on life, the club, being in a relationship, and being in love had changed in the last month and I felt I needed to do whatever was within my power to preserve the things I loved and held sacred. Keeping the club from harm was my top priority, and doing so also kept Sam and me safe and in a solid relationship. I shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing’s wrong. There’s going to be a hundred or so people back here. It might be a little overwhelming. I’ll apologize in advance, but I’m going to be tied up with the fellas until the patch in is over. Just mingle with Syd and Avery for a bit, okay?” She smiled and nodded her head. “Okay.” As we came around the back side of the house, it was clear the party was well underway. The sheer size of the crowd was staggering. The music blaring the unmistakable beats of the Black Keys, kegs of beer in trash cans scattered about, several long tables surrounded by folding chairs - mostly occupied by Ol’ Ladies - and more cuts than I could count wandering about added to my level of frustration. “God damn, the VP made it,” Axton hollered over his shoulder from the circle of men surrounding him. Several of the Ol’ Ladies, including Sydney, Avery - and to my surprise - Biscuit’s newfound playmate Kat, were gathered at the corner of the garage. “Sam!” Sydney shouted from behind us. Sam glanced in my direction and held her gaze as she waited for my instructions on what she should do.

“Just go have fun. I’ll be a while with this deal. I’ll find you in a bit, okay?” I said. “Love you,” she said with a smile. “Same, Sam. Love you too,” I said as I leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Oh wow. I didn’t know we could kiss at these things,” she said. I rolled my eyes and tossed my head toward the girls. “Go.” I turned around and walked toward Axton, who was surrounded by Biscuit, Toad, and a few other men who were wearing cuts that I didn’t immediately recognize. As I approached, Axton stepped back and opened his arms. “Better late than not at all,” he said as he slapped his hand against my back. “Knock you off a piece of ass in the produce aisle at the grocery store?” Biscuit chuckled as he wrapped his arms around me. I slapped my hand against his back and shook my head. “No, just running late, Brother.” As I hugged Toad, he whispered into my ear. “Everything alright, Brother?” I broke the hug and nodded my head. “I’m good.” But I wasn’t. “Otis, need you to meet a few fellas from the Fire and Iron MC. Big fucker here’s Doc. Doc, this is our VP, Otis,” Axton said as he pointed to a man wearing a cut who stood beside him. Barely an inch or so shorter than me, and covered in tattoos to one wrist and to his elbow on the other arm, the man had a certain presence to him that supported his I don’t take shit from anyone posture. As he stood stone-faced and shook my hand, I studied his cut. President. “He’s the president of the Wichita chapter of the MC we rode down to Texas about. And this fella here could give Biscuit a run for his money on telling stories. Teddy, this is Otis,” Axton said as he tilted his head toward a barrel-chested monster of a man with a full beard and black curly hair. “Pleasure to meet ya,” Teddy said as he extended his hand. His hand engulfed mine as he shook my hand in his. I glanced down, shocked at the size of his hands. As he released my grip, I made note of his sausage-sized fingers and huge hands. My guess, based on the condition of his knuckles, was that he was the club brawler. “Likewise,” I said.

“We was just talkin’ about that fuckin’ A-Train gettin’ your Sergeant-at-Arms shot. Gotta keep your eye on that God damned A-Train, he’s a hot-head,” Teddy said with a laugh. “Seemed like a pretty solid fella,” I responded. “Oh he’s solid as fourteen motherfuckers, but he’s a hot-head. We had to ship his ass down to Texas just to keep him from killin’ everybody that pissed him off. I’m just glad ol’ Toad here ain’t pushin’ up daisies,” he said as he wrapped his arm around Toad’s shoulder. “Toad’s a tough fucker, and a little of a hot-head himself,” I said as I slapped Toad’s bicep with the back of my hand. “Fuckin’ Marines,” Teddy said. “So, are the fellas from Texas going to make it?” I asked. Doc shook his head from side-to-side. “The entire state was flooded a week ago from all of the rain they got. Hell, Obama declared it a Federal emergency. Our Texas chapter assembled and is doing work for charity. The boxer’s donating a bunch of money and all of their time to help clean up the mess, so they won’t be here.” I pressed my hands into my hips and sighed, remembering the news segment on the flooding. “Yeah, I heard about that. Fucking highways were under water.” “Well, I hate to break up this little party, but we’ve got to get this kid patched in. It’ll just take fifteen minutes or so, then we’ll all get back together and solve the world’s problems. Sound good?” Axton asked. “Nice seein’ ya again, Slice,” Teddy said. “Slice,” Doc said with a nod. Axton shook Doc’s hand and turned around to face me. “You straight,” Axton asked. I nodded my head. “Just worried about the club.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Anything serious?” I shook my head. “Nothing you aren’t aware of.” I knew Axton had very little use for Cash. Although the bylaws required a vote by all members in the club to allow Cash to be patched in, I’d never seen anyone denied their patch after prospecting, and I didn’t suspect Cash would be any different in Axton’s eyes than any of the other half-assed members we’d allowed into the club in the past, Gunner included.

“Well, let me get this microphone and make an announcement,” Axton said. I raised my hands to my temples and nodded my head as I began to rub my fingers against the sides of my head. Axton walked to where the speakers were positioned behind the house. Between the speakers, an amplifier, stereo equipment, and a microphone sat on top of a table. As I made eye contact with Sam, I tossed my head toward Axton and raised my right index finger to my lips. She nodded her head in acknowledgement. “Listen up!” Axton’s voice blared over the sound system. “I need complete silence, people,” he said as he raised his free hand in the air. After a half-minute wait, the sound from the large crowd was down to a dull roar. “I appreciate everyone coming to celebrate a prospect being patched into our club,” Axton said into the microphone. “Cash had been a hang around with the club for about six months before becoming a prospect, and although it’s been a rough twelve months for all of us, his year of prospecting is finally over…” Miscellaneous whoops and shouts came from the crowd as Axton paused. “So we’re here to witness this event, and watch him ride a moped around the fucking yard while he wears a shock collar around his skinny little neck,” Axton said as he raised the remote control for the shock collar into the air. Again, Axton paused, allowing several shouts from the crowd to be heard by everyone. “So, without further ado, we’ll get back to it. Todd Parker, known by the club as Cash, has fulfilled his requirement of prospecting for twelve months. All patched in Selected Sinners in favor of his advancement into the club and acceptance as a fully patched member respond in the form of aye,” Axton said into the microphone. The crowd erupted into a universal “Aye.” Axton nodded his head. “Requires a one hundred percent vote to be a Sinner, any opposed respond in the form of nay,” he shouted. I glanced around the crowd. Silence. As Axton lifted the microphone to his mouth, I fixed my eyes on Sam, sighed, and raised my hand.

“Nay,” the word barely escaped my mouth. “Well, it appears…” Axton began, clearly not having heard me. “Nay!” I shouted. Axton lowered the microphone and shifted his eyes to meet mine. “Do I have one opposed?” Axton asked as he scanned the crowd. I nodded my head. “Yes you do. My vote is nay.” Cash, standing twenty or so feet from me with his arms folded in front of his chest, dropped his hands to his sides as his eyes widened. “Is this a joke?” he hollered. I shook my head. “Are you fucking kidding?” he shouted. I glanced at Sam, shifted my eyes toward Cash, and shook my head again. As he walked in my direction, he began to express his displeasure of my vote. “I’ve been living in hell for twelve fucking months for this. I washed bikes. I got cigarettes. I cleaned the shop. I got in fucking fights with people I don’t even know for no reason other than a patch told me to. This is fucking bullshit, and I say your vote doesn’t count, Otis. I’ve…” I shifted my feet to the side slightly and widened my stance. As he continued to approach me, I raised my hands in front of my chest and clenched my fists. “You see, that’s the problem. You have no respect, no tact, and no regard for authority or anyone who’s your senior. Keep walking this direction all puffed up like that and I’ll knock your little ass out,” I growled. He slowed his walk, but continued to advance in my direction slowly. “I’m not fucking around, little man,” I said. As he continued to walk in my direction, Axton dropped the microphone and began to walk toward us, more than likely to intercept him before he got hurt. With Toad and Biscuit standing slightly behind me telling me to take it easy, Cash continued to nonchalantly walk closer and closer, his chest thrust forward and his shoulders rolled back as if he was prepared to fight.

“You’re a cocksucking prick,” he said as he stepped almost close enough for me to punch. “Don’t take another step, Cash,” I seethed. “And...” he said as he took the last step separating us. I swiveled my hips and swung a right uppercut into his jaw. No differently than I would have guessed, the punch lifted him from his feet and sent him into a pile of motionless flesh a few feet behind where he was standing. As he was now clearly unconscious and in no need of more, I took a step back and sighed as I rubbed my knuckles. “Didn’t see that coming,” Axton said. “Neither did he,” I responded. “No, the vote in opposition; good looking out,” he said as he lifted Cash’s shoulders from the ground. Sam, now standing behind Axton as he raised Cash to his feet, stood with wide eyes and a worried face. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine. Guess the party’s over,” I said. Although I felt my vote against Cash’s acceptance into the club was in my - and the Sinners - best interest, it didn’t make me feel any better. Having Cash disrespect me afterward by calling me a cocksucker wasn’t totally unexpected, but I didn’t anticipate it either. Now feeling like I’d ruined a long awaited party, I stared down at the toes of my boots and wondered what the remainder of the night would bring. I watched as Axton helped Cash into the back door of the house, followed by Cash’s wife. After they disappeared into the house, Axton emerged and walked our direction. As soon as it was clear he was coming to where we stood, I fixed my eyes on Sam and tilted my head to the side. “Go back over with Syd and Avery for a bit, Sam. I’ll come over there here in a few, okay?” I said. Sam was no stranger to seeing me fight. In her presence over the years we were together, she had seen me in no less than a dozen fights, maybe more. Without so much as an ounce of argument, she slowly turned around and walked away. “God damn, Otis. So was that why you were late? Pondering your decision?” Axton asked as he stepped in front of us. “No, just wasn’t looking forward to saying it, I guess. Hell, I knew all along – or at least for the last few months anyway – that I didn’t like his arrogance and attitude, but the deal with Gunner sealed it for me,” I said. “We don’t need anybody in this club that isn’t a hundred percent.”

Axton pursed his lips and studied me for a moment. “Agreed,” he breathed. “Otis, help!” a voice screamed from my left. I spun toward the voice. Cash’s wife Karen stood on the back porch waving her arms and blubbering. “Help, he’s…” she shouted as she pointed toward the door. I began swiftly walking toward the house as Axton, Toad and Biscuit followed. Upon reaching Karen, her blubbering, crying and waving her arms did little to let us know what was going on. After pulling the door open and pointing inside, she covered her face with her hands. After an audible sigh, she pulled her hands away from her face and exposed her quivering lip. “In…the…kitchen,” she sobbed. “He’s got…a…gun.” I glanced at Axton, uncertain of whether or not to proceed. As Axton took a deep breath, Toad shoved me to the side, pushed his way past Axton, and stepped into the house. As he quickly disappeared to my left, I yanked the door to the side and ran inside the house. “God damn it Toad, no!” I shouted, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to try and take the weapon from Cash. Toad couldn’t stand to be shot again, and although I was sure he knew it, his pride and eagerness to resolve problems wouldn’t prevent him from exposing himself to harm. As I followed immediately behind Toad, Axton and Biscuit were right behind me. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Toad stopped in his tracks and held his hand to his side, instructing me to stop. Cash stood in the center of the kitchen, holding a pistol in his hand, and pointing it at his temple. “Ain’t got nothing to say to you, Toad. I want to talk to Otis,” Cash said in a surprisingly calm voice. “Put the gun down, Cash,” Axton said as he stepped beside me. Cash chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry Slice. Don’t want to talk to you, either.” “Why?” he said as he turned my direction. I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing exactly what to say, considering all things. “You had to have a reason,” he said. I nodded my head and swallowed the lump that was quickly rising in my throat.

Still holding the pistol to his temple, he widened his eyes. “What was it?” “You weren’t ready. Put the gun down and we’ll discuss it,” I said as I raised both my hand into the air, hoping to comfort him that I wasn’t trying to be a threat. He shook his head. “Not ready? The year just wasn’t enough for you, huh?” “That’s not it. Hell, Cash, this is just proof. Hell, you’re in the kitchen threatening suicide. How stable does that make you?” I asked. “Cash please,” his wife wept. His eyes widened as he tilted his head slightly to the side and fixed his gaze on me. “Not very,” he said. The repercussion from the weapon firing exploded into the room. The deafening sound, dulled slightly from the bodies surrounding him, pushed painfully into my ears. As the acrid taste of cordite filled the air, Karen screamed, and Cash fell to the floor. “Oh my God, no! Call an ambulance,” she screamed. I clenched my jaw muscles and turned my head toward the doorway behind me. No need for an ambulance. He was dead before he hit the floor.

SAM Cash’s suicide at the party had hit me pretty hard. The local police interviewing Otis, Axton, and the rest of the people who were in the house made me feel extremely uneasy. Although I hadn’t second guessed my decision to be in a relationship with Otis, two suicides, a random shooting, and a bank robbery over the course of six months caused me to wonder just what the future might bring. Otis didn’t seem to be too troubled by the suicide. I realized we all deal with death and loss in a

different manner, but he seemed to be more concerned with the welfare of Cash’s wife than the fact Cash had committed suicide. He went on to explain how he felt no guilt whatsoever regarding the death, and that Cash shooting himself was further proof that his decision to oppose Cash’s acceptance into to club was warranted. Cash’s inability to handle the day-to-day pressures of being in the club, Otis made clear, was proven by committing suicide. I didn’t necessarily disagree with anything he had said. It didn’t, however, make the entire thing any more acceptable to me as being just another day in the life of a Sinner’s Ol’ Lady. I stared into the back yard wishing for a normal life and far less drama. Two cups of coffee into my morning and I felt half sick. I pushed my cup to the center of the table and held my hand a few inches over the top of the table and attempted to steady it. As I watched it shaking no differently than if I was a recovering crack addict, I wondered if something might be wrong with me, or if my nerves were continuing to get the best of me. My otherwise drama free life of the last fourteen years had been filled with the death of my mother, a suicide, and my knowledge of the other than legitimate activities of an outlaw motorcycle club. On the upside, I guessed, I had reunited with the man I so dearly loved, enjoyed time with his parent’s, and made friends with two women who I suspected would be friends for life. Hesitant to naturally accept the events of the last month as being part of my preferred way of living life, I found it much easier accepting them as being an extension of Otis’ life, and therefore a part of my life with him. As I sat there feeling significantly more satisfied about it than I had felt earlier in the morning, I stared at the cup of coffee, almost repulsed by the smell of it. After deciding I was on the verge of worrying myself sick again, I decided to dump the remaining coffee in the sink and make something to eat. The aroma of the warm coffee as I dumped it into the sink caused me to gag, and within a moment’s time I was running to the bathroom. I dropped to the knees, vomiting into the toilet and onto the floor as I attempted to position myself over the stool. Feeling as if something was undoubtedly wrong with my digestive system or my nerves, I proceeded to vomit the two cups of morning coffee I had just finished drinking. After being convinced I was done with the spectacle, I stood from the floor and cleaned my face in the sink. As I brushed my teeth, Taylor announced her concerns. “Meow.” Still brushing my teeth, I turned to face her and shrugged my shoulders. “Meow.” I rinsed my mouth and turned around. “I know. I’ve got to get a handle on these nerves.” “Meow.”

I stared blankly at her, still feeling queasy. As I studied her, my mind filled with many thoughts not all of which were on my list of preferred reasons for my recent bouts of sickness. I extended my shaking hand, thought of what day I had arrived in Kansas, and began to count weeks, days, and events on my fingers. After counting and recounting, I bit my quivering lip and walked to the kitchen. After opening my purse and staring into it for a long moment, my head began to spin again. This can’t be. I recounted the days on my fingers and stared down at the floor. “Meow.” “Shhh, I’m thinking.” There’s no way. “Meow.” I clutched my purse in my hand and stumbled blindly toward the door. If my math was correct, I’d need to do something quickly and without anyone knowing about it. Having Otis in my life was the best thing to ever happen to me. And I wasn’t about to chance losing him. Not again.



OTIS Axton looked up from his ledger and closed the cover. I had sat quietly as he finished reciting his account of the patch in party into the book. A creature of habit, and a methodical one at that, Axton kept track of all of the major highlights of his life as a Sinner, and did so in writing for future reference. More than ten years of activities, stories, events, and strange happenings were explained in detail in the many leather bound books, but only in a manner that made sense to Axton. Some might call him paranoid, others would describe him as cautious, and a select few believed he was nothing short of a genius. Me? He was just Axton, the president of the club. “Kind of nice having Sam around again,” he said as he slid the book to his side. “Real nice,” I responded. “So, Avery says she’s moving back?” he asked as he stood. I widened my eyes in acknowledgement as I lifted the bottle of beer to my lips. After a long drink, I stood from my seat and turned to face the door. “Yeah. Probably go help her get her shit loaded into a truck; might take the Toad and Biscuit with me. They don’t know it yet,” I said over my shoulder as I opened the office door. “If you’re getting another, be sure and leave that stinking motherfucker in the shop,” Axton said as I walked into the hallway. No shit. I tossed the empty beer into the trash can and walked to the fridge. After pulled two more bottles from the shelf and opening one, I turned toward the hallway and lifted the bottle to my mouth. As I walked to the office, I took a slow drink of the cold beer and thought of my future with Sam, and just what it might include long term. Although she and I hadn’t spoken about it, I suspected as soon as she returned we’d end up living together. Something I hadn’t given a moment’s thought to in the last decade and a half, I now felt almost obligated to do so – allowing us to become as close to a conventional couple as I was able. Axton sat at the table reading from the ledger as I walked in, but closed the book and shoved it aside as I sat down. “Everything in there that needs to be,” I asked. He nodded his head and patted his hand on the top of the book, “Looks like it. Just making sure I had everything. Everything alright?”

“Yep. Golden.” “Well, reason I’m asking is you’re two-fisting the beers tonight and it’s mid-fucking-week. Just wondering if everything in your world’s good,” he asked as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the edge of the table. “It’s not your fault, you know,” he said. I rolled my eyes as the corner of my mouth curled into a smirk. “Oh shit, I’m not worried about that.” “Tell you what I told Sam. That fucker shooting himself provided support of my thoughts that he wasn’t going to be able to handle being a Sinner. He was weak,” I said as I tilted the neck of my beer bottle toward him. “Don’t disagree,” he said. I gazed down at my bottle of beer as I spoke, wondering if what I was going to say would make as much sense coming out of my mouth as it did rattling around in my head. “I think Gunner and the entire ATF thing might have made me a little more cautious about who we let in this club, Ax. It’s our club you know. It’s our fucking responsibility to keep it…well…you know what I mean. This place, this club, it’s my family. And it isn’t everyone that gets to pick who’s in their family. The fact we get to should mean we’ve got nothing but a good solid bunch of brothers.” He leaned away from the table and crossed his arms. “Two weeks ago, I would have bet folding money we had the best bunch of hand-picked fellas in existence. Now, I’m pretty sure we’ve got it whittled down to where it needs to be. And I’ve got to agree with you on Gunner, I’m still nervous about that.” I picked up my bottle of beer, took a slow drink, and gazed his direction as I let the bottle dangle from my thumb and forefinger. His eyes widened slightly as he cleared his throat. “So, something’s eating at you. What’s going on?” he asked. “Do you love Avery?” I asked as I gazed down at the bottle dangling from my fingers. He coughed a laugh and slapped his hand lightly against the table. “What the fuck does that have to do with the price of rice in China?” he asked. I lifted the bottle toward my lips, paused, and allowed it to dangle beside in front of my mouth. “Come on, Ax. We ain’t sitting here Slice and Otis. This is Steve and Axton from back in the day the same two motherfuckers who used to walk to school together every day and have rock kicking contests

on the way. Do you love her?” I asked over the top of the bottle. “That’s a good question. I ought to come back and ask you to define love, but…” He paused as he began to rock back and forth in his chair. “I do love her. May not be in the same way you love you mother and father, but it’s love, that’s for sure. Hard for me to explain, brother,” he said. As I exhaled and leaned forward, he raised his index finger in the air to stop me from speaking. “Here’s the deal. I can’t fucking imagine, no matter how hard I try – and believe me, I’ve tried – living life without her in it. This stays right here,” he said as he pointed his finger back and forth between us. “No shit?” I asked. He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. As his mouth curled into the first smile I’d seen on his face in quite some time, he began to speak. “Just making sure we were on the same page. But I’ll tell ya, if that girl ever left me? Shit. Not only would I be done with women, I’m afraid I’d be done living life altogether. Just watching her walk around the house satisfies the absolute fuck out of me. I keep waiting for her to do something stupid, and the day never comes. She keeps me young, keeps me happy, and makes me think twice about most of the decisions I’d have never even thought about a year ago. It’s love for sure, but it’s hard to explain, brother. Hard to explain.” “Well, you just did a pretty good job of it. Makes sense to me, anyway. I never really talked about how I felt, except you know how I used to feel. Far as I can figure, I never fell out of love with Sam. You know, you and I been single for fucking ever until now. Most 1%ers have half a dozen bitches they’re fucking. You and me? Shit, for the last ten years we ain’t had one bitch on our arm. Been telling you and even telling myself I couldn’t trust ‘em. Well, being honest about it, I’d compared every bitch who even looked at me to Sam. Nobody measured up. And now? Come to find out she’s been single for the last ten years or so, and she’s felt the same way. It’s like destiny or some shit,” I said. He raised one eyebrow and forced a cough. “Destiny?” I finished my beer, opened the second bottle and took a sip. I cupped my hands around the cold glass, hesitated, and then raised my cool hands to my cheeks. “Yeah. Destiny,” I grinned. “You goofy son-of-a-bitch. You’re in love like a fucking teenager. Look at you. God damn, never thought I’d see it,” he said as he leaned forward. I lowered my hands from my cheeks, realized what I had done, and shrugged my shoulders. “You know, about you two being apart for so long,” he said as he raised his right hand to his chin.

As he rubbed his chin in his palm, he continued. “Being inseparable doesn’t define true love. Being separated and having nothing change between you, however, does.” I nodded my head and thought for a long moment without responding. I truly liked what he had said, and I felt it applied to Sam and me without question. “Hell, there’s nothing wrong with being in love. The right woman will make a man a better person. Finding her is the tough part. In this case, you didn’t have to find her. Nothing changed between you two and all you had to do was admit it,” he said as he turned his palms upward. “Something like that. I really wanted to make sure you were okay with everything, me being tied down with an Ol’ Lady and all,” I said. He laughed out loud for a second and nodded his head. “I’m fine with it, brother. Like I said, the right woman will make you better. For you, finding the right one would have been extra tough. It ain’t every woman who’ll let a man fuck her in in-school detention when there are three other kids in there,” he said with a laugh. I narrowed my gaze and wrinkled my nose. “You remembered that?” He shook his head as his eyes rolled back slightly. “Remember it? Hell Otis, for us normal motherfuckers, it’s hard to forget shit like that. Yeah, I remembered it. Every kid in school probably does too. I’m guessing she’s still that way?” I thought of the night in the botanical gardens and began to laugh. “Just between you and me?” I asked. “In your own words, no shit,” he said as he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Fucked her in Botanica the other night. Got some kid who was wandering around to come hold her down on a concrete bench while I fucked her,” I said as I slapped the tips of my fingers against the table. “You’re fucking shittin’ me?” he gasped. I shook my head. “Nope.” “God damn, Otis. Just some fucking weirdo wandering through the fucking flower garden? You walk up to him and tell this poor fucker you need him to hold your Ol’ Lady down so you can pork her? Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “Kind of, yeah. Had to threaten him with an ass whippin’ to get him to do it,” I said. “God damn. Well, how’d it pan out? Did she like it?” he asked he shook his head in disbelief.

“Loved it. Hell, she can’t quit talking about it,” I responded. “Well, there you go. Like I said, it’s love. Fuck, you may be right brother, it’s probably that fucking thing you call destiny,” he said as he widened his eyes. “Might be,” I said as I stood from my seat. “So what did we learn from all this?” he asked as he stood. “Just wanting to let you know she’s going to be around, and make sure you were alright with it all,” I said as I lifted the bottle of beer to my mouth. “And if I wasn’t?” he asked. I drank the remaining beer, reached for the other empty, and walked to the door. As I reached for the handle, I glanced over my shoulder. “You probably don’t want to know,” I responded. He crossed his arms and swallowed heavily. “I think I already do,” he said. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. As I tossed the bottles into the trash, the sound of Axton’s distant voice filtered out into the shop. “Tell her I said hello…” Will do, Axton. Will do.



SAM Making life altering decisions without the assistance of or reassurance from others is difficult. Coping with the fallout of a tough decision is always easier if someone close to you helped you make it. The majority of my choices in adulthood were made while talking to my mother over the phone. No longer having that luxury forced me to look elsewhere for support, and luckily I didn’t have to look far. Having Sydney and Avery as friends was something I was truly grateful for, and the time had come for me to test their ability to stand up with me in the most trying of times. “Just let me finish before you guys start,” I said past my shaking lower lip. I felt surprisingly calm considering how I’d felt earlier. Feeling as if I was either far more comfortable with the decision that I expected myself to be, or I was simply in shock, I inhaled a shallow breath, clutched my purse, and exhaled. “I’m pregnant, and…” “Oh my God, congratulations!” Avery shouted. “This is so exciting,” Sydney said as she clapped her hands together. “Cambio and I have been talking and he was wanting to…” I raised my right hand in the air to stop them from continuing, and began to sob. After what seemed like several minutes of sobbing, I wiped my face free of the tears and attempted to catch my breath. “Sorry, I thought I was done crying,” I muttered as I glanced up. They both sat staring at me as if not knowing for sure what to say or why I was crying. It was obvious to me, and probably pretty obvious to them the tears were not tears of joy, but ugly tears. “This conversation stays here,” I said flatly. Both women grinned and shrugged their shoulders. “Okay?” “Yeah. No problem,” Sydney said. “I’m waiting,” Avery said as she turned her palms up. “I’m just going to cut right to it,” I said. Talk fast, Sam. Just say it. I bit the edge of my lower lip and spoke through my teeth. “I need to get an abortion.”

As I expected, both women’s eyes widened. Avery gasped no differently than if she’d witnessed a murder. Sydney covered her face with her hands and attempted to hide her feelings, but nothing could disguise them. Her face clearly said what her mouth did not. “Why?” Avery asked. “An abortion?” I nodded my head. “It’s the only answer.” I clutched my purse and continued. “I don’t know if you know it or not, but the entire reason we broke up before was over me wanting kids. He didn’t. He enjoys the freedom of being free. I do too. It doesn’t matter, if he finds out, he’ll either kill me or leave me. I know Otis. I can’t lose him. Not again.” “He doesn’t know?” Avery hissed as she folded her arms in front of her chest and thrust herself into the rear of the booth. I shook my head. “This isn’t easy. It really…” “Tell him,” Avery demanded. I pulled my purse to my chest and held it close. “I can’t. You don’t understand.” “You owe it to him,” she snapped back. I glanced at Sydney. With her face still contorted, clearly expressing horrific shock and sorrow, she attempted to cover it with her hands while she listened. I shifted my eyes toward Avery. “I need…I need him in my…in my life. I can’t live without…him. I love him,” I said as I fought back tears. “If you love him, tell him,” she begged. “You might be surprised.” “You might be surprised. If he didn’t kill me, he’d leave me for sure. He left me over the mere mention of kids. An actual child would send him running. Hell, you’d probably never see him again,” I explained. “You were what, twenty-one years old?” she asked. I nodded my head as I continued to hug my purse. “Sixteen years ago. People mature, things change. Tell him,” she said as she leaned forward, resting her arms on the edge of the table. “His mind hasn’t changed. I assure you. I’m sorry, I don’t want to argue. I just need support right now,” I said. Avery crossed her arms and settled against the back of the booth. I shifted my eyes to Sydney, who had finally uncovered her face and was wiping tears from her face.

“Uhhm, I could talk to…I was…” she muttered. She shook her head and cleared her throat as she wiped her eyes against the heels of her palms. “I think Cambio and I would be willing to adopt the baby. I’d have to talk to him, but let’s just go with it’s a yes, at least for now. I mean if you don’t want it for sure,” she murmured. I pushed my purse onto the edge of the table and shook my head. “We’re going the wrong direction. I’m not keeping this baby.” “Don’t kill it,” Sydney cried. “It’s not killing anything, Sydney. Really, it isn’t even a baby yet,” I snapped. She nodded her head as she began to cry. As she worked herself into a full blown sob, she covered her face with her hands and spoke through the gaps in her fingers. “Yes it is…” she blubbered. “It’s part of you…” she said. “And it’s part of…him.” She slid her hands against her face and attempted to wipe the tears away. “How about waiting?” I couldn’t believe my ears. I expected them to provide support - maybe not both of them - but at least one. I went into the bar with visions of one of them taking me to the abortion clinic, and holding my hand through it all, making me feel better about the decision. Afterward, it would be a secret the three of us shared, and took to our graves. Otis and I living happily ever after would stand as proof that the decision we made was the right choice, and the three of us would be reminded of it every day that he and I lived in our state of true love. I stood from my seat. Avery continued to sit in the booth, arms crossed, glaring at me. “So no support from either of you on this?” I asked as I clutched my purse tightly. Sydney stood. Avery glared. And I began to cry.

OTIS I hadn’t spoken with Sam in over twenty-four hours, and I had not seen her in person since the patch in party. Two trips to her mother’s house since the party produced nothing, and now she wasn’t answering texts or calls. I considered the death of Cash, and how it may have had an effect on her. Although she seemed to take the loss of her mother very well, Cash’s death may have been enough to cause her to go into a recession of sorts. Frustrated beyond compare and feeling quite helpless, I sat on bench in her mother’s back yard and waited. We had spent many a night in the backyard, and I always enjoyed the smell of the flowers. After Sam and I parted, the smell of any type of flowers always seemed to bring thoughts of her back to the forefront of my mind. Now, sitting amidst the very yard we grew up enjoying, I was feeling empty and heartbroken. Other than her going back to St. Louis and possibly having second thoughts of us remaining together, I could come up with no reason for her to be gone. As I glanced around the yard and made note of the changes her mother had made since I’d seen it last, I began to consider other possibilities. Kidnapping. Murder. Car wreck. Another relationship. Marriage. My mind began to spin in circles. I wondered if it was possible that the ATF had her in for questioning, but had no idea of how to find out if they did. After much thought, I decided I’d drive to wherever Gunner was and threaten him until he told me everything he knew. I gazed beyond the flowers, shrubbery and trees into the corner of the yard. The small yellow building her mother housed her tools in was still in the corner of the yard. As kids, we used to hide in the little shack and make out, often kissing for hours and hours, not necessarily knowing - or being afraid to go forward – with what the next step was. I cherished those days. The innocence of us both. Kissing until our jaws were tired, riding my bike home afterward, filled with a feeling that nothing or no one provided me since. After I’d get home, I’d lie in bed and rub my lips as I counted the hours until we’d be able to kiss her again. Loving Sam wasn’t a decision I made, it was something that simply happened. Even before I kissed her the first time, I knew. The affection I felt for her was even more apparent every time we were apart, as I would ache for her to return. When we were together, the pain would disappear, only to return again as soon as we separated.

After our first kiss nothing changed - except the level of pain I felt when we were apart. Being away from her after the first time we made love was nothing short of impossible, and we quickly became inseparable following the memorable event. We remained at each other’s sides until the end. I shifted my eyes from the shack to the yard and glanced around at the flowers as I stood. The yard was where we began our relationship, had our first kiss, and also where the relationship ended. As I stared blankly at the mixture of colors and the contrast of it all, I felt the irony in my standing in the yard once again, feeling as if something changed between us. Although I had no idea what caused the change, it hurt, and it hurt deeply. Loving someone has the ability to provide the greatest degree of pleasure or the deepest feeling of indescribable pain. Which you receive is determined by whether or not the same level of love you’re giving is returned. And right now, I was receiving nothing in return.

SAM The thought of losing Otis weighed heavy on my heart. My decision to have an abortion had been made, and I felt there was no other way to proceed living life without going through with it. Doing it without the support of someone else - as much as hated admitting it - was more difficult than I would have ever expected. I sat with my head in my hands and cried, knowing I was going to go through the pain, feelings of emptiness, and second guessing the decision entirely for the rest of my life. Alone. Being with Otis again provided me with the greatest gift I could have ever expected. Loving him, and not wondering if I was being loved in return – but knowing – elevated me onto a platform I had never had the previous luxury of being upon. From there I felt as if I looked down upon the other women in the world, knowing they would never have what I was so fortunate to possess. A man who naturally and without any effort – loved them in return – for the love they provided him. I wiped my eyes and gazed out the window with unfocused eyes. As my side on the console of the car sat the only other option I felt I had. A butcher knife. In the four days since I found out I was pregnant something in me changed. As much as I wanted to remain with Otis for the rest of my life, the thought of having the baby that was growing inside of me eliminated what was becoming more and more difficult to accept as being the right choice. If I wanted to stay with Otis, I knew it was the only choice, but it didn’t necessarily make it the right choice. Committing suicide initially seemed to be a far-fetched answer to a desperate cry for help. As time passed and the pain worsened, I felt it was a little more viable of an option. If I could develop the courage to do so, it would allow me to leave this world with my baby, with Otis still loving me, and me without a doubt continuing to love him. I wondered when they found me what they would think. If Avery and Sydney, after it was all over, would tell Otis what had happened, or if they would refrain from telling him, causing him to wonder if it was something he did, said, or didn’t do or say. Causing him pain wasn’t anything I wanted to do, but the pain I was feeling wasn’t anything I could continue to live with. Not for much longer. I closed my eyes and clutched my chest. The pain was almost unbearable. Continuing to live with the level of pain I was feeling would be impossible. I needed to do

something, and I needed to do it fast. The pain was smothering me. I closed my eyes and wished Otis was holding me in his arms. To feel his arms around me again would soothe the pain, and make everything better. I swallowed heavily, pressed my clenched fists against my chest, and clutched my purse. After a few minutes of rocking back and forth in the seat, nothing changed. I opened my eyes, glanced out the window, shifted my eyes to the console, and turned toward the window again. The pain continued to worsen. I glanced at the console and closed my eyes. For a long moment I allowed myself to drift off to a land where Otis and I ran through a field of flowers, holding our child’s hands in ours, laughing and loving each other as the flowers beat against our wrists. I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose. The unmistakable scent of lilac filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes and gazed at the knife. My decision was made.



OTIS “It could be a lot of things, brother. Don’t jump to conclusions. You know what I say about the word assume don’t you? Makes an ass of you and me,” Axton said as he turned toward the kitchen. “When’s she going to be here?” I huffed as I glanced at my watch. “Her and Toad’s Ol’ Lady are on their way back now. There probably at that little stretch of highway between Wichita and here where there’s no service. She’ll be here in a bit. Want one of her beers?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator. “Sure,” I said as I sat down. “Good news about Gunner though,” Axton said as he handed me a bottle of Red’s Apple Ale. I gazed at the bottle and shook my head. “Yeah. Hard to believe he’s going to spend thirteen months in the joint. Good for the club though.” “What’s hard to believe is that it happened so fast,” Axton said as he sat down across from me. I took a drink of the beer, winced from the taste, and stared down at the bottle. As I looked up, I began to explain what Gunner had told me. “He said he refused to testify, and they had a special hearing with a magistrate. In the hearing he said he’d misplaced a few crucial reports. He didn’t tell them they were crucial, but he said they would implicate us in a few things. Anyway, after the missing reports and his statement of no wrong doings on our part while under oath, they asked him to reconsider and gave him a few days to change his story. He went back in for the second hearing.” I paused and took another drink of the sweet ale. “And after he said the same thing, they threatened him with obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence. He waived his right to a jury trial, plead guilty, and they sentenced him the next day at what he called a bench trial as an example to other ATF agents. He said he’s got to surrender to US Marshals in about 30 days.” “And you say he showed you all of this on the computer?” Axton said. I nodded my head. “On the US Attorney’s official website. They list all crimes and sentencing there as a deterrent. Yeah, it’s right there. Lost his job, pension, everything…” “I guess everybody has a job to do, just wish his job didn’t include fucking with us,” Axton said as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth. I felt nervous and sick. It had been two days since we had spoken and four days since I’d seen her. No matter what was behind this, nothing good could come of it. No differently than any other Sinner, I refused to talk to anyone about my problems other than Axton. Admitting to the other men that I had a

problem or that I was in pain, especially as a result of a woman, would make me appear weak and incapable. I drank the remaining beer and pushed the bottle between my thighs. Going to Axton’s house wasn’t something I normally did, and for whatever reason, I had always perceived his home as being off limits. To him, it was a sacred place, and I realized that about him. Our discussions generally went on in the shop or office at the clubhouse, or some other remote location. Sitting in his chair and talking to him was another reminder of the fact that my life was in shambles. I felt like I was at a funeral of an uncle I didn’t know, and in a house I was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. “Yeah,” I said as I stood. “Where you want this?” I asked as I held the bottle at arm’s length. “Garage,” he said as he pointed to the garage door. As I opened the door to the garage, the unmistakable sound of a car in the driveway caught my attention. I tossed the bottle in the trash, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed another beer from the fridge. Eager to take my search to the next step, and hoping for a miracle, I walked into the living room and sat down. “Got another beer,” I said as I raised the bottle. Axton shook his head. “Take as many as you want, Brother.” Avery walked in through the front door, and although she could clearly see my bike in the driveway, did little to disguise her shock of seeing me in the living room. It was obvious to me either Axton had said something to her about my concerns – which I seriously doubted – or she knew something about Sam’s disappearance. As I anxiously waited for her to sit down, Axton stood and spoke. “Otis has some concerns about Sam. Want to come in and talk?” he asked. “Sure, Uhhm. Let me get a beer,” she responded. After getting a beer from the fridge, she came in the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor beside Axton’s chair. After taking a few sips from my beer as I studied her, I proceeded with caution. “When was the last time you talked to Sam?” I asked. “Been a few days, I suppose,” she said. “Do you remember the exact day?” I asked. She took a drink of beer, gazing at me over the top of the bottle as she did so. After lowering the bottle to her lap, she inhaled, exhaled, and took another drink.

“Day before yesterday,” she said. “Really? What time of day was it?” I asked. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Evening time. We all had a drink at the bar, her and Syd and me.” “Evening, huh? You sure it was the day before yesterday?” I asked as I tried to piece together a timeline. It would have been the day after I talked to Sam last, and if Avery’s recollection was correct, the fact Sam talked to her after talking to me - and had not talked to me since - bothered me. She stared blankly beyond me for a moment, shifted her focus to me, and responded. “Yeah, I’m sure,” she said. “What was going on?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she said. “We were just having a drink.” I rolled my eyes, feeling as if I was Jack’s attorney attempting to pry information from the ATF agent in court. After taking half of the bottle of beer in one gulp, I stood and began pacing the room. “Did she call you and want to get together?” I asked. “Yeah, she did,” she responded. I turned around, frustrated by the lack of information Avery was providing. As I stood and glared at her, I realized I hadn’t really explained the nature of my question asking session. After draining the remaining beer from the bottle, I sighed and continued. “Look, Sam’s missing. Nobody knows her more than I do, nobody, and this isn’t like her at all. You were the last one to talk to her, and anything you can say that’ll help me, I’d appreciate. What’d you guys talk about?” I asked. She uncrossed her legs and stood. Still holding the bottle in her hand, she folded her arms in front of her chest and studied me. “Look, she talked about a lot of things. I can’t really say,” she said flatly. “What do you mean you can’t say? She’s missing, Avery. Missing. I need to find her. Help me out,” I said. “Look,” she said as she turned toward Axton. She shifted her eyes to meet mine, held my gaze, and sighed. “If anyone knows and respects it, it

should be you two. She asked me not to say, and I’m not saying.” Axton stood from his seat and turned to face her, placing his arm on her shoulder as he did. “Anything you can say might help, anything at all,” he said. As she began to speak, her voice filled with emotion and began to falter. “And I can’t say anything. It’s no different…no different than either of you not…uhhm…not discussing club business with…you know…just anyone. You’re sworn to…uhhm…secrecy. Well, respect the fact…that I am too.” “Avery,” I began to beg. She waved her arms in front of her chest, sloshing beer onto the carpet as she did so. “No! Answer this, Otis. Did you tell anyone about me shooting those guys that night we got robbed in Mexican town?” I shook my head, clearly seeing where she was headed. “Nope.” “Alright then. And you didn’t because you’re sworn to secrecy. I told her I wouldn’t…” And she lost her composure and began to cry. As the lifted her hand to her face and began to wipe the tears, she turned away. Axton reached for her shoulder just as she stomped her foot. “God fucking damn you, Otis,” she shouted as her foot hit the floor. “God fucking damn you,” she repeated as he turned around. I clasped my palms together as if praying, “What? Did I do something? Come on, Avery.” She caught her breath, inhaled, and after a few seconds, exhaled loudly. As she nodded her head, my heart sank and the pit of my stomach felt like a stone had been dropped into it. “I can’t tell you where she is,” she said as she exhaled again. “Because I don’t know. And I uhhm…I can’t tell you what she said,” she said as she handed Axton her bottle of beer. As she rubbed her hands against the thighs of her jeans, she continued. “Because I said I wouldn’t.” “But if you know her like you say you do, maybe you’ll find her. If you were her.” She paused and inhaled sharply. “And you had a decision to make that no woman ever wants to have to fucking make.” She began to cry again and covered her face as she did. She removed her hands from her face and talked through the tears and sobbing. “And that decision, Otis, that fucking decision…”

“It’s got to do…it’s got to do with both of you. And she’s…she’s scared, Otis. She’s scared you’ll uhhm…scared you’ll leave her if you find out,” she blubbered. My mind raced in a million different directions. Confused and sick and tired of the games, lack of information, and angry with the fact Avery wouldn’t simply tell me what I needed to know, I searched my, mind for answers while she attempted to catch her breath. “Because you already…” she cried. “Left her once for it…” And I knew. “Motherfucker!” I shouted as I turned and stomped toward the door. “Otis,” Axton said. As I rode through the yard, over the curb, and into the street, I saw Axton hop on his bike. It didn’t matter, he had no idea where I was going, and there was no way he could ever catch me to find out.

OTIS I pulled my bike to the edge of the road and stopped, knowing it would never make it down the hill and to where I needed to go. The rest of the trip would be on foot. Although it was out of my view, I felt certain I was where I needed to be. I stepped over the seat of the bike, reached in my pocket, and grabbed my keys. As I stuck the key into the ignition and locked the bike, the brass keychain Ripp had given me in Austin hung from the key ring. His favorite saying inscribed on the brass disc, the words were something I had always felt, but hadn’t composed into the exact phrase he’d so carefully stamped into to the charm. I clenched it between my thumb and forefingers and rubbed my thumb against the center. After a quick prayer, I looked at the words, and hoped Ripp’s phrase was applicable today of all days. I Got This. Brother Ripp, I hope you’re right. I opened my saddle bag, pulled the bag from the inside, and placed the items in the two side pockets of my cut. After inhaling a nervous breath, I sighed, turned toward the hill, and began jogging down the path I had spent so many weekend nights walking along as a teen. When I reached the corner of the path that turned and led down to the river, I saw her car parked along the edge narrow dirt drive. Seeing it provided me hope and filled me with worry at the same time. I glanced toward the tree, and could see her slumped at the base. I inhaled a choppy breath, swallowed heavily, and exhaled. As I jumped over the edge and began running down the hill, three words continued to rattle around in my head. I. Got. This.

SAM I sat at the base of the tree with the butcher knife in my hand, praying for the strength to make the right decision. As much as I realized suicide wasn’t the most practical decision or the best for everyone with a similar circumstance, I felt it was my most logical choice. After having spent several hours attempting to develop the courage to proceed, I sat exhausted, clenching the knife. As time passed I became weary. Lacking sleep for several days, I knew if I could stay awake a little longer I may not develop the courage, but I would be able to proceed from lack of will to continue to fight myself. As I drifted off into an almost dream like state, I heard a motorcycle in the distance. Thoughts of Otis filled my mind. The sound seemed to grow closer and closer. Certain I was losing what little logic I had left, I smiled and glanced up toward the top of the hill. The sound stopped. Disappointed, I gazed at the top of the hill as I clutched the knife. After a period of time I was incapable of measuring, a figure appeared at the top of the hill. I stared, feeling as if it truly was a dream, and the figure was an angel – the answer to my problems hanging on her lips – sure to come as soon as she reached the bottom of the hill. I blinked. The figure began to come down the hill. As it grew closer, I realized it was either Otis, or I was losing my mind. As the distance narrowed, I knew it was either Otis or I had gone completely batty. Using what little strength I had left, I reached up and tossed the knife over my shoulder and into the tall weeds behind me. “Sam.” His voice was soft and soothing. I blinked my eyes and smiled. “Sam, are you alright?” he asked. I nodded my head and tried to stand. As I stood, my weak legs shook, almost causing me to fall. I realized as he reached out to support me I had been sitting for hours and my legs had fallen asleep. “Did you take something, Sam? Are you on anything?” he asked. I shook my head. “Legs fell asleep.” “What’s going on, Sam? Is there something you need to tell me?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, not knowing what to say. I loved him more than anything, and losing him was more than I could bear to imagine. “Sam. I love you. Whatever it is, no matter what it is, you and I will be fine. You need to know that. I mean it. No matter what,” he assured me as he held my shoulders in his hands. “But,” I said. I wanted to tell him. I desperately wanted to, but I couldn’t muster the courage. After studying him for a few moments, I pulled away, bent down, and picked up my purse. Clutching it tightly and holding it to my chest, I glanced up and I nodded my head. “Just say it, Sam. Whatever it is that’s got you worried,” he said. “I’m pregnant,” the words escaped my lips before I had a chance to stop them. Fearful, embarrassed, and waiting for the wrath of God to come down upon me, I clutched my purse and waited. “You sure?” he asked. I held my purse to my chest and nodded my head. “Good,” he said. “That’s what I was hoping.” I glanced up, and as hard as I tried, couldn’t fight back the tears. “You’re not…mad?” I sobbed. He shook his head as he reached into the side pockets of his cut. “Mad? No Sam, I’m not mad. I love you.” I sighed and continued to clutch my purse. As he dug in his pockets, he continued. “I’m not proud of it, but as a Sinner, I’ve played a part – a first-hand part – in seeing many lives leave this earth. Death has become a part of who I am, Sam. To think I could share something as special as bringing a life into this earth, and doing it with you?” He pulled two pieces of cloth from his cut. As he straightened the fabric and let it hang from his fingers, it was clear what they were. Standing in front of me, holding two rompers – one blue and one pink – he began to softly cry. “I didn’t know what color to get, so I got one of each,” he said. I released my grasp from my purse, reached inside, and pulled the pregnancy test out. As I held it up for him to see, he smiled.

“This just says I’m pregnant, it doesn’t give a sex,” I said as I began to cry again. “Either way, as long as you two are both healthy, I’ll be happy as fuck,” he said as he turned his head and wiped his tears on his shoulder. “How’d you know?” I blubbered. “I didn’t. I just hoped,” he responded. “So you want this?” I asked, wanting as much confirmation as possible. “More than anything,” he nodded. “How’d you know where I was?” “Really Sam? You lost your virginity at this tree. Damned thing’s been here as the biggest tree in the state for over a hundred years. We used to spend a lot of time here. This was our sacred tree. Meet me at the big tree. How many times did you hear that?” he asked. “Not near enough,” I sobbed as I put the pregnancy test back into my purse. He dropped the rompers beside where he stood and opened his arms. And, as the happiest woman in the world, I dropped my purse, embraced him in a hug, and held him in my arms. As we stood under our sacred tree and held each other, my heart filled with gratitude for Otis and for everything we shared as a couple. I guess the Sinners are right. The devil looks after his own.



EPILOGUE The small room, fitted with two chairs, one medical examination bed, and an Aplio 500 ultrasound machine had three occupants. A pregnant woman, lying on the examination bed, had her gown lifted to the bottom of her swollen breasts. The man, seated beside her and holding her hand in his, stared anxiously at the display screen. The Physician’s Assistant moved the wand carefully along the woman’s stomach as she gazed at the screen. “There’s the head,” she said as she touched a button on the keyboard, taking a still photo of the image. “And the legs. Hold on a minute and we’ll see if…” she said as she moved the wand up and down slightly. “This will be cold,” she said as she squirted lubricant onto the woman’s stomach. After repositioning the wand, pressing it into the bottom of the woman’s stomach, she gazed at the screen. “If you don’t want to know the sex, don’t look,” she said. “We do, Mrs. Buckly,” the woman responded as she glanced at the man as he nodded his head eagerly. “Call me Debi,” she said. “We do Debi,” they said in unison. “Well, see this?” she said as she motioned to the screen with her free hand. The man and woman nodded their heads. “Hips,” Debi said. “And this,” she said. “His penis.” “Boy?” the man said as he shifted his eyes from the screen to his wife. “He’s definitely a boy. No two ways about it.” Debi chuckled as she pressed the button to take another still image of the screen. “Sam?” the man said as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“We’re having a little boy,” He said. “I can’t wait to tell my parents.” His wife nodded her head as she gazed at the three dimensional depictions of her son on the screen. Down the hallway, on the other side of the entrance to the small clinic, four men stood anxiously talking. Dressed in jeans, boots, and leather vests adorned with the patch of the motorcycle club they represented, they stood out in clear contrast amongst the women in the lobby. After a few moments the large man with a beard turned, grasped the door handle, and opened the door slightly. “Can we come in?” he asked the receptionist seated a fifteen feet away at the admissions desk. After a moment with no response from the receptionist, he cleared his throat and repeated the question. “Hey you. Behind the desk. Can we come in?” he asked. She shook her head and forced a smile. “I’m sorry. The ultrasound area is reserved for the husband, wife, and the immediate family.” He turned toward the other three men. “Family only.” The tall muscular man with olive colored skin shrugged his shoulders. “Well open the fucking door, Biscuit. We’re her brothers.” The bearded man opened the door enough to fit his head between the door and the frame. “We’re her brothers,” he whispered. The receptionist peered through the opening and shook her head in disbelief. The three men, other than sharing the same taste in clothes, appeared to be from four different regions of the world. As she studied the men, the bearded man opened the door a little more, giving her an unobstructed view of the men standing behind him. She tapped her pencil against the desk as she studied the four men. “Brothers?” “And the name of your sister?” she asked. The bearded man turned around and consulted with his friends for a moment. After a short discussion, he turned toward the receptionist. “Steve and Sam Milner,” he responded. The receptionist shook her head. “I don’t know. We’re forced to adhere to the policy. Family only.” “Otis!” the bearded man screamed into the vacant corridor.

After a few seconds he screamed again. “Otis!” The man, still seated beside his wife, turned his head away from the monitor. “Did you hear someone scream my name?” he asked. His wife nodded and tilted her head toward the door. The man stood and opened the door slightly, peering through the crack and down the hallway as he did so. “What are we havin’?” the bearded man screamed. “Boy,” the man whispered in response. “What?” the bearded man shouted again. “Boy!” the man shouted. “A fucking boy? Did you say we’re havin’ a boy?” the bearded man hollered excitedly. “Yes,” the man whispered in response through the opening. The bearded man turned to face the other three men. “Pay up motherfuckers. We’ve got us a boy,” he said. As the bearded man turned toward the door once again, he opened it entirely and stood in the opening. The three men behind him each reached for their wallets. “We all wanna see him. Gal here won’t let us come down there. Tell her it’s okay,” he shouted. The man extended his raised index finger and turned to face the exam room. “Fellas are down there. They want to come in and see our baby boy,” he said. Debi turned to face the man as she furrowed her brow slightly. “I’m sorry, we can only allow family,” she said. The woman glanced up from the exam table and gazed at her leather vest hanging on the hook beside the door. On the back, a Selected Sinners patch with two ribbons, clearly stating her designation with the club. Property of Otis. “They’re my brothers,” the woman stated.

“How many?” Debi asked. “Here? Four,” the woman grinned in response. Debi nodded her head. “Have them come down. I’ll call the desk.” The man peered through the door and waved his arm toward the bearded man. “Come on down.” The bearded man swung the door open and waved toward the men standing anxiously behind him. “Come on fellas, uncle Biscuit’s having him a baby boy.” As the men stormed down the hallway, Debi gazed over her shoulder toward the pregnant woman. “So you have four brothers?” Debi asked. The pregnant woman glanced up at her leather vest and shook her head. “No,” she responded. “I have thirty-three.”



HUNG Scott Hildreth



DEDICATION To all cancer survivors, the less fortunate who gave everything only to find out sometimes everything isn’t enough, and to the families thereof. My Grandmother Billie Jean Hildreth, my aunt Gina Silor, and to Biker Becky. This one is for you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. HUNG 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Covert art by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth

BISCUIT Standing in the courtroom with a Sheriff’s officer on each side - my hands handcuffed, feet shackled, and the two tied together by an interconnecting chain - caused me to feel more like a serial killer than a common criminal. As I waited for the judge to enter the room, I alternated glances over each shoulder and studied the two officers. I raised my hands slightly, pulling the chain connecting my hands to my feet taught. Growing increasingly frustrated at the entire series of events leading up to my arrest, additional jailhouse punishment, and being shackled and chained, I began yanking against it repeatedly, causing it to rattle through the ring in the chain wrapped around my waist. “Any chance of gettin’ one of you fellas to take these fuckers off?” I asked as I gazed down at my shackles. “Not a chance,” bad cop responded. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’d quit fucking around with your restraints.” I stopped yanking on the chain and tilted my head to the left as I waited to see what good cop had to offer. The officer on my left shook his head and lightly chuckled. “After the shit you pulled this weekend, I don’t think so.” I lowered my forearms and shook my head. “I didn’t pull a god damned thing. The cock sucker tried to steal my fuckin’ cookie. Put yourself in my shoes, fellas. I look like Hannibal fuckin’ Lector here…” As I began to explain myself, the door in the rear of the courtroom opened and the judge walked

onto the elevated platform. An average looking gentleman roughly fifty years old with salt and pepper hair, he appeared to be a reasonable enough man. Hopefully he would see through the mile of shit the cops were certain to have placed out in front of him and have a little compassion for me. After quietly finding his seat and glancing down at the desk, he lifted his head and gazed in my direction. “This is a combination of an arraignment and the bond hearing for…” He paused and peered over the top of his glasses at the paper he held in his hands. “Dalton Biskette. Mr. Biskette, you have been charged with speeding, reckless endangerment, resisting arrest, and since your incarceration of Friday evening, two counts of jailhouse battery. Do you understand the charges?” he asked. “Yes, Sir,” I said. “Be it known the penalty for these charges is a maximum of five year’s imprisonment, a $250,000 fine, or both. How do you wish to plead?” he asked flatly. Five years for fuckin’ speeding? I swallowed heavily, even though I knew he was doing nothing more than trying to scare me. I decided trying to explain myself by using my wit and charm to the best of my ability - while trying to be respectful during the process - would be my best bet. “How do I wish to plead, your honor? I wish to plead not guilty, but I’m well aware that ain’t…I mean that isn’t going to do me much good. I guess I’d like to plead guilty to the speeding, and speak my peace on the rest of the charges. Can I do that?” I asked as I did my best to shrug my shoulders. He placed the paper on the desk, removed his glasses, and tilted his head to the side. “Absolutely.” As he clasped his hands together and provided what I was certain to be a sarcastic grin, I began to recite my best recollection of the events on Friday night. “Well, I was headed to a meeting, and I was runnin’ a little late. Kind of lost track of my speed, I guess. Next thing I knew, a cop was pulling me over. He uhhm. He had a little bit of an attitude; you know he seemed kind of mad about the whole speeding thing. Next thing I knew, there was about fifty cops screaming at me, and I was shot with a Taser. Unnecessarily, I might add, your honor…”

As I spoke, the judge appeared to be sorting through the paperwork on his desk. Before I had a chance to explain myself further, he raised his hand and interrupted me from continuing. “Officer Obie was unable to attend this hearing, and if his testimony proves necessary, we will reschedule. Are you aware, Mr. Biskette, the officer makes notes on his copy of the citation, providing his best explanation of the arrest and the events that led up to it?” he asked as he raised a beige piece of paper from the desk. “I guess not,” I said. He peered at the sheet of paper he held. “I have the officer’s report, and I quote,” he said. “At approximately 1933 hours, while stationary at the 7000 block of Kellogg, observed motorcycle approaching at a high rate of speed. Removed LIDAR 001-00200 and directed toward oncoming motorcycle. Speed clocked initially at 133 MPH. After resetting device, clocked motorcycle at 128 MPH. Chase ensued, and motorcycle stopped without attempting to evade. DL, proof of insurance and registration were provided without incident. Identified suspect as Dalton Biskette. Upon stating arrest was mandatory, Biskette became belligerent and noncompliant. After backup officers arrived, repeated attempts to handcuff the suspect proved unsuccessful. Tasers were drawn, and suspect became more belligerent, screaming expletives while threatening officers with harm and anal intercourse. Eventually Biskette was brought down with Tasers from myself, officers Bryant and Moses; handcuffed, and transported to Sedgwick County Jail.” He paused and lowered the paper to his desk. “First and foremost, explain to me the necessity to be traveling on an occupied highway, in the city, at speeds in excess of one hundred and thirty miles per hour.” I cleared my throat and responded truthfully. “I was late for a meeting,” I said. He chuckled lightly and met my gaze. “A meeting?” I nodded my head. “Yes, Sir.” “You were traveling to a meeting at 7:30 in the evening?” he asked. “Yes, Sir,” I responded.

He rested his hand on his chin and widened his eyes. “A meeting with whom?” “The President. Had it just been with one of the fellas, I wouldn’t have been goin’ so fast,” I explained. “As I doubt you were late to a meeting with Barrack Obama, I’ll ask that you explain further. The president of…” He paused as he turned his palms upward. “The club, your honor. The president of the club.” “Evasive, Mr. Biskette. You’re being evasive. It is part of the reason you’re here. Specifically, who were you going to meet at 7:30 in the evening?” he asked. “Slice. He’s the president of the motorcycle club,” I responded. “Slice? Does Slice have a name?” he asked. “I’m sure he does, your honor. It’s just that I’m not aware of what it might be. Slice is all I know,” I lied. The judge shook his head, exhaled, and eventually locked his eyes on mine. He sighed heavily as he began to dig through the paperwork on his desk. “You’re going to plead guilty to the speeding?” “Yes, Sir.” Without looking up, he continued. “And the reckless endangerment.” “For the weaving in and out of traffic, I’m guessing?” I asked. “That is correct,” he responded. “Guilty,” I said. “Resisting arrest?” he asked. I didn’t see much value in trying to explain how I had told officer Obie and Moses I was going to beat their asses and butt fuck them if they tried to cuff me. If the judge wasn’t going to bring it up, I figured it was in my best interest to just plead guilty and save a little embarrassment for us all.

“Cause I didn’t want ‘em to cuff me?” I asked. “That is also correct,” he said as he glanced up from his desk. “Guilty,” I responded. Motherfucker… This shit’s adding up quick. “Which brings us to the two incidents over the course of the weekend. Saturday, at the mid-day meal, you were observed beating another inmate to the point of unconsciousness. Would you care to explain?” he asked as he raised a white piece of paper from the desk. I gazed past the legs of my orange jumpsuit and focused on the little black jailhouse issued slipper shoes. After thinking for a long minute and exhaling all the air from my lungs, I glanced toward the judge and began to explain. “I was wore out from the whole Taser thing from the night before, and I was hungrier than hell. I missed breakfast ‘cause nobody bothered to wake me up, and I spent all mornin’ miserable. Later on they called us for lunch, and I followed everyone into the chow hall. I was minding my own business, just eatin’ my lunch, and some tatted up skinhead fella came and snatched the cookie off my tray and took a bite of it,” I explained. “Continue,” he said. “I smacked him, you honor.” “Smacked him? With your fist?” he asked. I shook my head. “No, Sir.” “The inmate, Mr. Biskette, is still in the hospital,” he said as he shifted his eyes to the paper he held. “A broken jaw, broken wrist, his skull is fractured, let’s see here…” He paused as he picked up another piece of paper and studied it. “It seems he has a concussion, and he’s missing four teeth. With what did you strike him?”

“My head, my elbows, and maybe a knee or two,” I responded. “Over a cookie?” he snapped back as he dropped the paperwork onto the desk. “That ain’t what this is about, no, Sir. It wasn’t about the cookie. It was about principle. The cookie wasn’t his, it was mine. And, while we’re here, I’d like to press charges on him for theft and the second fella I whipped for trespassing. He came in my cell without permission,” I responded. The judge shook his head. “Historically, we don’t charge inmates for battery, Mr. Biskette. Jailhouse fighting is a daily occurrence as is jailhouse theft. In this particular case, Mr. Biskette, I have no alternative but to charge you with battery, considering the degree of assault as well as the severity of the beatings you administered…” He narrowed his eyes and gazed at me as if frustrated. “I will not even address your ludicrous claims of self-defense or trespass. I had hopes you would be compliant, forthright, and willing to accept responsibility for your actions.” “I’ll plead guilty to everything except whippin’ them two fellas, your honor. I’ll fight those charges till the day I die. They needed a lesson in respect, and all I was doin’ was…” The judge raised his hand in the air. “Stop speaking, Mr. Biskette. Please. It isn’t your responsibility to teach anyone a lesson in anything, nor is there an allowance in the law for such acts. The laws are in place to protect people - even inmates in jail - from being assaulted. There are no such laws, however, allowing the administration of punishment to teach someone a lesson in respect. Consider yourself bound over for trial, and I’ll set the bond at $50,000. If you’re fortunate enough to have the means and methods to assemble $5,000, a bail bondsman may bail you out of jail under certain conditions and restrictions. And I will warn you, if there’s another incident of violence during your incarceration, or during your period of probation, I will see to it that charges are pressed. And you will be on probation until the hearing.” Fuck. Probation. Under the cop’s radar again. “Have you any further questions?” he asked. “If I pay the five grand, I forfeit it to the bondsman, is that correct?” I asked. “That is my understanding, yes,” he responded.

“And if I pay the entire fifty grand, all I got to do is show up to court, and they give all of it back?” I asked. “That is correct,” he responded. “Well, if you’d let me make a couple calls, I’ll just pay the fifty grand, save us a lot of trouble, and be on my merry little way,” I said with a grin. He stood from his seat and glared at me. “Nothing, Mr. Biskette, would make me happier. I’ll see to it the officers allow you a phone call. This hearing is adjourned.” After the judge disappeared through the door behind him, officer bad cop tugged against my right arm and turned me toward the door. “You’ve got fifty grand?” he said. “Got a lot more than that, but what I got ain’t any of your fuckin’ business, Boss,” I snapped back. “Being a 1%er must pay well. What are you guys into, running dope?” he asked in a gruff tone. I glanced over my right shoulder and studied his name tag. Kopic. After turning away and taking a few shuffled steps toward the door, I grinned. “Nope, we’re into pimping bitches. One little gal makes us a ton of money. Got a weird last name, lemme think…” I hesitated and glanced up at the ceiling as if trying to recall her name. “Hell, I can’t remember it right now, but she can suck the skin right off a fuckin’ apple. Crowd favorite, she is. She sucks off all the fellas at the clubhouse, and all she wants in return is a gut full of cum. Got a puss on her a mile deep, too. She can take a cock for hours on end. Hell, sometimes she takes ‘em two at a time – one in the twat and one in her tight little ass. What’s her fuckin’ name?” I paused and stared down at my feet for a minute. “Kopic. That’s it,” I said as I glanced upward and toward the officer. “Oh shit, that’s your last name. Any relation?” I asked as I widened my eyes in false surprise.

As officer bad cop began to yank on my arm and threaten me with bodily harm, officer good cop attempted to settle him down. I just grinned, feeling completely satisfied I’d got under his skin. It seemed most people were afraid to be true to who they truly were, always cautious of what others might think. Me? I’m Dalton Biskette, known as Biscuit to my friends and brothers, and I never change. Never have. Never will.

BISCUIT After Otis brought the bail money, we got my bagger out of impound and headed to the bar. Luckily, there were no scratches or scuffs on the bike, and I was able to ride away without having to beat someone’s ass for scratching my Harley. In much need of a drink, but in more need of a little pussy, I fixed my focus on the waitress at the shitty little bar Otis picked for our afternoon drink. “So if it ain’t purple, what the fuck do you call it?” I asked as I stared at her purple fingernails. “It’s gray,” she said as she spread her fingers apart and pressed them onto the table. “Looks purple to me,” I said. “I fuckin’ like it. It makes your eyes look deep blue. Well, almost deep blue. God damn, I like lookin’ at you.” “Thank you,” she said with a grin. “Hell, thank you. I just got out of jail, and seein’ you is the best thing to happen to me today, so far that is. That fine fingernail polish just adds to it,” I said with a nod as I raised my glass of vodka. “Oh my god. Jail? What for?” she asked. “Ridin’ my bike about a hundred and fifty miles an hour down Kellogg, beatin’ the fuck out of a couple dozen cops, and kickin’ the shit out of a skinhead gang while they had me locked up. Huge misunderstanding if you ask me. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I said as I reached up and pulled against my beard. “So you’re a bad boy. We get a lot of bikers in here, and most of them are just phonies. You’re the real deal, huh?” she asked as she twisted her hips back and forth.

I took a swallow of vodka, chased it with a drink of Red Bull, and grinned as I lowered the can onto the table. “As real as it gets,” I said. She glanced toward Otis, and then shifted her eyes to meet mine. After a short pause, she smiled. “I like your beard.” “Appreciate it,” I said as I glanced toward Otis and winked. The beard was a love or hate thing for women. There didn’t seem to be much in between. Since I let it grow out ten years prior, it had become my trademark. Now full, well-trimmed, and long, it was a magnet for some, and a means of repulsion for others. The ones who liked it loved it, and the ones who didn’t seemed to simply hate it. As the waitress stood and stared, I ran my fingers through the bottom of it, doing my best to fluff it up. “Lemme guess,” I said as I twisted myself in the booth, turning my body to face her directly. Now facing her, I gazed up and down her frame as if I was trying to memorize every inch of what I was seeing. Probably in her early twenties, she was every bit of ten years younger than me. Roughly five foot six with brown hair and an average build, her face made up for what her body lacked. She was cute as hell, and had an extremely long torso in comparison to her rather short legs, another huge plus in my book. After watching her nervously paying attention to my expressed interest, I fixed my eyes on hers and reached for my glass of vodka. “Guys take advantage of you. They never really care what you want, or try to listen to what you even think. All they want you for is arm candy, or eye candy, and maybe to - excuse my French - but to fuck. And you like fuckin’, but you want more. You want someone who understands you and appreciates you,” I said flatly as I raised my glass. “Oh my god, this is insane. It’s like your psychic,” she squealed. “My boyfriend, well, he’s not really my boyfriend, we just hang out sometimes.” She paused and stared down at the floor for a moment. She glanced upward with an almost expressionless face. “All he cares about is, you know,” she said as she wagged her eyebrows.

I nodded my head and turned toward Otis. If I was able to measure his level of disgust on a scale of one to ten, he’d have tipped the scale at an eleven. Otis and I were about as close as any two men could be, but he didn’t totally agree with my constant efforts to hit on every woman I encountered. As far as I was concerned, it was me just having fun and being myself. “Oh I know,” I said as I shook my head. “Probably what, in his early twenties?” “Yeah, twenty-two,” she said. “Hell, that’s part of the problem. You’re fuckin’ with a boy, and you need to do yourself a favor and see how a man treats you. Men are more appreciative,” I said as I turned toward the booth and reached for my Red Bull. “Oh really? So what’s the big difference?” she asked. I glanced over my left shoulder and studied her until she seemed to become nervous. As she started to fidget, I grinned and released the can. “The difference? The big difference? I tell you what; I’ll explain it to you. With a boy, you never know what you’re gonna get. It’s anybody’s fuckin’ guess – hell, half the time, he doesn’t even realize what he’s gonna do. With a man, a good man, you’ll know,” I said, hoping she’d ask for an explanation. And, before I had a chance to wipe the moisture from my hand to the thigh of my jeans, she did just that. “And how would I know?” she asked. “Because a man would tell you what to expect, that’s how. You know, with me, there are four things I’ll never do. I’ll tell you two of ‘em now and the other two after you get on the back of my bike and go for a ride,” I responded. Silence. “One, I’ll never lie to you. And two, I won’t come in your mouth without askin’ permission,” I said as I kicked my legs over the edge of the booth and turned to face Otis. “Oh wow, I wasn’t expecting that,” she said as she nervously glanced toward Otis. As she shifted her eyes toward me, she continued. “Okay. I have two questions. Well, one question

and I guess a statement.” She paused and moved toward Otis’ side of the booth. Now standing on the opposite side of the booth, she rested her hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and peered up at me. “What kind of bike is it?” she asked. “Only kind there is as far as I’m concerned. It’s a Harley,” I responded as I reached for my vodka. As I held the glass in my hand and waited for the statement, I gazed beyond her, toward Otis. Sitting in the booth with his arms crossed, he shook his head and grinned. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen me do the exact same thing I was doing now. For whatever reason, giving half the information now and the other half later seemed to work well for me; it catered to the curious side of women. “You said you were going a hundred and fifty down Kellogg. A Harley won’t go a hundred and fifty,” she grinned. “The fuck you say. Mine will, and it’ll do it in a damned hurry. And in the lap of luxury, I might add. It ain’t one of them uncomfortable crotch rockets,” I said as I took a sip of vodka. “It’s nice, huh?” she asked. I nodded my head. “It’s like ridin’ a marshmallow down the road. And not one of those little bastards you put in a cup of hot chocolate either. It’s like one of them big fuckers you toast over a campfire. Now my man Otis here and I got to discuss some business. Here’s two questions for ya. When do you get off work, and what was the statement you were gonna make?” “I get off at three,” she said. She leaned down and rested her elbow on the table. After looking over her shoulder, she cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. As I turned my head to the side and tilted it her direction, she responded. “You won’t have to ask my permission. You know, for the thing you said earlier. I’d just let you,” she whispered. I raised my hand to my mouth and responded as if telling her a secret. “You know what? That’s the funny part. I’d ask for permission anyway. It’s just how I roll.”

“See you at three,” I said as I leaned into the seat and glanced at my watch. After what seemed like all of an eternity, but was no more than a second or so, she stood, smiled, and walked away. “You make me sick sometimes,” Otis said as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Organizing a piece of puss is natural for most men. You ought to try it sometime,” I responded. “You and I both know all you’re going to do is fuck her. That’s it. You ask me, it’s fucking mean,” he said as he reached for his beer. “Ain’t nothin’ mean about it. If I lied to her, it’d be different. I gotta live with myself, so lyin’ is out of the question. She’s a big girl, she’ll be fine. So anyway, where was I?” I asked as I grabbed my second glass of vodka. “The cookie,” Otis responded. “Oh yeah, the cookie. So this dumb fuck with a swastika on his forehead walks up and stops right in front of me. I got a chicken leg in my hand, and I glance up at this Jew hatin’ skinhead and cough out a laugh. Can I help you? I ask. He reaches over, grabs the cookie off my tray and promptly takes a fuckin’ bite. I’m sittin’ there in fuckin’ shock; my eyes as big as a couple of pie tins. Who the fuck does such shit?” I asked. Otis raised his eyebrows, apparently wanting to hear the rest of the story. “Obviously some dumb fucking skinhead. So what happened?” “Well, first of all, the cookie was a chocolate chip. I mean, had it been oatmeal or some nasty ass shit, maybe things would have been different, but it wasn’t, so it ain’t. So he’s holding my cookie and getting’ ready to take bite number two, and I know I gotta make a move and make it quick. And, I know from bein’ around fuckers like the Corn Dog and some of the other fellas who’ve done time in the joint not to smack this fucker with my hands. So, I stand up and head butt this prick. Busted his nose open like a ripe fuckin’ plum. After that, I commenced to whip the shit out of this stupid fucker. Hell, he didn’t know what hit him. Afterwards, I picked my cookie up off the floor and sat down like nothin’ happened. Whole thing didn’t take two minutes. I finished my half eaten chicken leg and ate what was left of my cookie with this bloody fucker lying next to me. Hell, I thought I was in the clear. Was I? Fuck no.” I paused and shook my head, frustrated that I got caught.

“Cameras?” Otis asked as he lifted his beer bottle. “You been in this jail down here, have ya?” I asked. “No, just stands to reason they’d have ‘em,” he said. “Sure as fuck do. God damned chow hall is littered with ‘em. But at this point in time, I don’t know that. Not yet, anyway. So, they came around checkin’ everyone’s knuckles for cuts, and when they didn’t find any, they let us all go back to our cells. Then, they took that fucker to the hospital. Five minutes after I got to my cell, they came and arrested me. I said what the fuck you fellas gonna do, put me in jail inside the jail? They didn’t bother anwerin’. Took me and locked me in the drunk tank till the next morning.” I paused and took a drink of my vodka. I slid the glass to the side and leaned half-way across the table. “Next morning comes, and they let me out. Maybe an hour after I got back to my cell, one of his little minions comes up and asks you the one who beat the shit out of Zippy? Fuck, I didn’t even answer. This brain surgeon had some shit about Hitler tattooed on his neck, it was pretty obvious who he was and why he was at my cell door. So I grabbed this walkin’ abortion by his ears and head butted his ass. About ten kicks to the gut and a head stomp later, and his ass was done. You know, finding out his partner’s name made it all worth it. Hell, had I known his name was Zippy; I’d have whipped his ass just for that alone. Anyway, this pile of shit is layin’ at my cell door, and to make sure no one else would to try and fuck with the Biscuit during my little stay, I glanced around the cell block and pulled down my little orange suit. All these fuckers are staring at me wonderin’ what I’m gonna do. You wanna guess what I did?” I leaned back in my seat and waited wide-eyed for Otis’ response. “You pissed on him,” Otis responded as he lifted his bottle of beer. “See? I can’t get one by ya, Brother. You god damned right. I pissed on that motherfucker while the whole cell block watched. I hadn’t so much as stuffed my hankster back into my little suit and the goon squad came running in, tackled me, and cuffed me. Left me in the shackles and chains till I went to court,” I said as I recalled trying to walk in the shackles. Otis gazed at me silently, waiting for the rest of the story. I picked up my glass of vodka and stared at the half melted cubes of ice. “You know, if you try and take a normal step in them fuckers, you’ll fall flat on your nose.”

“What’s that?” Otis asked. “Them shackles they hook to your feet. Tricky little fuckers to walk in, I’m tellin’ ya,” I responded as I lifted my glass and drained the remaining vodka. “Fifty grand seems kind of high for speeding through town. You must have really pissed some people off,” Otis said as he slid his empty beer bottle toward the edge of the table. “Ten more minutes,” the waitress said as she reached for Otis empty beer bottle. “You need another?” she asked Otis as she lifted the bottle from the table. Otis glanced at me and shrugged his shoulders. “I think we’re good. If you’re talking ten minutes, that is,” I responded. “Ten or less,” she said. Well, I guess now’s a good time to test you. “Make it less, understand?” I barked. “Uhhm, okay,” she responded immediately. Yeah, she’ll do just fine.

BISCUIT Many years in my younger days were spent wondering if something was wrong with me. I had never been in a relationship, and never really wanted to be for that matter. As far as I was concerned, trying to tie myself down to fucking one woman was like deciding which one food I wanted to spend the rest of my life eating on a daily basis. If the world offered me various foods, eating only one seemed senseless. Consequently, if there were women who were willing to fuck me, forcing myself to be satisfied with only one made absolutely no sense what so fucking ever. “Oh my god…I’m going…to do it…again,” she wailed as I continued to flick my tongue against her clit. With my index finger sliding in and out of her well lubricated ass and my thumb doing the same with her pussy, I continued to wedge her clit between my upper lip and tongue. As I rolled her little nub between them with precision, she moaned as if she were dying. “Holy fuck…holy fuck…” she bellowed as she bucked her hips up and down. As she lowered her hips and relaxed, collapsing onto the lounge chair, I pulled my head from between her legs and gazed down at her motionless body. “I can’t believe…you can do that…for so long,” she breathed as she attempted to sit upright. I cleared my throat and coughed a light laugh. “If licking pussy was a crime, I’d be doing life in prison.” She sat up in the chair and sighed. Her hair was a mess. The sun beat down on us through the cloudless sky, and her body was covered in sweat. Her swimsuit bottom at the edge of the pool, and her

top askew across her b-cup titties from all the writhing around in the lounge, she looked young and confused. “You alright?” I asked. “Just kind of dizzy. Holy crap, you’re really good at that,” she said as she ran her fingers through her hair. “Oh wow.” she said as she pointed toward my crotch. I glanced downward. My cock was rigid, and the fabric of my swim trunks was stretched as tight as a violin string. After a few minutes in the pool, she had wanted to sunbathe, which led to me betting her I could make her orgasm six times from licking her pussy. Whether I could or not was irrelevant, her accepting the bet got my foot in the door – sexually speaking. Standing in front of her with a cock so hard it could be used to cut diamonds; it appeared I had every ounce of her attention. “Tends to get excited when I do that,” I said. “You like it? Doing it?” she asked without looking up. “Love it,” I responded. “Can I see it?” she asked as she leaned forward and tilted her head toward the bulge in my shorts. “Thought you’d never ask,” I responded as I reached for the drawstring. I untied the knot, and pulled down on the waist of my shorts as she fixed her eyes on the prize. After gripping my cock with one hand and pushing down on my shorts with the other, I finally managed to pull it from confinement. “Holy crap,” she gasped as it sprung free. “What?” I asked, attempting to seem surprised by her shock. Her eyes widened as she leaned forward and gazed at my cock. After a long minute of studying it,

she glanced upward. She swallowed heavily as she covered her mouth with her hand. “That’s huge.” “Yeah, it sure is. And we’re on a time crunch. Right now, your little twat is about as wet and ready as it’ll ever be. Come here,” I said as I kicked my shorts to the side. “Right here? In the backyard?” she said as she glanced over each shoulder. “I just sucked on your pussy for thirty minutes; don’t start that high and mighty shit now. And take that top off so I can play with your titties,” I said as I motioned toward the bathhouse. She stood from her seat, glanced around the pool nervously, and fixed her eyes on mine. As she reached up to remove her top, I began to stroke my cock. “Do you have a condom?” she asked as she tossed her top on the concrete beside her bikini bottom. “If God wanted me to wear a condom, I’d have been born with one wrapped around my cock. I don’t wear ‘em. Ever,” I said flatly. “I’ll take my chances with diseases. I know I’m clean, and I’m gonna guess your clean,” I said. “I am, but…” she said, the tone of her voice clearly conveying her concern. “You ain’t got to worry about gettin’ pregnant. I got fixed a long time ago,” I said. “Really?” she asked as she tip-toed across the hot concrete deck. Quickly becoming irritated at the fact I wasn’t already powerfucking her wet pussy, I sighed my response heavily. “Yeah, really.” “Uhhm, I dunno,” she said as she gazed down at crotch. Still gripping my cock in my hand, I shrugged my shoulders and grinned. “You gotta risk it to get the Biscuit.” That didn’t sound as good out loud as it did in my head. Standing just a few feet in front of me, she bit into her lower lip, shifted her eyes toward my cock,

and grinned as she glanced upward. She nodded her head once. It was all I needed. I slapped my palm against the wall of the bathhouse. As she shifted her eyes toward my hand, I reached for her hair, pulled her into my shoulder, and breathed my sexual demands into her ear. I’d found out from nothing more than experience, trial and error, and being slapped a few dozen times what worked best for convincing women to comply with my sexual demands. Asking them to do things exposed me to the possibility of a no response. Demanding they do something could potentially backfire, and often did just that. Suggesting they do something seemed to work well; and proposing my desires in the form of a stern whisper rarely did nothing but satisfy us both. With her hair in my hand and my lips against her ear, I turned her head to the side with a slight tug. “Put your hands against the wall and brace yourself, Cassie,” I whispered into her ear. “I’m going to fuck you until you collapse into a pile, and no matter what, don’t move your fuckin’ hands.” I inhaled a shallow breath, exhaled into her ear, and continued. “Do you understand me?” “Oh fuck. Uhhm, yes,” she whimpered. As she turned to face the bathhouse, she raised her hands in the air and breathed her concerns in the form of a dry whisper. “But what if…what if it doesn’t fit.” “Press your hands against the fuckin’ wall, Cassie,” I growled into her ear. “Oh shit. Okay,” she said as she slapped her hands against the wall. I let go of my cock and tugged against her hair hard enough to get her attention. After tilting my head to the side and inhaling a shallow breath, I pressed my lips lightly against her ear and exhaled heavily. “Spread your legs as wide as you can, slide your hands down the wall a little, but don’t you dare take them off that fuckin’ wall, no matter what,” I whispered. As she began to resituate herself, I continued. “Now, arch your back and stick that sweet little pussy of yours up in the air so I can shove my tongue in it. Understand?” I breathed into her ear. “Uhhm, okay,” she muttered.

I released her hair, bent at my knees, and gripped her ass in my hands. As I spread the bottom of her butt cheeks apart with my thumbs, she slowly lowered her shoulders and bent over. Without warning, I pressed my face into her swollen pussy and began tongue fucking her as deep as I was able to. There was no doubt in my mind God put me on the earth for one thing and one thing only. Fucking women. For him to grace me not only with a cock the size of a cucumber - but a five inch long tongue could only mean one thing. He wanted me to please women sexually. Not one to argue with God’s will or question his intention for having me on this earth, I decided to embrace his wishes and do just that. As my tongue slid in and out of her pussy, she moaned and groaned while she repeatedly bent her knees, pressing her ass into my face. After a solid five minutes of tongue lashing, she had no less than two orgasms, and was whimpering like a lost puppy. I pulled my tongue from her pussy, licked along the crack of her ass and up her back, and eventually rested my chin against her shoulder. “Turn your head to the side,” I said. Breathing heavily, and still confused from her repeated orgasms, she tilted her head to the right and blinked her eyes a few times. “Open your mouth,” I whispered against her earlobe. Without speaking, she opened her mouth. I slid my index and middle finger into her mouth as I reached down and gripped my throbbing shaft in my hand. As I slowly worked my fingers along the surface of her tongue, I pressed the tip of my cock against her dripping pussy. “If it hurts, bite down on my fingers,” I said. Her eyes widened and she attempted to speak. “Shhhh,” I whispered into her ear.

“As hard as you want. Now remember, no matter what, don’t move those fuckin’ hands,” I said. She nodded her head as she began to suck my fingers. There’s no doubt some women have small pussies, while others have larger ones. My experience had taught me that regardless of size, preparation was paramount to my success. A good amount of foreplay and a little tongue fuckin’ allowed me to do what many guys with large cocks couldn’t. As I slowly pushed the tip of my cock into her wet pussy, she moaned in delight. A few slow shallow strokes with about half the length of my shaft, and she began to suck on my fingers like she was sucking a cock. Two or three strokes with three fourths of it, and she was wailing like she’d just won the lottery. As it was apparent she wasn’t going to be biting my fingers any time soon, I slowly pulled them from her mouth and allowed her to scream in delight as I continued to work myself deeper and deeper into her pussy. Now slowly and steadily fucking her with every inch of my swollen manhood, I reached up and began lightly pinching her nipples with my fingertips. With each light pinch, she groaned and twisted her body in pleasure. I pressed my face against hers as I continued to fuck her slowly and steadily. “Take that big biker cock like a good little girl,” I breathed against her neck. “Oh fuck…I uhhm…will…I will,” she moaned. The inner wall of her tight wet pussy working against every inch of my cock was almost more than I could handle. As I pulled my head back, positioning my mouth against her right ear, I slid my hands along her sides and down to her hips. Rubbing the tips of my index and middle fingers into the depressions of her hips while I continued to fuck her, she began to writhe against me. “When you get ready to come, I want you to scream, do you understand me?” I whispered into her ear. “Yes…I…I understand,” she murmured. I slowly fucked her as deep as I was able, my hips pressing against her round twenty-two year old ass with each stroke. “You like that big cock?” I grunted as I continued to thrust myself into her.

“Oh fuck yes,” she responded. “I like that tight little pussy of yours. I’m going to fill you with cum, you know that, right?” I groaned. “Uhhm yes…please…” she said. I gazed downward, studying her ass as I thrust myself into her half a dozen more times with long, slow strokes, watching my glistening cock slide in and out of her pussy with each thrust of my hips. “I might pull out and come all over those cute little titties,” I said. “Oh Jesus….” she said, the words barely an audible whisper. “You move those hands and I’m going to stop fucking you. Don’t fucking move ‘em,” I growled into her ear. “Oh fuck…I won’t…I…promise,” she stammered. “Maybe I’ll cum all over that pretty face or in your mouth. You’re a little cock hungry slut, aren’t you?” I breathed into her ear. “Uh huh. I am. Whatever you say. Yes…” she responded as I continued to pound myself deep into her. “You tight pussied little bitch,” I said. I pressed my lips to her ear and exhaled. “I’m going to pump you full of cum you sexy little whore. You’re going to fuck me whenever I tell you to – you’re my on command pussy – do you fucking hear me?” “Okay…” she said. “Whenever…you…want. Your cock feels…so…good” I slowly pulled my hips back as I glanced down at my cock. As each inch of the shaft slid free of her pussy, I smiled in satisfaction. Holding still with only the tip of my cock penetrating her, I exhaled into her ear heavily. “Scream like you’re trying to wake the fuckin’ dead, do you fuckin’ understand me?” I growled.

She exhaled her response. “Okay…” In one thrust, I buried myself balls-deep into her pussy. As I continued to press my fingers against her hips, I pounded myself steadily in and out of her wet mound. With my tightening nut sack striking her clit with each stroke, she began to slap her hands against the wall. Steadily working my hips with the precision of a male stripper, I felt her pussy begin to contract around my throbbing shaft. As she tilted her head back and began to moan, I released her right hip and slapped her ass with my hand. “Louder,” I demanded. “Oh fuck…Oh my…fuck…” she screamed. I relaxed and closed my eyes. One other thing God seemed to grace me with was the ability to reach orgasm on command. All I needed to do was relax and focus. If I had a clear mind and a good piece of pussy, and I was able to cum whenever I wanted to. To please her, satisfy myself, and make the experience as enjoyable as possible, as she began to reach climax I exhaled and unloaded every drop of cum I had in reserve into her warm wet pussy. “Ohhh….” she groaned as her legs went weak. I gripped her hips in my hands and held her upright as I continued to have miniature climaxes inside of her. As she all but collapsed into my arms, I lifted her up and prevented her from falling. “Good shit, huh?” I said as I slid my cock from her dripping pussy. “Huh?” she gasped. “The cock. Feels good, huh?” I breathed into her ear. “You have no idea,” she said. I lifted her from her feet and walked around the front of the bathhouse. Almost as if she were in shock, she gazed at me silently as I carried her to the doorway. After I kicked the door open, I walked through it and into the shower. As I lowered her to her feet and turned on the water, she looked up and spoke. “So, you said earlier you didn’t date or anything,” she said. “That’s right,” I nodded as I ducked into the shower.

“Get in here, it’ll feel good,” I said as I rinsed off in the cool water. She stepped beside me and began to rinse off, smiling the entire time. “But you said while you were fucking me I was your uhhm, your on command pussy,” she said. “You are,” I responded as I stepped free of the shower stream. “So, how’s that work?” she asked as she rinsed her hair. I turned to face her, shrugged my shoulders, and widened my eyes. “It means whenever I want to fuck, within reason, you’ll do it. You’re going to fuck me whenever I want. Understand?” “Uhhm. Okay,” she responded. “You like that big cock, don’t you?” I asked. “Oh fuck, I love it. It’s just. I don’t know, it just feels different. You know, good different. I’ve never come so hard in my life,” she said as she stepped away from the shower. “Ever had two cocks at once?” I asked as I turned toward the door. “Huh? Two at the same time? Uhhm, no,” she snapped back. “If I ask you to, you’ll do it for me, understand?” I said over my shoulder. “You mean two guys fucking me at the same time?” she asked as she attempted to catch up with me. “Yep,” I responded as I reached for my shorts. “I dunno. I mean…” she began. I shook my head. “If I ask you to fuck me and one of the fellas, you’ll do it. Understand?” “I’ll uhhm. I mean I might,” she said as she picked up her bathing suit bottom. “If I ask you to, you’ll do it for me, understand?” I repeated as I pulled up my shorts. “Okay, yeah. I’ll do it. Just don’t, I mean, just don’t like…tell anybody,” she said with a shrug of

her shoulders. I forced a smile. “It’ll be our little secret.” “Cool. So, what now?” she asked. “Now? We’ll swim for maybe fifteen minutes or so, and then we’ll fuck again. How’s that sound?” I responded. “Again? Oh wow. You can do that?” she asked as she pulled her top around her cute little titties. “Sure can,” I said as I dove into the pool. As the icing on the proverbial cake of life, God graced me with one more gift, the one that convinced me my time on this earth was to be spent doing nothing other than fucking women. Within fifteen minutes of having sex, I would recover fully; and be ready for another round. There was really no other reason for me to possess this quality but to fuck like a rabbit. I swam the length of the pool, smiling to myself, knowing I had added yet another woman to my long list of willing sexual participants. As my lungs began to burn, I came up for a breath of air. After catching my breath, I stared up at the clear summer sky and smiled. Thank you, God. I won’t let you down.

BISCUIT I stood in the corner of the shop with a bottle of beer dangling loosely from my fingers as four men stood in a semi-circle listening to me tell a story. If there was a way I could get paid for telling stories, I’d damned sure quit building Harley engines and give it a try. For now, I did it to satisfy me and entertain those I enjoyed spending time with. As I waited for someone to prompt me to continue, I raised my beer bottle to my lips and took a slow drink. “So what happened?” Pete grunted. “God damn, you always do that. You fucking start and then make us beg ya to continue. Just tell the fuckin’ story, asshole.” “Watch that mouth, Brother Pete. My lips was parched, and I needed a drink. I’ve been tellin’ this fuckin’ story to everyone I bump into since last week when it happened. My fuckin’ throat’s raw from all the talkin’ I been doin’,” I said as I lowered the bottle of beer. “So I tell this bitch follow me to the truck, and I turn for the door. Now I don’t know if she’s followin’ me or not, but I keep on fuckin’ walkin’ like I know she’s back there. When I step through the door and out into the rain, and I don’t hear the door slam behind me, I know she’s comin’.” I paused and glanced around the group. “So I walk to the truck, open my door and climb inside. Like a trained profuckin-fessional, she just glides right into the truck and leans back in the seat. Bitch don’t say a god damned word. She just fixes her eyes on my crotch and stares. So just how big is it? She asks. Well, now’s a fine time to ask I respond. She glances up and rolls her fuckin’ eyes at me. Right there in my own god damned truck, this gal’s fuckin’ rollin’ her eyes. So I’m thinkin’ fuck it. I reach for my belt, unbutton my pants, and pull out the hankster. She lays eyes on it, and all of a sudden they’re bulgin’ out of her head like one of them fish at the store you can buy in a little plastic bag. That’s right, lady. Every inch of it I said. Every fuckin’ inch.” I paused for effect and took another drink.

“Damn it, Biscuit. Get to the fucking punch line,” Corn Dog said. “Ain’t no punch line, brother. This is the damned sacred truth. I skin it,” I said as I slapped my hand against my forearm. As soon as I slapped my arm, Pete’s eyes widened. “Holy shit, what happened?” “I’m fuckin’ tryin’ to tell ya, and I’d be done with the story and halfway home if you rude pricks wouldn’t be interruptin’ me every time I took a breath,” I said. “So, anyway. She stares at my cock for a while, exhales a breath for so long she fogs up my windows, and then she looks up. You ain’t gonna punch me in the face are ya? She asks. Why the fuck would I punch you in the face? I ask her. She shrugs her shoulders and stares at me. You’ve bet me twenty bucks you can deep throat my cock I say to her. Before I can even try and decide why she’d ask such a thing, she tells me why. Pete, run and get me a beer, I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here,” I said as I raised my empty beer bottle. “Don’t tell any more of it till I get back,” Pete said as he turned toward the fridge. “So what bar was it?” Otis asked. “That one on Douglas. The Shamrock,” I responded. “Truck parked in the street?” he asked. “Yep,” I nodded. Otis shook his head as he raised his beer to his lips. “You’re fucking crazy,” Toad said as he shook his head from side-to-side. “I said don’t tell anymore till I got back,” Pete grunted as he stepped to my side. “I ain’t said a word. Now hand me that beer before I got to admit myself in the hospital for strained vocal cords,” I said as I reached for the beer. “So anyway. This gal says well, most guys end up smacking me at some point in time. I was just checkin’. I stared down at her and said what the fuck you mean most guys smack ya? She shrugs her shoulders and says well, I’m just a magnet for that stuff. So do you promise you won’t hit me? I stared at

her for a long minute and shrugged my fuckin’ shoulders. I can’t make any promises, but I sure ain’t plannin’ on it I tell her. Then I studied her for another second and said If it’s any reassurance, you’d be the first. She sticks her hand in her mouth and…listen up Pete, god damn it, this part is crucial,” I barked as Pete turned to face the door. “Sorry, thought I heard somethin’,” Pete responded. “I’m sure you did, you weird prick. There’s twenty Sinners in this shop, I’m sure you heard a lot of somethin’s. If you wanna go play out in the street, go ahead. If you wanna listen to me, pay fuckin’ attention,” I growled. “I’m listenin’,” Pete nodded. “Okay, so this gal is hot. Maybe forty, got long brown hair, big fuckin’ titties, long legs, and a pretty face. So she turns kinda to the side where I can’t quite see her, sticks her hand in her mouth, and pulls somethin’ out. Now at this point in time, I can’t see it. But when she looks up.” I paused and took a drink of beer. “She ain’t got any teeth on top. Nary a one. Nothin’ but fuckin’ gums. Now I start thinkin’ about how much extra room there’s gonna be in her mouth for my fat cock, and what it’s gonna feel like getting a gum job, and…” Otis scrunched his nose and bit his lower lip as he interrupted, “She pulled out her fucking dentures?” “God damn it, Otis, if you want to tell the story, I’ll let ya. But don’t fuckin’ interrupt me when I’m tryin’ to,” I said. “Continue,” Otis said. “Dentures?” Pete asked. “Listen up, fellas. At this point in time, she’s agreed to suck me off for a twenty, got in the truck, asked me if I’m going to punch her face, and pulled out her dentures and has ‘em in her hand. Is everyone caught the fuck up?” I asked. Four heads nodded. “Alright. So she looks up and says got anywhere I can put these? And she opens her hand. I act like it’s a daily occurrence and I shrug my shoulders. Put ‘em in the glove box I say as I reach over and

open it. Now remember fellas, I got my cock out, and I’m in the middle of the fuckin’ street in my truck. She glances at the glove box, reaches in her mouth and pops out the bottom row. So now she’s sittin’ there without a tooth in her god damned head. Hell, most fellas would be grossed out, but I just wanna feel it. You know, smooth gums on my cock. So, she shuts the glove box door and says I like it rough. I want you to force me to suck you off. My eyes widen and I grin at her. After a second I ask just how rough?” I lifted my beer and took a long drink. As I lowered the bottle and hooked my thumb on my belt, all eyes were on me. “She turns to me and grins. Then she says rough as fuck. Hell, I felt like I won the jackpot. You got the right man I said as I grabbed her head and shoved it into my lap. So, I got her head in one hand and my cock in the other. I’m tryin’ to force feed this bitch my cock, knowin’ she ain’t gonna get half of it down her throat, and then…I’ll be dipped in shit…here comes the huge fucking shocker, fellas…” “Husband shows up?” Pete said. I shook my head as I took a drink of beer. “Barfed?” Corn Dog said. “Nope,” I said as I lowered my beer bottle. “She swallowed it?” Otis said. I nodded my head. “All the way to my nuts. Now remember, she said she likes it rough. But I swear to God himself. Fuckin’ this gal’s throat was like fuckin’ a jar of jelly. No resistance at all. She says she likes it rough, and I can’t force her to do a damned thing. Hell, her face just falls down to my lap and back up she goes. Now I know why guys smack her in the mouth, there ain’t nothin’ else to do if she likes it rough. Fuckin’ gal’s a human jackhammer. So she’s goin’ to town on my cock, and moanin’ and groanin’ and my nuts are covered in slobber, and I’m thinkin’ this is the best twenty bucks I ever spent – and because it’s a bet – I can still say I ain’t never paid for pussy. Anyway, I’m about to bust a nut, and I get all grabby…” “So I reach under her shirt for a fist full of them titties, and she starts gruntin’ and tryin’ to pull off my meat. I’m two seconds or three strokes from a happy endin’ and I ain’t havin’ it. She’s gruntin’ no no no, and I’m forcing her head down on my junk thinkin’ yes yes yes. So I got an elbow on the back of her head, and I reach up under her top and pull on that wire at the bottom of her bra to let them big titties out. You know, just pull it up and over the nips and let ‘em pop out,” I took a sip of beer as I glanced at each

man. Standing with their eyes wide and waiting for the next bit of the tale, they stared in awe. “And I lift that bastard back, and pop. Out comes two fake rubber titties. Fell right out onto my dusty ass truck floor. I’m starin’ at these rubber fuckers tryin’ to decide what happened, and she’s tryin’ to pull off my cock, so I just bury my elbow into her head and blow a load into her throat – you know, because she says she likes it rough. I’m thinkin’ this is all part of the I like it rough act. After I let her up for a breath, she’s cryin’ and all embarrassed.” I shook my head lightly. “I’m feelin’ bad for her. She’s got cum dribblin’ from her lips, and she ain’t got a tooth in her head, her god damned teeth are in the fucking glove box, and the only tits she has are layin’ on the dusty assed floor of my truck beside my boots.” “Flat chested gal, huh?” Pete shrugged. “Nope,” I said. “Fuckin’ cancer.” “Oh God damn. No shit?” Toad asked. I nodded my head. “Yep. Said she had a double whatever they call it. Hell, I felt terrible. We sat for a long bit afterward and talked about it. God damned shame anyone has to go through that, if you ask me. I told her it didn’t matter as far as I was concerned; I told her she was pretty with or without tits. You know, it’s god damned sad about the cancer, but she’s a great gal. Her name’s Billie Jean. Hell, I ended up gettin’ her number and added her to the list,” I said. “But here’s the really good news,” I said as I lifted the bottle of beer. “What’s that?” Otis asked. “She said she’ll do club parties. Ends up she gets some weird satisfaction from sucking dude’s cocks. Anyway, if any of you fellas want a gum job, she’s ready,” I said as I raised my bottle of beer. “I’m out,” Toad said as he turned away. “Me too,” Otis said. “Count me in,” Corn agreed.

“I’m good as long as it’s Wednesday or Thursday,” Pete said. “See, you two fellas are going to miss out,” I said as Otis and Toad walked away. “They don’t know what’s good for ‘em,” Pete hissed, “A blowjob’s a blowjob.” “Amen,” I said. “And one without teeth is a rare occurrence indeed.” “Agreed,” Pete said. “Now huddle up, fellas. I’ll tell ya about my run in with a skinhead gang while they had me locked up,” I said as I raised my beer bottle. As I gazed blankly at the bottle, I realized it was empty. “Pete, get me one more,” I said as I raised my empty bottle in the air. As Pete walked toward the fridge, I glanced around the shop. For me, telling the stories was like reliving them. Another chance to have the same amount of fun as I had actually had doing what it was I told the story about. And I was good at it. Pete handed me the cold bottle of beer and I placed the empty in the trash can behind me. Telling stories about being in jail, drinkin’ a beer, and being surrounded by my brothers – hell, life couldn’t get any better. Without a doubt, being a Sinner was my calling in life. Well, that and fuckin’ bitches.

BISCUIT I carefully pulled the brush along the edge of the wooden door trim, being cautious not to touch the wood with the bristles of the brush, but taking time to ensure the Revere Pewter paint underneath the new coat of Chelsea Red was covered completely. After I reached the bottom of the trim I took a few steps back and admired the room. The red paint was a refreshing change. The pewter color had only been on the walls for roughly four weeks, but the red really set the room off and made everything pop. Masking off the trim was always an option - but I took pride in doing everything by hand - a steady hand and a little caution provided me with tremendous satisfaction. My nostrils flared as I took a long deep breath and gazed around the room blankly. The smell of success. After carrying the paint, drop cloths, and brushes to the garage I went into the kitchen and washed my hands. Alt-J’s Left Hand Free played from my iPod, providing further proof that the art of creating good music had not been lost in the modern age. Music was my only outlet, my only escape. I hadn’t had a television in my house for almost fifteen years. Although I’d watched television at some of the Sinners homes, and when we were on the road I often watched it in the hotel, I viewed my life as much more simple if I didn’t have access to a television or watch the news. As a teen I decided to stop, and I never regretted my decision since making it - when so many of my brothers were depressed about world events I was none the wiser. Often, subjects being discussed were several months or even a year old before I learned they had even happened. I lived with much less grief and seemed to have a fairly steady emotional state as a result.

As I dried my hands I heard my phone beep. Modern technology was without a doubt the downfall of society, but having a telephone was mandatory for a Sinner, and I accepted it as a useful tool. I scrolled through the text message from Otis and typed my response. Be there in fifteen, Brother. I slipped the phone into the front pocket of my jeans, unplugged my iPod, grabbed my keys, and walked out to the garage. After plugging my iPod into the pigtail on the stereo of my bike, I fired it up and opened the garage door. As the Black Key’s Sinister Kid blared from my saddlebag mounted speakers, I pulled out of the garage and onto the street. My neighbors had come to accept the fact I was a biker and rode a loud as fuck Harley, but they’d never quite understood my need to play the music I did as loud as I chose to. As the thumping bass shook the handlebars slightly, I rolled back the throttle and leaned into the first curve leading out of my neighborhood. Riding a Harley wasn’t something I chose to do because I thought it was cool, or because I felt a need to be surrounded by others who supported me. It became a way of life from the first time I rode a bike at eighteen years of age. From that very first day, I had ridden every day possible. To me, riding cleansed my soul. A thirty-minute ride alone could take me from the foulest of moods and insert me in my own star-filled heaven. Whatever it might have been that had me upset quickly vanished – and never returned – after a full-throttle ride down the highway. Riding and music, my two much needed outlets. As I pulled into the parking lot I noticed Otis hadn’t arrived yet. I parked the bike on the sidewalk, kicked the kickstand down, and let Jimi Hendrix’s Red House finish playing before I turned off the key. Jimi’s music provided a constant reminder of the talent that was lost – never to be replaced – as a result of drug use. The talented musicians who had died as a result of drug overdoses over the years sickened me. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Nick Drake, Sid Vicious, John Bonham, Shannon Hoon, and Amy Winehouse, all dead for no good reason other than the fact they didn’t know when to stop using drugs and start living life. Me?

Never used the stuff and never planned on starting. As the music stopped and the next song began, I turned the key and stepped over the seat. After reaching over and locking the bike, I walked into the empty bar. After a quick study, it seemed four people would be joining Otis and me, none of which provided me a feeling of threat or a sexual interest. I walked to the bar, sat down, and ordered a drink. “Double vodka and a can of Red Bull when ya get a minute,” I said as I sat down on the bar stool. “Be just a second,” the bartender said over her shoulder. Turn around so I can get a good look at ya. No more than a thirty second wait later, and she slid a can of Red Bull and a glass of vodka in front of me. Half zoned-out and listening to Peter Gabriel’s Solsbury Hill, I glanced up and blinked as my eyes attempted to come into focus. God damn.... Cute as absolute fuck, probably tipping the scales at a hundred and ten pounds, and all of five foot three, the bartender had perfect complexion, smooth skin, beautiful green eyes, and fire engine red hair with two purple stripes – in the front. A definitive line across the center of her head from left to right separated the back half of her hair, which was brown. The entire multi-color scheme of unnatural hair colors repulsed me. I puckered my face like I’d just bit into a lemon and turned away. God damned waste of a fine lookin’ girl if you ask me. I reached over my shoulder, fumbled for my glass of vodka, and relaxed as I finally felt the cool glass in my hand. As I took a drink and tried to wash the sight of her from my mind, Otis stepped into the bar. Otis was a strange man. Satisfied by simply living life, he wasn’t a typical biker, nor was he a typical man. He didn’t have an Ol’ Lady, only had a girlfriend during his high school years, and never took the time – or had the desire – to try and pick up women. He was definitely one of the club’s strong points, and was often the man a brother would go to in a time of need. His advice was well thought out, never pre-prepared, and always considerate of who it was that was receiving it. The fact he wanted to

meet me to talk had me a little concerned, but only a little. I stood from the bar stool and opened my arms. “Big O, what’s shakin’?” “Just needing to unwind. Let’s go over and sit in one of those booths, I don’t need the bartender listening to what we’re talking about,” he said as he tilted his head toward the booth on the other side of the bar. I patted him on the back and turned toward the bar. “No argument from me, that stool is as hard as a wedding day cock.” I grabbed my vodka and Red Bull, anxious to get away from the walking box of crayons behind the bar. “Place don’t seem the same without Avery and that other chick workin’, does it?” I asked as we walked toward the booth. “Sure doesn’t,” Otis said as he sat down. The night we all met Avery, Otis staged a fight between Toad and Pete. Hell, Toad was kickin’ the absolute shit out of Pete, and I had no idea why. Toad will fight a man just for the sake of doin’ it, but fightin’ one of your brothers generally requires a good reason. Come to find out later Otis set it up just so Slice could see how the poor gal handled the outburst. That damned Avery is good for Slice, no doubt about it. She keeps him grounded, and his mood swings are almost non-existent now. Personally, I don’t need a woman to keep me grounded, but for some of the fellas, it’s a necessity. Although I never would have guessed Slice would be one of those fellas, I was pleased to see him commit to Avery, and more pleased to see how he changed after they moved in together. The big tittied friend of Avery’s was a totally different story, and nothing short of a sexual train wreck. As I laughed to myself at the thought of her, I leaned forward and grinned. “Sure you heard about Corn Dog and that poor girl who worked here, huh?” “I’ve heard some, yeah,” Otis agreed. “They’re inseparable now. He’s been fuckin’ that poor girl six ways from Sunday. Talked to him after the meeting the other day. Said he’s been schooling her on sucking cock, and it sounds like she’s got

quite the sexual appetite. Anyway, he’s making up for the five years of lost time he spent in the joint,” I said. Otis seemed a little off his game. He slowly nodded his head as he looked beyond me and into the bar. “I’m sure he is.” As he waved his hand in the air, I continued. “You know, every one of the fellas is fascinated by that girl’s big fucking titties. But me? I’m fascinated with the fact Toad wrapped her head in god damned Saran Wrap, fucked her until she was damned near dead, and then took her to the Dog’s house, dropped her off, and she ain’t fuckin’ left yet. Hell, until the Toad dropped her off, she’d never met Corn Dog.” “I’ll take a couple of Michelob Ultras and bring him another can of Red Bull and a few iced double vodkas,” Otis said as the waitress walked up. I turned and glanced over my shoulder toward the waitress. Tall and far beyond gorgeous, she appeared to be in her mid-twenties and all of damned near six foot tall. If I was a guessing man, I would guess she was one of Avery’s volleyball sisters from the college. The waitress grinned as she shifted her eyes from Otis to me. “Sounds good. You guys aren’t going to shoot the place up, are you?” “We might after we get a few drinks in us,” I said with a grin. She glanced over at Otis and studied him for a long minute. Knowing Otis wasn’t going to make a move on this girl, and feeling like I damned sure needed to, I cleared my throat. “God damn…” I said as I shifted my eyes up and down her frame. “What?” she snapped back as she turned to face me. “Your eyes. They’re the craziest blue I ever seen,” I responded. She shrugged her shoulders. “Contacts.” Colored contact lenses, I had a little experience with them and it wasn’t good. In fact, it kind of freaked me out at first. I never understood why a person felt a need to try and be someone or something they weren’t. My eyes were hazel, and I never had a desire to have them be anything but what God gave me.

“Figures,” I grunted as I shifted in my seat. “Be back in a minute,” she said. I leaned forward and shook my head. “Nothin’ against the Dog, but I wonder about that fuckin’ girl, Sloan. Damned thing can’t have a lick of proper upbringing in her. Personally, I wouldn’t fuck her with Pete’s cock, and he’s a nasty fucker. Corn Dog’s pounding that shit like each day’s his last, so I guess I’ll say good for him; and from what he was sayin’ she’s become mighty fine at sucking cock. Oh, shit, I almost forgot, I got a story to tell ya.” Otis grinned and nodded his head. He generally listened to my stories and seemed to enjoy them, even if he’d heard them before. As I started to tell my tale, I couldn’t immediately remember if I’d told him in the past. “So, speaking of suckin’ cock, there was this girl; she gave the best fuckin’ head ever. Damned thing was like a trained professional, and probably should have had a college course on how to properly suck a cock. She could take my meat all the way to the balls, stick out her god damned tongue, and curl it around my nut sack without missin’ a beat,” I said. He grinned and waited for more. “So, this bitch had the most beautiful blue eyes. And, because she had no gag reflex, I could fuck this girl’s mouth just like I was fuckin’ a pussy. Anyway, when I’d pound her throat with my cock, I’d look down into her eyes, and after she bat those long lashes and revealed those damned eyes a few times, I’d just explode. She knew her eyes were my biggest weakness, and she was right.” I ran my fingers through my beard. He leaned into the table and waited for more. “So one night, she’s down on her knees, and she’s going to town on my cock. Just a slurpin’ and a suckin’ like this one’s her last. Hell, I’m lookin’ up at the ceiling like I got no interest in watchin’ her, which couldn’t be any further from the truth. My problem was this...” I paused as the waitress walked up. She slid the drinks onto the table. Although I couldn’t immediately identify the name of her perfume, I had smelled it in the past, and really enjoyed it. As my mind drifted away at the thought of her scent, she spoke. “Here you go, two iced vodka doubles, a can of Red Bull, and two Ultras. Anything else?”

I stared at the drinks and inhaled a shallow breath through my nose. “Other than being like super big, you don’t look like a biker, I mean not really,” she asked. I grabbed the bottom of my cut and tugged on it proudly. “Never thought I was super big, but thanks, I guess.” “I uhhm, I was meaning him,” she responded with a laugh. “Oh,” I said. Otis seemed offended. As he lifted his beer and tilted it her direction, he replied. “I don’t know that bikers look any certain way to be quite honest. I look the way I look and I’m a biker. One has nothing to do with the other.” “Oh, I didn’t really mean anything by it, I was just. I don’t know. You know, trying to make conversation. Do you know Avery?” she asked. Good recovery. “Sure do, she’s a good friend,” Otis said. “Well, we’re not close, but I played volleyball with her. I’m a senior this year and she’s a year older than me. I just heard she was like dating one of the guys in your gang,” she responded. Volleyball? Senior? I glanced over my shoulder and gazed at her as she spoke. She was a damned fine specimen of God’s ability to grace us from time to time with the equivalent of a human Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls. She was a natural beauty, and I was quickly becoming tired of her main focus being Otis. Otis shook his head. “Club. We’re a club, not a gang. A motorcycle club.” “Oh, I thought you were a motorcycle gang. What’s the difference?” she asked. “There isn’t one. Gang sounds bad, and club sounds less like we’re criminals, so we like to call it a club,” Otis responded.

“So you are a gang?” she said. I shifted in my seat and raised my finger to my lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell anybody.” “Oh, I won’t. You can trust me. I’m Kat,” she said. I grinned and looked down at her shorts. Her legs were a fucking mile long. “Like a pussy cat?” I asked. She giggled. “Kind of, but with a K. Katrina, Kat for short.” “I’m Biscuit, that’s Otis,” I said as I shifted my eyes up to her fairly large breasts. “Biscuit? Why Biscuit?” she shrugged. I shrugged my shoulders to mimic her. “Why not?” “Well, it’s nice to meet you guys. I’ll leave you two alone for a while. If you need me, just holler, we’re not real busy. I’ll probably stop by in a few and see if you’re doing alright.” She turned and walked away. As she walked, I continued to stare, hoping she’d turn around and see me, but she never did. After a long minute of studying her walk, I turned around and grabbed my vodka. “Meee-fucking-yow. Kat, huh? She’s a hot little number,” I said as I lifted my glass. “Where were we?” Otis asked. “Hold up a minute, I’ve got to clear my mind of evil thoughts. I’m gonna poke that little bitch, mark my words, brother,” I said as I took a drink of the vodka. I chased it with Red Bull and shook my head. “I was face fucking my blue eyed girl.” “The professor of oral pleasure,” Otis said. “She damned sure was,” I said. “Could have given a college course on it for sure.” “Okay. So I’ve got my cock down her throat, and she’s staring up at me, knowing if I look into those beautiful blue eyes for more than a few seconds I’m gonna shoot my load. Me? I’m lookin’ up at the

ceiling, countin’ them little popcorn dealios they spray on up there. Now she’s suckin’ away, and I’m on about two thousand five hundred and fifty-three, knowing I can’t last much longer. I glance down just for a quick second, and luckily her eyes are closed.” I reached for my vodka and let Otis absorb what I’d said. “So, I reach down and grab blue eyes by the ears. Now, I got her ears in my hands, and I start pounding my cock in and out of her throat like I’m gettin’ paid. Hell, I’m watchin’ that fucker disappear in her mouth, amazed by the sheer talent of this girl, and I pull it out and shove it back in. Then, I pull out, and shove it back in balls deep. She don’t gag or whimper or nothin’. Hell, this is turning me on like a motherfucker, so I turn it up a notch.” I raised my eyebrows, inviting Otis to imaging what might be next. While he was dreaming of my next move, I stood from my seat, held my hands in front of my hips, and started fucking the air, imagining her head in front of my cock. “So I’m shoving my cock balls deep into her throat, pulling it out, and shoving it right back in, and it builds up that throat snot like a motherfucker,” I said as I bucked my hips back and forth. Otis wrinkled his nose. “Throat snot?” “Yep. What, you never heard of it? It’s that goop down deep in their throats. Hell, you probably ain’t got a cock big enough to find it, but ole Biscuit does.” I chuckled as I continued to thrust my hips back and forth. “So anyway, I’m pounding away and things get kind of slippery. So I pull back…and I don’t realize it at that exact minute, but my cock slides all the way out of her mouth. So I go to shove it back in, thinkin’ the tip is still in her mouth, and the head hits her top lip, and the fucker’s all covered in slobber and throat snot, so it shoots up the side of her face and sticks her in the eye.” I shoved my hips forward as if I was poking her in the eye with my cock. “Now, initially, I don’t think nothing of it, other than the fact I just poked her in the eye with my cock. So I pull my hips back and prepare to shove her throat full one more time. And she looks up and opened her eyes…” I widened my eyes and grinned. Otis sat, shaking his head and grinning. “And she’s starin’ back at me smilin’, ready for the cock, and she’s got one brown eye and one fuckin’ blue one. I got my cock in my hand, starin’ back at her, and I blink my eyes, not sure if what I’m seein’ is what I’m seein’. Nope, she’s still crouched down there, with her mouth open, starin’ back at me with one brown and one fuckin’ blue one – ain’t got a fuckin’ clue of what’s happened. Now this freaks me the fuck out, because the entire reason I like this girl, other’n the fact she can suck a golf ball through a garden hose, is that she’s got them

crazy blue eyes. And I glance down, blink one more time, and my eyes focus on my big fat cock. And the tip of my rod’s got a little transparent blue dot on the end of it.” “Contacts?” he asked. “Yep. That’s when I learned about ‘em. Fucked it right out of her god damned eye,” I said with a laugh as I slipped back into my seat. He chuckled. “That’s a hell of a story.” I reached for my vodka, took a drink, and nodded my head. “Damndest thing I ever seen.” “So what was all that about?” a voice from behind me asked. I glanced over my shoulder, “What?” She grinned and held her hands in front of her little shorts and began bucking her hips like she was riding a cock. She looked like Beyonce, Britney Spears, and Madonna all rolled up into one very welltuned dancer. “God dayumm,” I howled as I watched her put on her show. After a few more well-timed thrusts of her hips, she slapped her hand against her ass and locked eyes with me. I’m gonna fuck you ragged, you sexy little bitch. “I just thought it was funny when you were doing it. I’m sorry, I’m just bored,” she said. “You can come over here and fuck the air any fucking time you want,” I responded. “Is that what you were doing, fucking the air?” she asked. Her eyes locked on mine and her mouth curled into a cute little smile. I wanted her, and I wanted her bad. Something about her made her seem like a tease to me, but I knew she was far from it. I decided to take a chance, reveal a little about the story, and see what she had to say about a little sexual innuendo. “Here? Yeah, I was fucking the air,” I said as I pointed down to the floor. “But in the story I was tellin’, I was fuckin’ a girl’s mouth,” I said as I pointed up toward her face.

“Sounds fun,” she said. It always sounds fun, but it ain’t every woman who can actually take a foot long shoved in and out of their throat. Time, I suppose, would tell. Hopefully, it’d just be a matter of time, and I’d have her just where I wanted her. Her eyes still fixed on mine, she tried to turn away. Her gaze stayed stuck as her body twisted around. “I probably ought to go clean some tables before I get myself in trouble,” she said. I kept my eyes locked on hers as she walked away. After walking halfway across the bar, she grinned and turned away. “Damn, Biscuit. Looks like she likes ya,” Otis said. “Sooner or later, they all do,” I responded as I reached for my vodka. “Probably those damned gauges you have in your ears,” he said as he tossed his head in my direction. “Naw. It’s the beard, my charm, and that big cock I’m rockin’,” I said with a laugh. I shrugged my shoulders, realizing we hadn’t even spoken about anything significant. “So what’d you want to talk about?” “Nothing, I just needed to unwind. I’m good now,” he said. “You sure you’re alright, Brother?” “Positive,” he said as he lifted his beer bottle. “How long you want to stick around?” I asked. “Drink this and go?” he said as he raised his bottle of beer. I nodded my head and glanced over my shoulder. Kat stood at the corner of the bar staring at me like she was starving and I was the only available next meal. “I might stick around until she gets off,” I said as I tilted my head her direction.

Otis raised one eyebrow. “Trial’s tomorrow.” I nodded my head. Sydney’s brother was given a life sentence for admitting he’d kill a rival gang member if they rode into town with a rocker claiming territory. Seemed like a far-fetched case to me, and from what Avery said, he was pretty much forced into saying it on one drunken night in a bar with an undercover ATF agent. We had all agreed to go to the trial together to support him. Trial or no trial, my focus, at least for the time being, was Kat. “You see her fuckin’ legs?” I asked as I tossed my head her direction. Otis nodded his head as he finished his beer. He seemed off his game. “You sure you’re alright?” I shrugged. He tilted his head back. “My old girlfriend, Sam. Her mother died. Just wanted to try and let it all settle. Just trying to make sense of it.” Otis’ only love was Sam. They split up when he was in his early twenties, and she moved away to New York, and married some rich fella. Now hip deep in kids, and living the high life, the last thing Otis needed was to see or think of her again. He never quite recovered from losing her, and whether or not he’d ever admit it, he missed her dearly. “Oh shit, your sweetheart? Damn, Brother, I’m sorry. What happened, if I might ask?” “Aluminum foil. It was an accident,” he said. I shook my head. Aluminum foil? Hell, maybe she got crushed in a machine at work, I thought. “Damn, did she work at the Reynold’s Wrap factory or something?” I asked. He shook his head. “No, she was cooking and went to pull some aluminum foil off the roll, and it cut her wrist. She bled to death before the ambulance arrived.” Shocked at the thought of a woman dying from such a freak accident, and further shocked thinking the woman was Sam’s mother, I stood from my seat and opened my arms.

“Well, when a deal like that happens, you just got to stand back and realize that this world we’re living in ain’t ours, it’s His; and things like that are just proof of it. His plan’s much bigger’n this,” I said. He hugged me and slapped his hand against my back. “Appreciate it, Brother.” “See you in the morning,” he said as he stepped back. “Long as I’m done with her,” I said as I turned around and glanced toward Kat. “Just don’t fuck her in the eye, and everything’ll be fine,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away. Thinking of Brother Otis being in pain didn’t set well with me. He wasn’t one to reveal his feelings, nor was he a person who complained about anything. He had texted me and wanted to meet, which meant he was bothered by the death of Sam’s mother, as he should be. Trying to decide if he was more uncomfortable about the death or Sam’s undoubted arrival into town was anyone’s guess, but my opinion was he was worried about possibly running into Sam. Either way, Otis never did anything he didn’t want to do - if he happened to stumble onto Sam, he’d react in a manner supporting what he believed was in his best interest. As I lowered myself into the seat and reached for my vodka, feeling guilty for not having provided him a little more ear and a lot less mouth, Kat slipped into the seat across from me. “So, what’s your story?” she asked as she sat down. I widened my eyes and stared like a sex starved idiot. “Who me?” I asked as I pointed to my chest. She tossed her hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand. “Yeah. You. What’s your deal?” “Deal? I dunno. Don’t guess I got a deal. I’m just a biker who likes havin’ fun, suckin’ down a little beer, and tryin’ to see how much Red Bull I can drink before I have a heart attack,” I responded as I lifted my glass of vodka. Her blue eyes were driving me insane, even if they weren’t blue underneath her little contact lenses. As she sat and studied me, waiting for her mind to come up with another question to ask me, I daydreamed about doing the windmill with her. Her long legs and participation in sports would probably make it effortless.

“My dad’s a cop,” she said flatly. “Excuse me?” I snapped back as I spit about half my vodka onto my hand and forearm. She nodded her head. “Yep. Wichita P.D.” “Well, that’s a nice how do ya fuckin’ do. Damn, where’d that come from?” I asked as I wiped my hand on the leg of my jeans. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know; just thought I’d get it out of the way.” “Just had a run in with the cops a week or so ago,” I said as I glanced at the back of my hand. “What did you do?” she asked as she leaned forward, and rested her tits on the edge of the table. “Late for a meeting with the fellas, was going about a hundred and a half down Kellogg, resisted arrest, got Tased, cuffed, hauled to jail, and then kicked the shit out of a skinhead gang while I was locked up. Typical weekend for me,” I said. Still leaning forward on the table, she glanced up and blinked her eyes a few times before answering. “I’m not even going to lie, I love bad boys,” she cooed. “Well, I’m about as bad as it gets. Now, you spilled your guts about your pop being a cop, I guess I’ll just cut right to it, you know, eliminate all the guesswork so to speak,” I said as I lifted my glass of vodka and peered over the top. Still pressing her tits into the top of the table, she batted her eyelashes a few times and smiled. “Okay. You’re not going to scare me.” “We’ll see,” I said. I took a sip of the vodka and chased it with a swig of Red Bull. As I sat the can down to the side, I leaned onto the edge of the table and curled my index finger into my palm, hoping she’d scoot a little closer to the center. I wanted to smell her while I spoke to her.

She did just that, and as I inhaled a whiff of her perfume, I decided she must have sprayed a little more on herself while she was away. Maybe this was just meant to be. “I don’t commit to anyone, and I’ll never be anyone’s exclusive anything, or whatever you call it nowadays,” I whispered. She gazed at me as if hypnotized. “Okay,” she breathed. Well, that went fairly well. Let’s see how long she lasts… I inhaled a short breath, exhaled, and glanced over each shoulder. The bar was still empty, and in fact, had two less people than the four who were in it when I entered an hour before. I turned to face her and inhaled through my nose. Couture La La. That’s the scent. I grinned at my recollection of her perfume, and continued. “I’ve got maybe a six-inch tongue, and a twelve-inch cock about as big around as your wrist. I don’t believe in love, I think marriage is a fuckin’ joke, and I don’t like cops. I’ve always wanted to fuck a cop, but never found one willin’. Lookin’ at you now, I think I’d settle for the daughter of a cop, but that’s all you’re gonna get. Fucked. I can promise you it’ll be fun, no strings attached, and we can keep doin’ it for as long as you want, but it’ll never be nothin’ more than fuckin’. You in or are you out?” She didn’t blink an eye. As the edges of her mouth curled upward, she fought against it and began to speak. “I like bad boys, and I hate my cop father with a passion. He despises people like you; which makes me like the thought of your twelve inch dick that much more. I’ll challenge you on the tongue, because I don’t think any human has a tongue that long, but the thought of it excites me. I’ve never been on the back of a bike, but I’d like to, and until now, I never really thought I’d even talk to a real biker. The bottom line, Biscuit, I’m in. Your move,” she said in one uninterrupted sentence without so much as becoming short of breath. Still positioned in the center of the table no less than eight inches from her face, I sat and stared. Fuck, I like this girl.

For once in my life, I was at a loss for words. To mask my sudden stupidity and buy some time to come up with something to say, I reached for my glass of vodka. “First things first,” I said as I sat up straight. “It ain’t a dick. It’s a cock. Little boys and short dudes got dicks. Mine’s a cock,” I said as I raised my glass to my mouth. I took a short drink, more for theatrics than for the need to take a drink. I slid the glass to the side and widened my eyes slightly. She reached for my vodka, slid it across the table, and lifted it to her mouth. As she peered over the rim, she tipped it up and drank the remaining liquid from the glass. After she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she grinned and set the glass to the side. “I’ve been off work for ten minutes. From here on out, the d-word will be off limits. Now, you think you and that third leg of yours are up for a ride?” She batted her eyelashes and waited for a response. I swallowed heavily and raised my right hand in the air. “What’s a man gotta do to get a bar tab in this joint?” I hollered. She grinned and leaned back into her seat. As I studied her face, and continued to stare at her overly blue eyes, the bartender slapped the tab onto the table. “Here you go,” Crayon box huffed. I didn’t even bother to turn around. “Thanks,” I said. “You leaving?” she asked Kat. Kat nodded her head. “With him.” “Like your beard,” Crayon box said. “Like your hair,” I lied as I reached for my wallet.

“Thanks. Just got it done,” she replied. I pulled a fifty dollar bill from my wallet and pressed it on top of the thirty dollar tab. “Keep the change,” I said. You can use the tip to fix your hair. “Ready?” I asked as I stood. She stood and nodded her head. “Yep.” As I watched her turn toward the door, I began to wonder if I was ready. Something about Kat made me feel like if I was ever going to meet my sexual match, I’d just done it. If her willingness to perform was equal to her ability to talk a quick line of shit, I guessed it wouldn’t be long and I’d know for sure. And I was more than ready to try and find out.

KAT I had been raised under the thumb of my overly protective police officer father, and never allowed to live life with the feeling of being free. Everyone I dated, hung out with, or even had a cup of Starbuck’s coffee with was placed under a microscope and examined. None stood up to his expectations, and if I didn’t remove them from my life, he made their lives so difficult they decided to leave on their own. Going to college was the best thing to ever happen to me, and although the campus was only forty miles away from my parent’s home, I opted to stay in the housing immediately off campus, claiming the drive back and forth from their house was more than I could handle when combined with my homework. I could never decide for sure which it was, but either my hatred toward my father’s strict rules, the fact he was a cop, or my mother’s subservient nature caused me to have a desire to only date bad boys, and the older the better as far as I was concerned. Until I had spent some time talking to Avery, I never really considered a biker, and typically migrated toward military men. My first three years of college were spent with a former Marine ten years older than me who was the most controlling, overly abusive, and mentally exhausting prick to ever walk this earth. Even though we broke up six months prior, he insisted on kicking my door in every time he got drunk and all but raping me upon entering the house. Finally, after beating the girl he had as a side piece for our entire relationship, he was arrested and thrown in jail for battery and domestic abuse. Now free of his grasp, I felt a need to spread my sexual wings, and see what else the world had to offer. A relationship was the furthest thing from my mind, considering my difficulties with Kyle. I wanted a bad boy, sans the abusive behavior. I’d seen the Sinners in the town I lived in on a daily basis for the last three years, and although I viewed them as the baddest of bad boys, I hadn’t really looked at any of them as a viable option until recently. Avery’s explanation of the club, the men, and their loyalties sparked my interest; and Biscuit’s arrival in the bar with Otis couldn’t have come at a better time. Now half-drunk,

horny as hell, and standing in Biscuit’s living room, I wondered if I had possibly let my alligator mouth overstep the abilities of my hummingbird ass. Standing on one side of the island in his kitchen while he stood on the other, I watched his mouth move as he spoke. The words made very little sense; it seemed my mind’s focus was on his lips and beard. He’d claimed in the bar that he had a six inch tongue, and when I questioned him later, he said he knew how to use it quite well. I’d never considered myself to be one of the women who was intrigued or turned on by beard porn, but with him standing a few feet from me, each minute that I spent studying him caused me to be more and more attracted to the thought of him licking my pussy – something Kyle had never done. As he finished saying whatever it was he said; he began to laugh. Naturally, I laughed in return. “So, what do you think?” he asked. I think I have no idea what you just said, that’s what. I grabbed the bottle of beer and squeezed it in my hand. It was luke-warm and not of any interest to me. I released the bottle, inched a little closer to the island and grinned as I lowered my hand to my waist. “I think my leg itches,” I said as I bent down slightly. He stood on one side of the kitchen, and I stood on the other. Hidden from his view by the island in front of me, I slid my finger beneath the fabric of my shorts and along my pussy – just to check. Holy shit, I’m soaked. Attempting to hide the joy of finding my wet pussy, I reached for the beer with my left hand and lifted it to my not so willing lips. As I drank the warm filth, I scratched the inner part of my thigh and raised my right hand to the bar. “Probably a fuckin’ mosquito. They’re bad this summer,” he said. All I saw was tongue. “So is your tongue really six inches long?” I asked. He wiped his hand along his beard and stretched his jaw a few times, opening his mouth wide as he did so. A few seconds later, he stuck out his tongue. If he so desired, it appeared he could lick his

eyebrows with it. After twirling it in a circle and curling the tip of it while holding the remaining five inches still, my mind wandered away to all of the possibilities. I imagined him bringing me to climax with it. My knees buckled slightly. “Oh my,” I said. “Wanna try it out?” he asked as he shrugged his shoulders slightly. Do I ever… Incapable of speaking, I simply nodded my head. “Go into the living room and lie down on the couch,” he said as he pointed toward the room behind me. All I heard was lie down. I turned toward the living room, walked briskly to the couch, and flopped onto my back. As my head rested into the rather comfy decorative pillow, I bent my knees and rested my feet against the cheeks of my butt. In hindsight, I probably looked like an overeager prostitute. “You might want to take them shorts off,” he said as he walked into the room. I rolled off the couch and removed my shorts and panties with one good tug. Still wearing a shirt and bra, but not really worried about anything but feeling his tongue inside of me, I jumped back onto the couch and made myself comfortable. “Where do you want me?” I asked. “Right there’s fine,” he responded as he knelt down beside me. “Now you ain’t gonna freak out and start comin’ by here odd hours of the night or anything are ya?” he asked. “Not a chance,” I responded as I shook my head from side-to-side. “You sure?” he asked.

“Promise,” I responded. “Deal,” he said as he placed his hand against my inner calf. As he pulled my leg to the side, I closed my eyes and waited. His soft beard slowly slid along my inner thighs and toward my embarrassingly wet pussy. As the tip of his tongue lightly touched my pussy lips, my entire body tingled and I almost sprung from the couch. “You’re fucking soaked. Were you standing in the kitchen thinking about this?” he asked. I nodded my head. Please, please, do that again. The tip of his tongue slowly began to work its way from the bottom of my pussy to the top, stopping at my clit each time. After flicking against my clit a few times, he’d start over. With my eyes closed, my ass pressed into the couch, and my pussy against his face, I slowly slipped into some weird sexual bliss. As I focused on his very predictable pattern of licking, he stopped. “Ready?” he asked. Having no idea what he was asking, but ready for whatever it was he was willing to offer, I responded, “Uh huh.” I wasn’t. I wasn’t even close. No one could have prepared for what he did. He shoved his tongue deep inside of me. With it fully inserted into my vaginal cavity, he curled the end of it, flicking it against my g-spot. With each flick of his tongue, my body went into shock. After three or four flicks, my eyes opened wide and I prepared to explode. “Oh my…” I wailed. He raised his hand in the air to silence me, but never stopped doing what he was doing.

As he steadily fucked me with his thick tongue and tortured my g-spot with the tip, I wondered if there was any way I could convince him to be my boyfriend. If there was a heaven, and I had never been quite sure there was, I was now in it and a few seconds from meeting God. I stared at the ceiling, arched my back and bit my lower lip. My body began to convulse into the craziest feeling I had ever felt. To describe it as an orgasm wouldn’t do it justice; I had orgasms a thousand times, and this wasn’t one of them. It was more like an experience than a feeling. As I bucked my hips and released my lower lip, I began to wail. As my cries increased in volume, he moaned into my pussy as if to encourage me to continue. The tip of his tongue continued to stroke my g-spot as he tongue fucked me into a state of semiconsciousness. I bellowed out into the room as my body shook and my mind attempted to catch up to the feeling inside of me. In and out his tongue worked. Up and down my hips bucked. Chills ran throughout my body and caused every muscle I had worked so many years to develop to contract and release repeatedly. Roughly four orgasms into the ordeal, I opened my eyes and let out a blood curdling scream. The orgasm that every other orgasm in the future would be compared to. I collapsed onto the couch and closed my eyes, slightly embarrassed at my screaming. “I’m…sorry,” I said. “For what?’ he said as he raised his head slightly. “Screaming,” I responded in a whisper. “I like it. Let’s me know I’m doing my job,” he said. “Wanna see my cock?” he asked. My head bobbed up and down like a wind-up toy.

He rolled off the edge of the couch and unbuckled his belt. After removing his jeans, he turned to face me. The size of the bulge in his boxer shorts was supportive of his claim. With wide eyes and an eager attitude, I swallowed heavily and stared. “Oh my god. It’s uhhm. Wow,” I said as I gazed at his shorts. “Shit, I've got cock for days. I got cock I don't even need,” he said as he pushed the waist of his boxers down his thighs. As the material cleared the twitching shaft, what appeared to be a third leg hung heavily between his legs. I gazed down and blinked my eyes, uncertain if what I was seeing was some kind of a joke or if it was real. After kicking his shorts to the side, he glanced up and grinned. With his eyes locked on me, and my eyes glued to the eighth wonder of the world, the sound of his raspy voice confirmed this was no joke. As he spoke, I shifted my eyes to meet his. “Big fucker, ain't it?” he asked with a laugh. I glanced downward, stared for a long second, and forced myself to look away as I nodded my head repeatedly in affirmation. As much as I felt a desire to speak, I couldn't. I had my reservations on fucking him now, hell there was probably no way that thing was going to fit inside me... But I had to know. “Does it, uhhm...” my voice was dry and nervous. “...get bigger?” “Afraid so. If you want to bail out, now'd be the time,” he began. My eyes still fixed on his lower region, I shook my head. I didn't want to bail out, I wanted to get started. My brother rode bulls professionally when we were younger, and I'd been to a few rodeos in my day. I had no earthly idea why I did it, but as I attempted to shift my eyes from his now rigid cock, my right hand slowly raised into the air. In hindsight, it was probably some subconscious connection between the signal to release the bull from the chute and my willingness to at least attempt to ride his stiff dick.

Cock. Correction. His stiff cock. “You got a question?” he asked as his eyes followed the path of my slowly rising hand. “Nope,” I shrugged as I slowly lowered my hand. “I'm ready to ride.”

KAT Every girl in college wants a boyfriend with a big dick – well, at least the girls I talk to. No one really says they can’t wait to see if so-and-so has a tiny penis. They all look at guys and say things like I bet he has a big dick, look at how he walks. I never really considered that a man might exist who had too much dick – until now. I exhaled onto the countertop as his cock slowly penetrated me. It didn’t feel like I was being torn to shreds, but it damned sure felt different than Kyle’s dick. I closed my eyes and took a short choppy breath as I bit my lower lip, hoping in time it would become a little less painful. “Just go…” “…slow,” I said. “I won’t hurt ya if that’s what you’re worried about, but listen up,” he said as he leaned forward, pressing his massive chest onto my back. His beard pressed lightly against my cheek. I felt his breath against my jaw as he continued to slowly push further and further into me. The feeling was an extremely strange sensual pain unlike anything I had ever experienced. As his warm breath encompassed my ear goosebumps rose along my arm. I tilted my head to the side as my entire right side began to tingle. “I’m in charge. Me. You’re gettin’ fucked and I’m doin’ the fuckin’. You need to understand that. We clear?” he breathed into my ear. “Jesus…yes, I understand,” I murmured. “Good, and don’t forget it,” he breathed against my neck.

“Won’t. I won’t,” I said. Slowly, carefully, cautiously, almost magically, he withdrew his cock from inside of me. As I opened my eyes and exhaled, I felt it slowly begin to fill me again. As I bit my lip and prepared for the pain, he pulled back. A few slow short strokes later, I relaxed, exhaling heavily onto the countertop. Although I hadn’t realized I was tense, the almost immediate relaxation of my muscles made clear my degree of apprehension regarding his huge cock. The process continued with short slow strokes for a few minutes, and the pain was entirely gone. Being bent over the kitchen island with a big tattooed burly biker fucking me from behind on the night I met him sounded wild and crazy, but it wasn’t so bad. The kindness of his sexual approach was a nice change from what I was used to, and definitely not what I had expected. Maybe bad boys aren’t so bad after all. “Lift your left leg up a little,” he said as I felt his hand against my right inner thigh. Half hypnotized by his slow strokes and the feeling of his fat cock inside of me, I opened my eyes and gazed blankly into the kitchen. “Huh?” He leaned forward and pressed his beard heavily against my neck. “Don’t make me keep repeating myself, Kat. Lift up your fuckin’ leg,” he growled against my ear. Not knowing what he meant, but afraid of pissing him off, I lifted my leg slightly. As I did, his hand grasped my lower calf and raised my leg a few feet from the floor. “Kick it up on the countertop,” he said flatly as he continued to slowly fill me with his throbbing shaft. “Whaaa?” I muttered, feeling totally lost at what he wanted me to do. He gripped my head in his massive hand and turned it to the side, pressing his face against my cheek as he did so. The roughness was a little more of what I was used to with Kyle, and definitely a turn on. Now with his mouth totally enveloping my right ear, he growled into my ear. “You never been bent over the kitchen counter before?” he breathed.

His warm breath against my ear caused me to moan in anticipation. “Uhhm. No.” “Well, I’ll make sure you don’t forget this anytime soon,” he growled as his hand slid down to my ankle. “Throw your leg up on the counter,” he demanded. Without question, I raised my right leg and kicked my foot onto the countertop. As I resituated my left foot, and shuffled a little further away from the island, I bent my leg and pressed my knee onto the cool surface of the counter. Gripping the edge of the granite in my hands tightly with my chest slightly raised from the counter, I wondered what was next. Not near as slowly, but in a very predictable manner, he began to fuck me. As I inhaled a deep breath and widened my eyes, I decided the niceties had been cast aside. “You like that big cock?” he asked as he pressed his chest against my back. “Uh huh?” I grunted in return. “You got a nice little pussy,” he growled, “I’m going to stretch it out and make that little fucker mine.” Oh god. “God damned right. My little pussy,” he moaned as he released my hip and slapped my ass lightly. Oh hell yes. “I’m going to ruin you. You know that, right?” he asked as he began to increase his pace and force. “Uh huh?” I said, half asking and half responding, but knowing full well I wasn’t far from being ruined already. “Sexy little bitch,” he said as he slapped my ass a little harder. “Oh hell yes,” I moaned. “You like that?” he asked as he slapped my ass again, much harder than before. I coughed out a gasp as my eyes widened from the slap. “Yes,” I shouted.

“Tell me what you want, you little bitch,” he said as he forced his cock deep inside of me and held it on place. “Slap my ass,” I bellowed. With each forceful stroke of his cock his hand came down against my ass in the same spot. After about six strokes and an equal amount of slaps, my right butt cheek was on fire and my pussy was beginning to tingle from the inside out. As I felt his hand against my ankle, I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the orgasm which began to rush through me. His hand lifted my ankle from the counter, and began stretching my leg high into the air. No, no, don’t move me, I was getting ready to… With my ankle gripped tightly in his right hand, he held my leg almost straight in the air. Now fucking me at an odd angle, and fucking me deeper than before, the tip of his cock pounded into and past my g-spot with each stroke. An entirely new feeling, and a very satisfying on indeed, I bit my lower lip and let him continue to do what he seemed to be extremely good at. Fucking me. “You know what I call this?” he asked. Afraid to break my sexual concentration, I shook my head, but didn’t respond. “The windmill,” he said. “Hits that magic spot each time, huh?” he asked. “Uh huh,” I moaned. “You get ten more strokes, little girl. You better get your business done by the tenth. Ready?” he bellowed. What? Ten? Why? He pulled his hips back until the tip of his cock was resting against my outer pussy lips. “One,” he said as he slammed his cock into me.

My g-spot tingled all the way up my spine. I hadn’t even realized he pulled out until his voice echoed into the room. “Two,” he shouted as he thrust himself deep inside of me. Oh god. “Three,” I heard him shout. My entire body began to tingle and my mind went strangely blank for some time. With my ears ringing and my head tingling, it was as if I had been transported into some other galaxy altogether. Outer fucking space or somewhere. Although I could still hear him, it seemed he was distant. His shouting continued. “Four,” he bellowed as the underside of his cock pressed against my throbbing clit. His war-like cries into the empty room added to the entire sexual experience. As he shouted numbers and filled me with cock, my body began to rush into an orgasm that was certain to kill me. “Five,” he screamed as his lower torso slammed between my widely spread ass cheeks. The anticipation of the tenth stroke was killing me. Something about his counting did exactly the opposite of what I expected. Instead of making me nervous, it caused me to focus, making the climax much more satisfying than anything I had ever experienced. The build up to the climax exceeded any orgasm I had previously experienced. And I began to explode. As my pussy started to contract heavily, I felt it. From deep within my soul, it wanted out. To be released. I began to climax heavily, my entire body convulsing and tingling. With my eyes closed and my mind as focused as I could make it, I bit my lower lip and hoped for the best. “This big fat cock is gonna ruin’ you, girl…” he growled into my ear. He was right. Incapable of responding, I attempted unsuccessfully to open my eyes. As I began to nod my head, his thickness filed me repeatedly.

“Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” he screamed as he bucked his hips back and forth, the tip of his cock dancing along my g-spot with each inner thrust. My body shattered into a million sexual pieces all over the kitchen with the last stroke. Although I initially didn’t realize I was doing so, after a few seconds I heard myself screaming. I finally regained control over myself, attempted to bite my lower lip, and the screaming stopped. At that instant I realized he wasn’t even close to being done. “My fucking pussy,” he grunted as he thrust himself into me again. Yes yours. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…” he shouted as his cock continued to take ownership of what was already rightfully his. And his already thick cock began to swell to twice its girth. My body convulsed into an orgasm completely capable of causing world peace, ending a holy war, or turning water into wine. And he exploded inside of me. As I shook and blubbered like a mental patient, I felt as if my mind had turned to jello. I knew very little for certain. But I knew one thing. Once a girl gets fucked right, there isn’t any turning back. She’s ruined.

BISCUIT Axton Bishop was without a doubt one of the best motherfuckers ever allowed to walk this earth. Dealt a shit card in life as a kid, and growing up with an abusive old man, he earned the nickname Slice from the kids on the street. They taunted him for the scars that littered his back where his old man had cut him as punishment for doing nothing more than being a kid. Most kids exposed to the punishment would have turned to a life of crime, drugs, or both. Axton? He quit drinking, never used drugs, and picked up the books. His home filled with bookshelves of books he’d read at least once from cover to cover, he was one of the smartest men I had ever met, and the president of the MC for one reason and one reason only. No one on this earth was more capable of keeping the Sinners in line. I respected Axton as if he was my father, and in many respects, he was. “When are you going to grow up,” Axton said as he closed the ledger and slid it to the side. “Grow up? Shit, Slice,” I said as I stood from my seat. “I grew up when I left home at the ripe old age of fifteen. Ain’t nothing wrong with a man havin’ a little fun,” I said over my shoulder as I walked toward the door. “I’m gonna toss this empty in the shop before you tell me to. You know why? Because I’m all grown up and I don’t need you to remind me, that’s why,” I said as I opened the door to the office. One of Axton’s pet peeves was people throwing empty beer bottles in the trash of his office. I didn’t know one thing that made him angrier than having someone do it, and we all knew it. From time to time someone would forget, and when they did, the wrath of Axton came down on them like a lightning

bolt. After tossing the empty bottle in the shop trash, I got another beer from the fridge and walked toward the office. I’d brought Axton up to speed with stories of jail, Billie Jean, Cassie, and Kat, and as always, he found minimal humor in my actions. It had been a week since Kat and I met, and in that week we had fucked no less than ten times. If God ever produced a woman built solely for fucking, Kat was definitely her. In many respects, she was a female version of me. Put on this earth to satisfy the needs, wants, and sexual desires of men. And I intended to use her for what God placed her in front of me for. Fucking. “So anyway, I’m thinkin’ this gal’s a shoe in for the 2015 twat of the year award,” I said as I walked into the office. “I’m sure she is,” Axton said. “Get her name up on the garage wall if she ain’t fuckin’ careful,” I grinned. “From what Avery can tell me, you’ll have your name carved on the stalk of her father’s rifle if you’re not careful,” Axton said as he tilted his chair back on its hind legs. “Pffft,” I hissed as I waved my hand his direction. “A thirty-three-year-old man – and a 1%er at that – fucking the twenty-two-year-old daughter of a cop isn’t a great fucking idea in my book, Biscuit,” Axton said. “I ain’t thirty-three yet, and she’s twenty god damned two,” I said as I lifted the beer bottle. “Well, shit. That fixes everything,” Axton said with a laugh. I shrugged my shoulders and took a drink of the cold beer. “Look, I’m not trying to raise you, but you’re one of the few men here I’m close to. Toad’s still about half his former self from the shooting, Otis is worried about Sam’s mom and who fucking knows

what else, and I sure as shit don’t need you spending any more time in jail or getting shot by a biker-hating father of a god damned college girl,” Axton growled as he lowered his chair to the floor. “I’m with ya, Boss,” I said as I tilted my bottle his direction. “I’m god damned serious, Biscuit,” he responded. I’d never been one to allow any man to tell me what to do, but I certainly gave Axton’s wishes good long consideration. He was as wild and as rough as any man, but he was an extremely sensible human being, and seemed to have a sixth sense about trouble. Although I was pretty damned sure Kat would never say anything to her father, a man could never be positive of anything when it came to a woman. “I’ll have another talk with her about the cop,” I said. He nodded his head. “Be a damned good idea.” “What you thinkin’ about Sydney’s brother? He’s a stand up fella, ain’t he?” I asked as I leaned into the edge of the table. “Well, I sure as fuck wouldn’t be asking for him to be brought in as a patch if he wasn’t,” Axton hissed. “Just checkin’. He seems like good people. Hell, you know me, Slice. Hard for me to trust anybody except you, the Toad, Corn Dog, and Otis. We’ll see how he does, I suppose. Big fucker though, ain’t he?” I asked. “That he is. I think he’ll surprise you. I’ve spent some time checking him out, and he got nothing but good reports from everyone I could talk to. I think he’ll not only make a good Sinner, but he’ll damned sure become one of the short list,” Axton said as he stood and picked up the ledger. I stood from my seat. “Good to know.” “I’ll have another talk with Kat,” I said as I lifted my bottle in the air. “You do that,” Axton said over his shoulder. “Alright, Boss. I’ll leave you to it,” I said as I opened the door to the shop.

He turned to face me. “Few days here, and we’ll have a vote on Jack.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sounds good. I’m gonna go build a 103 incher and try to rekindle my shoe box. Fuckin’ cops got fifty grand and it ain’t settling too well with me.” He chuckled a light laugh. “Cops are going to have a lot more than that if you don’t talk with that girl.” “I might be half stupid, but I got good ears. I heard you the first ten times,” I said with a laugh as I walked into the hallway. “Ears with extra fucking holes in them,” Axton responded. I finished my beer and tossed the bottle into the trash. Axton was right, I needed to talk to Kat and make sure she didn’t tell her dad anything about me. Having a cop on my bad side wasn’t something I wanted, needed, or could deal with properly. Bikers and cops didn’t mix well. Bikers and the daughters of cops, on the other hand, seemed to mix real well. Maybe too well.

KAT Certainly no newcomer to having sex, I found it remarkable that Biscuit had left such an impact – sexually speaking. I was incapable of ridding myself of thoughts of him fucking me, and in all of my time away from him, I spent the majority of it thinking about the last time we had sex. Convinced his big cock, long tongue, stamina, and willingness to try out every sexual position in the book was the reason for my mindless stumbling through the hallways of my college campus, I wandered aimlessly to my next class. “You look like shit, Hooker,” Jennifer said with a laugh as I sat down beside her. “Haven’t slept in a week,” I said over my shoulder as I lowered my book bag to the floor. “Still boning that biker every night?” she whispered. I nodded my head and grinned. “Oh yeah.” “You’re crazy. He’s going to cut you in little chunks and put you in a steel drum in his basement,” she said. I scrunched my nose, narrowed my eyes, and tilted my head her direction. “He’s a biker, not a serial killer.” “What’s the difference?” she asked. Her shit talking was beginning to annoy me. I realized Biscuit and I were only fucking, and we weren’t technically in a relationship, but to hear her talk the way she was about him irritated me.

“Seriously, he’s pretty demanding when we’re fucking, but he’s really a nice guy. And he’s funny,” I explained. “Get a picture of him yet?” she asked. “Yeah, I took some the other day. He had on a wife beater, jeans, and some cool red suspenders. We were in the parking lot of the bar. He was just standing there and glanced over his shoulder, and I snapped a few pics. He got half pissed and made me suck his cock for it…Hold on,” I said as I reached into my book bag. “He made you suck his cock because you took pictures of him?” she asked. “Uh huh,” I said as I scrolled through my phone for the pic. “Here,” I said as I handed her my phone. Her eyes widened as she stared down at the screen of the phone. “Holy Jesus. He looks mean. In like a really hot way. Dear god. Have one of his face?” she asked. “Yeah, here,” I said as I flicked my finger across the screen. A pic of his face I had taken on the same night appeared. She stared at it for a few seconds, flicked back to the pick of him glancing over his shoulder, and back to the one of his face. After a few seconds, she lifted my phone slightly, licked the screen, and handed it back to me. “What the eff, Jen?” I snapped. “Nothing. Good lord. I’m a sucker for guys with beards. Holy shit, Kat. Sorry. But yeah, I might need to borrow that later,” she said as she reached into her book bag. I shoved my phone into my bag. “Nope. Not gonna happen.” “Text it to me,” she said over her shoulder. I shook my head and laughed. “No.” “Hooker,” she said playfully. “Skank,” I responded.

Jennifer and I had been friends since my freshman year. We not only played varsity volleyball as teammates, but shared the same major, and had virtually every class together. We were close, but we didn’t share the same views on all subjects, men included. She was relieved when Kyle and I broke up, and even more at ease when he was placed in jail for abusing the girl he was fucking on the side. In the grand scheme of things, she wanted me to be happy, safe, and loved. Personally, I was willing to settle for happy, safe, and being fucked really hard, but that was a different story altogether. As Mr. Salisbury walked into the classroom, I blinked my tired eyes and tried to remember where we’d left off. A lazy glance over my shoulder toward Jen revealed her jokingly reaching for my book bag, and I responded by kicking at her hand playfully. “Stay out of there,” I whispered. “I can’t,” she said. Her playful nature after seeing his picture made me feel better about everything between us. I realized not every woman would see Biscuit as being attractive, but the fact she did allowed me to feel my decision to spend time with him wasn’t some crazy childish decision I had made. Maybe it was a childish decision, but at least I was doing it with someone hot. Someone hot who also had a big cock. Not just someone. A biker with a big cock. A biker with a big cock and a magical tongue. As Mr. Salisbury began to speak to the class, my mind did what it had been doing for the last two weeks. It drifted off to thoughts of lying on my back with Biscuit’s face between my thighs and his tongue tickling my g-spot. I didn’t know when he intended to stop fucking me, but if I had any say in the matter, it wouldn’t be any time soon. He didn’t lie when he told me what he was going to do to me on the first night we had sex.

There was no doubt in my mind. I was ruined.

BISCUIT Being a patched member of a 1% club isn’t as easy as getting a tattoo, buying a Harley, and donning a pair of boots. It’s a way of life, a commitment, and more responsibility than most men can rightfully fathom. Select few men make it into 1% clubs, and even fewer are worth the salt in their sweat when it comes to being a true brother. Jack’s being voted into the club went without a hitch, and now he was a fully patched member of the Selected Sinners MC. As Otis and Toad took him on a grand tour of the clubhouse, I stood in the corner of the shop doing what I did best. “Alright. So I got her foot in my hand, and I’m stretching it up in the air like a rubber fuckin’ band. I’m about balls deep in this poor gal’s pussy, and I lean forward and bite the bottom of her ear and I ask her, I say,” I said. “You know why that twat of yours is throbbin’? So she turns her head to the side and her god damned eyes are watterin’, and she whimpers to me.” I shrugged my shoulders, narrowed my eyes, and did my best to resemble a twenty-two-year-old college girl. “No, she says.” “It’s throbbin’ because you got a foot of Sinner cock in ya, I tell her.” I lowered my shoulders and slapped Pete on the shoulder as I began to laugh. Out of my peripheral I saw Toad, Otis, and Jack walking up to the group. As I started to turn their direction, Otis taped me on the shoulder. “Biscuit,” he said as he patted my shoulder. “What’s shakin’ O?” I said as I turned to face him.

“Man wanted to talk to ya,” he said as he patted Jack on the shoulder. I glared at Jack, wondering what his problem might be. Big or not, he damned sure wasn’t big enough to fuck with me. There wasn’t a man on this earth who I’d ever backed down from, and my first sure wasn’t going to be some 200 pound swole up weight lifter. After giving him a good solid minute of the ole Biscuit stink eye, I sighed and shifted my eyes to meet his. “What can I help ya with?” He stood his ground, tilted his head toward me, and responded. “Heard you were the one who put the money on my books.” I shook my head and started to turn away. “Money came from the club.” “Heard you were the one who sent me the money. The money the club raised for me. You were the one who put it on my books,” he responded. Wondering what his major malfunction might be, I glanced at Otis, turned toward Toad, and then back to Jack. “You got the right fella. Is there a problem?” He extended his hand and narrowed his gaze. “Just wanted to personally thank ya for sending it. I appreciate ya. If you ever need anything, just let me know. Name’s Jack. Big Jack.” That’s what I was thinking. You didn’t want none of this, did ya, big fella? “Biscuit. Stick around and have a beer,” I chuckled. He crossed his arms in the standard prison posture pose. “I’ll be back. Just got to see the boss about my cut.” “I’ll be right here,” I said over my shoulder. A few minutes later, they returned. As Otis and Toad stood behind, Jack approached me and stood quietly until I turned around. Well, at least he’s respectful. He might not be all that bad after all. “What’s shakin’ Big Jack?” I asked as I turned his direction.

“We were thinking about heading into town to the bar. Fellas and I were wondering if you’d want to roll with us?” he asked as he uncrossed his arms. “Always up for a drink, sure. You ridin’ that old Softail of Toad’s?” I asked. He nodded his head. “All I got for now.” “Well, get you a frame, and I’ll build you a big inch motor for nothin’. How’s that? You’re goin’ to roll with the big boys here, you can’t be ridin’ that bobbed out softie all over the place. Damned thing ain’t got enough power to get out of its own way,” I said. “Appreciate it,” he said. “Well, let’s roll,” I said as I turned away from the fellas I was talking to. “Fellas, we’ll catch up next time. I got shit to do,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out to the bagger. As I reached the parking lot, I gazed over at Toad. Sitting on his bagger with the motor idling, the bike was rumbling like a top fuel dragster. His new cams sounded good, and provided him with plenty of power. No match for my bike, and probably no match for Otis’ either, it suited him well. I glanced at Otis as I fired my bike up, and then turned toward Jack. Riding in even numbered groups was much more satisfying to me than riding in odd numbers. Odd numbered groups when riding two abreast always left one man in the rear alone. Riding in even numbered groups always left me feeling like it was truly a group of brothers riding together. As the four of us rode out of the lot, I pulled to the front, glanced over my shoulder, and grinned. “Loser buys the first round,” I said as I twisted the throttle to full throttle. As the bike lurched forward and I slid around the corner onto College Drive, I guessed someone had to be in the rear – at least this time. And it damned sure wasn’t going to be me.

BISCUIT Hands down, winning will always beat losing, no matter what the stakes might be. I arrived about a full minute ahead of the group, and had time to get off my bike and strike a winner’s pose at the front door before they even rolled into the lot. As they rolled up to the edge of the sidewalk, I exhaled and looked at my watch as if I’d been there for a week waiting. “Throat’s parched, fellas, you finally ready to get a drink?” I asked as Jack shut off his bike. “Fuck you, Biscuit,” Toad said as he got off his bagger. “God damned thirsty, that’s what I am,” I said as I opened the door. The fellas walked past me and over to a booth on the right side. I followed close behind, knowing the sweet taste of a free drink is always more savored than one a man has to purchase. As I sat down in the booth, Toad turned toward me and cleared his throat. “Otis tells me you been fucking some college girl who works here. What the hell’s wrong with you, Biscuit?” he asked. I laughed as I reached up and stroked my beard. “Shit brother, ain’t a damned thing wrong with me, wait ‘till you see her. I think you’ll agree Biscuit’s doin’ pretty damned good with this one, college girl or not. We’ve been fuckin’ like a couple of Catholic rabbits. That girl’s got the sexual drive of a three peckered billy goat.” Otis nodded his head. “She is cute as fuck.” “Right now, I think I’d fuck anyone who agreed to hold still long enough for me to poke ‘em,” Jack said with a laugh. “And that’d be about ten seconds worth, it’s been quite a stretch for me.”

I turned toward Jack as I tried to imagine spending ten years or whatever in prison without pussy. Hell, a weekend was enough to make me jittery. “I bet you’re hornier than a fourteen year old boy who just found daddy’s Playboy collection,” I said as I slapped my hand against his shoulder. He coughed a laugh. “Pretty damned close.” “Kitchen closes in twenty minutes if you want food. If not, the bar’s open till two. Want to see a menu?” the waitress said as she walked up to the table. “You fellas wanna just get some beers?” I asked. Otis shook his head and laughed. “Get fucking Budweiser. I don’t want Toad trying to order beers. We’ll end up with some pale ale orange apple cider bullshit.” “Four Bud’s?” the waitress asked. “Hold up, now. God damn. Do we look like four beers is going to do us much good? We’ll drink four of them fuckers before you can get back to the bar. Make it twelve. We’ll go through the first four in about a minute,” I growled. She looked like she needed to be riding a pole at the amateur night for MILF’s at the strip club. Five foot six, and a hundred pounds, thirty of which was tits, she was damned near as ugly as a mud fence. She cocked her head to the side and grinned. “I’ll bring eight and as soon as you set your empties at the side of the table, I’ll bring four more. You don’t want to drink hot beers, do you?” “Smart girl right there,” I responded as I pointed at her. “Make it eight.” “Be right back,” she said as she walked away. “So you fellas take any long rides? Go to Sturgis?” Jack asked. I leaned forward and began to speak, and before I got a word out, Otis responded. “Don’t go to Sturgis, but we make some pretty good runs. Austin for the ROT Rally, and down to Phoenix for the Arizona Bike Week. Some of the fellas go down to Daytona, but it’s a long ride and still winter here when that fucker pops off,” Otis replied.

“No Sturgis, huh?” Jack asked. Toad shook his head and chuckled. “Sturgis became a trailer-fest. Every swinging dick in the country drags his bike there on a trailer and then rides the fucker around town for a few days. Some of the fellas head up there alone, but we don’t make a club run.” Jack nodded his head and grinned as the waitress shoved the beers to the center of the table. I reached for a beer and raised it to my lips as I wondered how long it had been since Jack had a drink of cold beer. “Never cared for that rally myself; bunch of amateurs,” Jack said as he took a swallow of beer. I agreed wholeheartedly. Sturgis had gone from the best biker gathering in the USA to the most fucked up dipshit fest in the nation. “Here’s to being free, riding hard, and sleeping on a soft bed,” Jack said as he raised his beer bottle in the air. We all tilted our bottles toward his and took a drink. After no more than lowering the bottle from my lips, Jack swung his beer to the center of the table again, and grinned. “And here’s to Slice’s Ol’ Lady Avery. Without her, I’d still be eating Star Crunch and drinking cold instant coffee in my cell,” he said as he tilted his bottle forward. “Damned fine woman right there,” I agreed. A few seconds of silence was my invitation, and as the fellas continued to drink their beers, I figured I’d break Jack in right and give him one of my best stories. I leaned into the center of the table, inhaled a deep breath, and as I exhaled, began telling my tale. “So, we were supposed to leave to go to the ROT Rally in about a week. There was this cute little Asian bitch working at this Thai place, and at the time, I hadn’t fucked me an Asian yet. So I’d been goin’ in there and bein’ sweet on this little bitch,” I said. I glanced around the table. All eyes were on me, just like I liked ‘em to be. As I lifted my beer to my lips and held it in place, I continued. “So she’s a little fucker ‘bout four foot nothin’ and has these little titties that look big because she’s so damned tiny. Had an ass about the size of a Jonathan apple, but on them skinny little legs and against that eighteen inch waist it looked like Kim fucking Kardashian’s ass. So

anyway, we’re a week out, and I head in there to get me some Asian pussy before the run.” “So I get in there, and she ain’t my waitress, this other cute little chick is. But that ain’t what this is about. So I order my food and get that spicy peanut chicken shit they sell. You guys eat Thai food?” “Had some,” Toad said. Jack shook his head and laughed. “Don’t fuck with the stuff.” I turned to Otis. His face filled with disgust. “Well, lemme tell ya, it ain’t spicy, it’s fucking hot. So anyway, I order this shit, and after a bit, a big plate of it shows up. Now I’m about half pissed this little Vietnamese princess ain’t working, so I gobble this shit down. Now I’m waitin’ on my check, and my gut starts making them noises. You know them noises when you know something’s gonna happen and it ain’t gonna be good?” Jack nodded his head and lifted his beer. “Like after eatin’ a burrito out of the toilet.” “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” I snapped back. “A toilet burrito?” Jack chuckled. “Contraband. If you get caught with them, you go to the hole, so you can’t leave ‘em out in the cell, and you need to keep ‘em cold anyway. So the Mexican’s would steal the food from the kitchen and smuggle it to the cells and make up burritos. They’d sell ‘em for stamps and store. They’d come wrapped in a piece of plastic, like from a garbage bag. The end was tied and it’d be airtight, and we kept ‘em in the toilet to keep ‘em cold until we wanted to eat ‘em. Toilet’s kind of like a ‘fridge in the joint. Got sick on a few of those fuckers, that’s for sure. Sorry for interrupting, go ahead.” “You ate shit out of a toilet?” I asked. Jack nodded his head and grinned. “Didn’t have a choice. Food, drinks, everything. You tie a string to it, shove it in the toilet, and pull it out when you want it. If the cops come, you flush it. After they leave, if they don’t find the end of your string, you pull it back out of the sewer and either eat it or drink it.” I narrowed my eyes as I tried to imagine eating anything out of a toilet. “God damn.” “Go ahead,” Jack said. “I apologize for interrupting.”

You’re alright in my book, big boy. I like it that you’re already schooled in the respect department. I took a quick drink of beer and continued. “Okay, so I’m waitin’ on my check, and my gut’s a rumblin’ and makin’ noise, and I know it’s time to go. I reach into my wallet, pull out a twenty, and drop it on the table. I run out to my bike and ride that fucker home like I’d stole it. Whole way, it’s a coin toss as to whether I’m gonna shit my pants or make it on time. I pull that fucker in the drive, hop off, and run into the house, dropping my pants as I’m runnin’.” “So I get into the shitter, and just explode. A miracle I even made it, I’m tellin’ ya. So for about four hours, I got the shits. Now for situations like this, I keep them pills, the anti-diarrhea stuff, Imodium AD. I take about ten of those fuckers and finally it stops.” I took another quick drink and raised my hand to silence the group from another interruption. As I set my bottle back onto the table, I widened my eyes and continued. “So that ain’t even the story, the story’s this. I took so many of those damned pills that I didn’t shit for a week, and we got the rally comin’ up in two days. Finally, it came. When it did, it was a week’s worth, and about the size of a ten year old boy’s arm. Fucker ripped my ass to shreds. Now, although I finally took a shit, I’m in pretty sad shape and I got a hemorrhoid the size of a Johnsonville Bratwurst hanging out of my ass.” Jack chuckled. “God damn. That’s a bitch. And the run’s a few days out?” I nodded my head and grinned. “Precisely. Two days until we’re gonna spend ten hours on the road, and I’ve got a little friend hangin’ outta my ass like I just gave birth. So I know I can’t make it with this hot dog hanging out of my ass. Hell, I can’t even sit down. Sleepin’ on my belly and shit, and I fuckin’ hate sleepin’ on my belly, I’m a back sleeper. So I get me a rubber glove and I poke this fucker back up in there. Hell, after a few minutes, I feel pretty good and forget it’s even there. I stand up and take a few steps.” I paused for effect and leaned into the table. “And bloop - out the fucker comes. Another rubber glove, poke him back in there, and everything’s fine. Take a few steps and bloop - out he comes again. Now I know I can’t ride to Austin with my finger in my ass, so I start to thinkin’. And all of a sudden it comes to me, so I have Tater come get me in his truck and take to me that dildo shop out east. After a look around a bit, I find one of them butt plugs. Did you know they come in about ten different sizes?”

“Had no idea,” Jack responded. “Well they do. Picked me out a little red number on the small side of things. And it had this little ring in the end made it look like a pacifier. So Tater takes me home, and I glove up, shove the hotdog inside, and poke the little pacifier in my ass. After I wiggle around a bit, it feels pretty good. Now as far as I’m concerned, problem’s solved. I’m a day out and ready to ride. Just for shits and grins, later on that night, I reach back there to check on things, you know, make sure everything’s where it should be. And I’ll be damned if that little ring, you know the part you hold on to? It’s fucking gone!” Jack’s eyes widened. “Huh?” “Yep. Fucker sucked right up there in my ass. So, now I got to go fishin’ for this little fucker. I glove up again, stick my finger up there, and fish around and find it. I pull her out, wash her up, and grease it with Vaseline and poke it back inside. Couple a minutes, and bloop. You guessed it, it disappears.” “So I just say fuck it. At this point in time, I feel pretty good, other’n knowing I got a butt plug in my ass. I hop on the bike and ride out to the snow ski and mountain climbin’ store out on Central. Buy me one of those spring loaded carabiner D-rings. After I rode home, I gloved up one last time, found the little fucker, pulled it out, and hooked that D-Ring to it. Then I shoved her back in, and let the hook just hang out of my ass.” Jack shook his head and narrowed his gaze in apparent disbelief. “Rode to Austin with a rappelling D-ring hanging out of your ass?” “Sure as fuck did, left it there for a fucking week. Don’t know if it was a conscious thing, or just because I had that little rubber plug in there or what, but I didn’t shit for a week. When we got home, I reached back, grabbed the D-ring and gave it a tug. Damned thing popped out, and my little friend the hotdog was gone. Problem solved.” Jack reached over and slapped his hand against my shoulder. “You’re funnier than a motherfucker.” “Club joker, that’s me,” is said. Jack whistled. “Holy. Fucking. Shit. Now, that’s a woman.” I turned to face the door. A six foot tall blonde supermodel walked into the bar, clearly out of

place in a bar with a bunch of bikers. As I studied her and began wondering if she could lift her thirty-six inch long legs over her shoulders, Otis stood and turned around. “Sam,” he hollered. “Sam!” he screamed again as she walked to the bar. Holy shit, that’s Samantha. She turned around. As she made eye contact with the Big O, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. A few minutes later, Otis brought her to the table and introduced her to all of us. Meeting her did little but fuel my desire to fuck Kat again. As she sat in the booth and laughed and talked to Otis about old times, I stared blankly at the walls and tried to figure out what it was about Kat that made her a better piece of ass in my mind than any of the other women I had fucked recently. Coming up with nothing she possessed other than an extremely eager attitude and a long set of legs, I was pleased when Otis and Sam stood to leave. Knowing Otis was going to knock off a piece of for old time’s sake pussy, I turned toward Jack and Toad and yawned. “Fellas, I’d be lyin’ if I said I was tired. But, I’m tired of lookin’ at you two fuckers. I’m gonna piss, hop on my sled, and head to Kat’s house. I’m in dire need of some pussy,” I said as I glanced toward the bathroom. “It’s damned near midnight,” Toad said as he looked at his watch. “Good. That’ll leave me damned near eight solid hours to fuck her before she’s got to get to school,” I said as I turned toward the bathroom. As I walked to the bathroom, I realized I had yet to talk to Kat about her father. Tonight probably wouldn’t be a good time, I just needed to get laid, not piss anyone off. Maybe next week I’d say something when both of our minds were clear and she had the ability to listen to what it was I had to say. For now, I simply needed her to be no more than what she was. A piece of pussy.

KAT Predicting my former boyfriend Kyle’s sexual actions was easy. He’d climb on me, fuck me, and climb off. From time to time, he’d demand I suck his dick, and he’d hold my head with his hands while I did so, making sure to make me as uncomfortable as possible during the entire process. Predicting what Biscuit was going to do, however, seemed to be nothing short of impossible. The long list of sexual offerings Biscuit chose from seemed to be very vast, and to be brutally honest, as far as I was concerned I never wanted to be fucked in a bed or in the missionary position again as long as I lived. “Get up here and sit on my face,” he said as he bent over backwards and rested his shoulders and the back of his head on the table. The deck off of the apartment jutted out to the side, and hung from the exterior wall for all the world to see. Every apartment in the building had a similar deck, and they were situated directly above, below, and beside each other. Mine was approximately eight feet by eight feet, and was just large enough for the small glass table and four chairs I had positioned on it for sitting and enjoying the evening air or having a drink. As much as I wanted to do what he asked of me, the flimsy table, at least in my opinion, wasn’t suitable for both of us to be fucking on. “I think it might collapse,” I said. “Get the fuck out of here,” he said as he rolled onto his side and stood. He turned toward the table and began inspecting the legs, upper portion, and the surface of the glass.

“Get this fucker at Home Depot?” he asked as he examined the table. “Wow. As a matter of fact we did,” I responded. “Well, it’ll do just fine,” he said. “Toad’s got one just like it at his place on the back deck, and I stood on the bastard one Sunday and told a story. Motherfucker never collapsed on me, so it ain’t gonna collapse here.” “Now ride my fuckin’ face,” he said as he lowered himself onto the table again. “But, we’re outside,” I explained as I peered over the edge of the deck to the deck beside us which was not more than ten feet away. I glanced to my left, toward my other neighbor’s deck which was the same distance away. “I don’t give a fuck. It’s seventy-five out here, and about ninety god damned degrees in your apartment. I been ridin’ all day, I’m hot, and it’s fuckin’ midnight. Grind that sweet little pussy on my beard, I ain’t gonna ask ya again. Now get to work,” he said in a demanding tone. I glanced over my left shoulder, and then turned to my right. All of the decks I could see in both directions were empty, which wasn’t surprising. It was almost one o’clock in the morning. Somewhat reluctantly, I unbuttoned my shorts, pulled them down past my thighs, and kicked them to the side. After pulling off my panties and tossing them on top of my shorts, I walked toward the table and peered down at Biscuit. Lying there on his back with his face pointed straight up at the sky, he grinned and stuck out his tongue. “Just sit down here like you’re gettin’ on a chair,” he said as he closed his eyes and patted his hand against his beard. “This seems weird,” I said as I glanced out at the pond situated directly behind the deck. “Don’t seem weird to me. Eatin’ pussy is damned sure more natural than eatin’ a fuckin’ hamburger,” he said flatly. “Fuck my beard, Kat,” he said. As if I had no choice, and feeling no differently, I backed up to the table, straddled his chest, and

squatted down on his face. As my butt cheeks rested against his face, he reached up and shifted me slightly, then shoved his tongue against my pussy. As soon as I felt the tip of it against my swollen mound, I spread my legs slightly and relaxed. Oh dear God. His tongue pressed deeper and deeper, finally reaching the sweetest of spots. The tip of his tongue tickled my g-spot while the girth of it satisfied my pussy like no vibrator or dildo ever could. Somewhat nervous at first, ten seconds of his torturous tongue caused me to forget everything but being satisfied by his ability to please me orally. As I exhaled and arched my back, I peered up at the clear star filled sky. His tongue repeatedly searched inside of me for a place to tease as I held my breath, bit my lip, and prayed to last another thirty seconds before I reached climax. The build up to the orgasm was almost more enjoyable than the orgasm itself, but so far about ninety seconds was my record on orgasm denial. Being quiet during climax had never been one of my strengths, nor had prolonging the build-up. When it was time to have an orgasm, I had no control. The two sexual assurances in life, for me anyway, were that I was going to have the orgasm when the time came, and I was going to be vocal about it. As Biscuit began to moan into my thighs, his tongue danced in and out of my now soaking wet pussy. Just to solidify my place on the night’s orgasmic calendar, I reached down and began to play with my clit. Five or so seconds later, I felt my body began to reach the brink. It was all but over. “Oh holy fuck…” I moaned. He began to moan more aggressively into my thighs. His beard against my inner thighs caused me to tingle all over as he forced his tongue in and out of my pussy. “Jesus Biscuit…Jesus…I…” I wailed as I closed my eyes. He pressed his tongue deep, held it there, and began some new procedure on my g-spot. Instead of flicking the tip of his tongue against it once and retracting it, he now held his tongue in place, and flicked the tip of his tongue against my sensitive g-spot over and over. I opened my eyes and stared up at the sky as my body convulsed and my toes began to curl.

“Holy…shit…” I squealed as I heard the table creak beneath our weight. My pussy began to tingle from the inside out, and my mind went blank. When I came back to my senses, my entire body felt as if it was on fire, and I was standing beside the table wide-eyed with my hands raised to my mouth. “What the fuck did you get up for?” he asked as he stood. “What the fuck just happened?” I asked. “Well, I was doing the flicker and you screamed, came all over my face, and jumped up,” he said as he wiped his beard with his hand. “The what?” I muttered. As if I was some inexperienced sexual idiot, he raised one eyebrow, turned up his palms, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “The flicker. It’s when I hold my in tongue deep and tease your g-spot. You like it?” he asked. “Uhhm, yeah. That’s an understatement,” I murmured. “Well, we better keep at it before your pussy goes all back to normal,” he said as he reached for his belt. I was still floating round somewhere in the star-filled sky as I watched him remove his boots, jeans, boxer shorts, and shirt. Now standing at the edge of the deck naked as the day he was born, I stared at him realizing it was the first time I had actually studied him while he was fully naked. Covered in tattoos and muscles, his cock hung between his legs like another limb altogether. “Come here and give me a hug. And take that shirt off, I wanna see those big titties,” he said flatly. “Huh? A hug?” I asked. “Yeah, a fuckin’ hug,” he responded. I pulled off my shirt and removed my bra. Somewhat self-conscious about my large breasts, I crossed my arms over my chest as I approached him, unfolding them as I stepped in front of him. As my arms wrapped around his upper body, he reached down and lifted me from my feet.

With his hands against my ass, and his forearms along my thighs, he held me above the floor in his arms. Slowly, he began to lower me slightly as he released my left leg and obviously guided his cock into my throbbing and overly anxious pussy. As I felt his cock penetrate me, I gasped in slight shock. In this position, it felt huge. With each additional inch of his girth inside of me, my eyes widened slightly in disbelief. When he was finally all the way in, I felt as if the tip of his dick was in my chest. “Holy shit…this…feels….weird,” I stammered. “You’ll get used to it,” he said with a nod. “Ready?” he asked. Eager to have him fuck me senseless, I nodded my head and bit my lip. Holding me in his arms and moving me up and down as if I were a rag doll, he began to raise and lower me onto his stiff cock. To ease the process and minimize the pain, I spread my legs wide and extended them beyond his hips. With his massive hands cupping my ass, he began to thrust his hips up and down, pressing his upper thighs against my butt cheeks. The sound of skin on skin echoing into the night was almost as big of a turn on as him fuckin me on the deck. “Who’s little pussy am I fuckin’, Kat?” he asked as he pounded himself in and out of my dripping wet pussy. “Yours,” I whimpered. And, as much as he’d never admit it, my pussy was just that. His. “Stick those big titties in my face,” he said as he lowered his chin. I reached up with one hand and raised my right boob. Immediately, he bit into my nipple, and began nibbling on it was he continued to fuck me hard. His cock now sliding in and out with ease, and my nipple between his teeth, he pulled my ass cheeks wider as he thrust his hips up and down with perfect rhythm.

I could feel myself running down my leg as the cool night breeze blew across the deck. I closed my eyes and focused on the tingling feeling that was running violently between my nipple and my pussy. Within a few seconds, I felt my inner lady bits start to tingle, and I knew it was all but over. “You better scream when you have that orgasm,” he grunted as he released my nipple from his teeth. I nodded my head and opened my eyes. “You like that big cock?” he asked. I nodded my head and grunted. He pressed his face against mine and bit my earlobe as he stuffed me full of cock. “You’re a cock hungry little bitch, aren’t you?” he breathed into my ear. “Yes,” I whimpered. “Scream it,” he demanded. “I uhhm…I’m a…cock hungry…little…” “Bitch…” I cried. “Scream it!” he demanded as he pulled his hips back and held them there. I arched my back, stared up at the sky, and screamed at the top of my lungs, “I’m a cock hungry little bitch!” He released me from his grasp, lowered me to the floor, and spun me in a half circle in one fluid motion. Now facing the table and slightly confused, I felt his hand against my upper back. As I bent over onto the table, I felt his cock slide easily into my wet willing mound. And. He. Began. To. Fuck. Me. To. Death. His hips slapping against my ass, and his balls beating a tune against my clit, I bit my lip and pressed my chest into the cold glass. The sound and smell in the air was nothing but sex. His hand slapped against my right butt cheek, and it was all I needed. Immediately, my body began to convulse, and my

pussy began to contract around his swollen cock. “You like it when I slap that ass?” he bellowed. “God yes!” I blurted. “Slap it again.” His hand came down with tremendous force, forcing me slightly to the side. “Oh…holy…” My mouth opened wide, and my mind wanted to scream. My voice, however, went silent and my throat emitted nothing but a little squeak. As he continued to pound himself in and out of my aching pussy, I had orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. Almost to a point of passing out, I felt his cock begin to swell. “Oh god, do it. Come in me,” I begged. And he did. As he erupted into me, I had another orgasm - a long, steady, inner orgasm that lasted for thirty seconds. Not only did it cause my ears to ring, it made my eyesight go black for a few seconds. As he held his cock deep in me and didn’t move, I felt it slowly going limp. It was over. The smell of the sweet summer air filled my nostrils as the cool breeze blew against my soaking wet inner thighs. After a few minutes of silence, I exhaled and stood. I glanced in his direction and smiled. “We’re just fucking, right?” I asked. “Yep,” he responded as he glanced down at his bare feet. . “And as long as I don’t get attached, you’ll keep fucking me, right?” I shrugged. He glanced upward and nodded his head once, “Yep.” “I fucking hate you,” I chuckled.

Nothing could be further from the truth, but for the sake of my sexual sanity, I figured I could play the game. “That’s what I like to hear,” he grinned. Well then, I’ll keep lying.

BISCUIT I stood in the shop, bent over a bench, grinding the tabs off of an exhaust bracket. As I watched the wheel on the grinder grind the metal into a shower of sparks, I heard Axton’s voice over the sound of the grinder. “God fucking damn it Biscuit, I told you to take care of that fucking cop,” he shouted. I released the safety pedal of the grinder and stood silently as it came to a stop. “Huh?” I said, knowing full well what he had said. “The girl you’re fucking’s god damned father. I fucking told you,” he screamed. The veins in his neck were standing out as he screamed. He was madder than I had ever seen him. “Fuck, Slice, I forgot. I’ll get to it,” I said as I placed the exhaust shield on the bench. “Well, go do it. He’s out at the fence in riot gear,” he bellowed. My eyes widened and my heart began to pound out of my chest. “Huh?” “You heard me. He’s parked in the street, leaning against the gate. He’s in a fucking truck, looks like he’s off duty, but he’s got on a vest and his fuckin SWAT gear,” he said as he gazed down at the floor and shook his head. “Maybe it’s not him,” I said. He glanced up and shook his head. “You dumb fuck, bringing that shit to our shop. It’s him, he asked for you by name. Dalton Biskette. Sound familiar?”

“God damn,” I said as I attempted to peer past Axton and into the parking lot. “You’ve got ten fucking minutes,” he said. “Get him gone or I’m going to shoot you both.” “Got it, Boss,” I nodded. “I’m not fucking joking,” he grunted. “I’m headed out there now,” I said as I began to walk to the lot. The last thing I wanted was Axton upset with me. The next to the last thing I wanted was to be shot. And the thing next to that, and highest on my list of shit to hate to deal with in real life, was to be talking to the cop father of a twenty-two year old college girl I was fucking. As I walked into the lot, I glanced up at him. Kat should have warned me. He looked like Otis in SWAT gear. If I was going to whip him at any point in time, I’d either need a big stick or a gun. I figured my best bet was to be as mean as I could and stand my ground. I wasn’t about to let him try and intimidate me, cop or not. Fucking fuck. “Dalton Biskette?” he said in a typical cop voice. “Depends on who’s fuckin’ askin’” I responded in my best fuck you voice. “Officer Chadsworth, Wichita PD,” he barked. “Don’t mean fuck to me, cop,” I barked back as I reached the fence. He placed his hands on his hips and stared. I reached for the same cock I’d fucked his daughter with the night before, scratched it, and stared back. I hated cops. And, rightfully so, cops hated me.

BISCUIT I had never backed down from a fight in my life, and I’d been in more than I could ever count. I’d been in biker brawls, stand-offs with rival clubs, and involved in nothing short of what cops would describe as gang wars. Through all of this, for my thirty-two years on earth, not one man had ever intimidated me. And I didn’t see that changing any time in the near future. The oversized cop pressed his hands onto the sides of his hips and stared. “I’ll make this simple, Biskette. You’re going to stop seeing my daughter.” “Don’t know what or who you’re talking about. I don’t see anybody, cop. I got a list of about thirty or so girls I fuck, and if you’ll give me her name, I’ll pull my little black book out of my cut see if she’s on the list,” I said as I crossed my arms in front of my chest. He pursed his lips, widened his eyes slightly, and lowered his hands. As his right hand hovered over the grip of his pistol, he inhaled a long, deep breath. “Smart-ass, huh? Well, that’s fine. Katrina Chadsworth is her name, ring a bell?” he asked. “Nope,” I responded. He shook his head and exhaled an audible sigh. “Listen, I’m not going to stand here and dick around with you. You don’t like cops, and I don’t like pieces of dirty ass shit who fuck my daughter. You can’t win this fight. I’m not going to go into details of how I run an investigation, but I will say this. You’re alleged to having a six inch long tongue and being hung like a mule. It’s you, and I know it’s you. Now, what I’m telling you is this…”

He paused and raised one eyebrow before he continued. “It stops today.” I uncrossed my arms, lowered my hands to my sides, and rolled my shoulders back as I flexed my chest and biceps. “If having a big cock is a crime, you better arrest me now, cop.” “I’ll put it terms you can understand, Biskette. Keep fucking with her, and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. It’s that simple. This conversation is over,” he said as he turned away. “You threatening me, cop?” I hollered as he walked toward his truck. He opened the door to the truck, paused, and peered over his shoulder. “That’s not a threat, Biskette. It’s a view into what your future holds. Try me, and your buddy Bishop in there’ll be burying your ass.” How the fuck do you know all of our names? Creepy ass cop. He nodded his head once, climbed into the truck, and drove away. I stood for a long minute, gazing beyond the fence and into the street. I wasn’t about to let any man tell me what I could or couldn’t do, but something about getting shot between the running lights by one of Wichita’s finest had me second guessing whether or not fucking Kat was what I needed to be doing with my spare time. Axton’s hand on my shoulder startled me slightly, and caused me to understand I was truly out of my comfort zone with Kat’s father stopping by to see me. “So, I’m assuming you got it resolved?” Axton asked. I nodded my head. “Guess so.” I turned to face Axton and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Listen to this shit. That motherfucker said if I contacted her again he was gonna shoot me.” “Jesus Christ, Biscuit. Well, what’d you say?” I gazed down at the ground for a moment and thought. As I glanced upward, I responded. “I said a lot of shit, but after that I didn’t really say anything.” “Motherfucker rendered you speechless, huh?” he chuckled.

“Somethin’,” I said. “And it ain’t funny.” “So, what are you going to do about the girl?” Axton asked as he turned toward the shop. As I started following him across the lot, I considered his question. I really didn’t know what I was going to do. I had no desire to get into a pissing match with a cop, and I damned sure didn’t want to get shot by some overeager protective father. But I’d be damned to hell if I was going to let him tell me what to do. Whatever I decided was going to be my decision based on what I thought was in my best interest. “Well?” Axton asked over his shoulder as he stepped through the garage door and into the shop. I swept a few of the loose rocks away across the parking lot with my boot and glanced his direction. “I’m thinkin’.” As I continued to gaze down at boots and kick random rocks across the lot, I continued. “I think I’m gonna finish this bracket, see if it fits, and then ride over to her house and fuck her. You know, to see if I like it as much as I remember likin’ it. If her pussy’s as good as I remember it bein’, I’ll keep fucking her. If it ain’t, I’ll stop. But I ain’t stoppin’ because some fuckin’ cop told me to.” Axton coughed a laugh and shook his head. “No pussy’s worth dying over.” “You ain’t fucked this gal, so you don’t know. Her twat’s worth quite a bit,” I laughed, “Lemme ask you this, Slice. Same situation, what’d you do?” I reached down, picked up the exhaust shield, and waited for his response. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and inhaled a deep breath. As he exhaled, he grinned. “Well, I’d have probably already left, and about now I’d be fucking her. There isn’t a man alive that’s going to tell me what to fucking do.” “You’re right,” I said as I tossed the exhaust shield onto the bench. “I’m going to head that way now. This bracket can wait.” “Devil looks after his own…” Axton said. “Sinner forever, forever a Sinner…” I breathed as I walked toward my bike.

And, as much as I knew I was a sinner to the bone, I didn’t believe what I was doing with Kat was sinning, criminal, or warranted getting shot by her father. If her father decided to shoot me, maybe he’d do it while I was nuts deep in his daughter’s pussy. And I could die a happy man.

KAT It seemed whenever life was going good, either my father or Kyle stopped the flow of things, never allowing me to enjoy much more than a day or two of happiness without interruption. Having both of them intervening in my life at the same time, however, wasn’t something I thought would ever happen again. But somehow, it had. “I have no idea how you got out of jail, but I really don’t want you here,” I said as I raised my hands in front of my chest. “I’ve been locked up for a fucking month, and I need some pussy. Put your fucking hands down, get your ass over here, and suck my fucking cock,” he said as he pushed his way past me and sat down on the couch. “Seriously, Kyle. I’m seeing someone. It’s over. Just leave,” I begged. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. “This thing isn’t going to suck itself you dumb bitch, get the fuck over here.” I walked briskly toward the couch, stopped in front of him, and crossed my arms. I glanced toward the front door, which was still open. I glanced at Kyle. He disgusted me. After inhaling a breath of courage and exhaling harshly enough for him to hear me, I said what I had to say. “Put that little joke of a dick of yours back in your fucking pants and get the fuck out of here!” I fumed as I pointed toward the door. I hoped the month in jail, the pending charges for abuse and battery, and his desire to stay out of

jail would cause him to listen to me, grant my wishes, and leave. “You stupid bitch, I told you to suck my fucking dick,” he said as he stood. He stunk of a combination of sweat and laundry soap. Wearing jeans, lace up camouflage boots, and a wife beater, he looked every bit of the Marine he used to be. The blur of his arm in front of my face startled me. He grabbed my hair in his hand, pulled my head back, and slapped my face harder than he ever had in the past. The impact of his hand caused my ears to ring, and within a few seconds I tasted blood in my mouth. As much as I tried not to cry, I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks. “Now see what you made me do, you dumb cunt? Hell, I came over to give you some lovin’, and you made me smack your dumb ass. Get on your fucking knees,” he said as he shoved against my head with both hands, pushing me to the floor. On the floor crying, feeling there was no way out of the situation I was in, I wanted him to just die. I hated him, the thought of him, and even the smell of him. As he held my head with his hands, he pressed his dick into my face and bellowed his demands into the room. “Put. My. Dick. In. Your. Cunt. Mouth. It don’t get any simpler than that, Katrina,” he said. As he smashed his half-soft dick into my face, I considered biting it, and wondered if I could make it to the open door before he caught me. I glanced to the side and tried to remember where I left my phone, hoping I could make a mad dash across the floor and get to it before he grabbed me. As he began to bark out more commands, I attempted to stand. He shoved against my head and slapped my face again. “You stupid bitch. You can’t suck my dick if you’re not on your knees,” he said. “Kyle, stop. You’re hurting me. Just get the fuck out,” I cried. The sound of him screaming in response was muffled by the sound of my door slamming and another person’s screaming. As I glanced up and toward the door, my heart began to pound rapidly. “Get your hands off the girl,” I heard Biscuit shout. Thank God.

Within two steps, he was grabbing Kyle by the shoulders and spinning him around. “Get in the kitchen, Kat,” I heard him demand. Somehow, I ended up in the kitchen. The small apartment was open, and I stood mere feet from where Kyle and Biscuit were, watching everything. As Biscuit held Kyle’s shoulders in his hands, he spoke in a very demanding tone and everything began to happen extremely fast. “What’s the fuck’s going on, Kat?” Biscuit shouted over his shoulder. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Kyle growled. “I’m a U.S. Marine, and I’ll kick the absolute shit out of you.” Beat his fucking ass, Biscuit. “Shut the fuck up,” Biscuit growled in return. “He’s trying to rape me,” I cried. “You crazy bitch,” Kyle said. “Listen, I was just…” For being as mean as he was to me, Kyle seemed like a big pussy when it came to fighting a man. He wasn’t attempting to do anything to free himself from Biscuit’s grasp, and, from where I stood, it seemed he was going to try and negotiate his way out of things. With his back facing me, Biscuit shouted. “Kat?” “He was trying to rape me. He slapped me hard, twice,” I sobbed. He looked like he released Kyle as he quickly turned around and studied me. Standing in the kitchen crying with a swollen bloody lip and what I suspected were two very prominent hand prints on my face, my crying increased to an almost full sob. As Biscuit’s eyes met mine, they widened and he immediately spun around to face Kyle again. And all hell broke loose. It looked like a scene out of one of the Jason Statham movies - if Jason Statham was six foot tall and had a beard. As Biscuit spun around, his right knee lifted in the air, and he swung it into Kyle’s stomach or crotch, I couldn’t tell for sure. As Kyle bent over from the impact, Biscuit clenched his hands

together in a huge fist and swung it upward into Kyle’s face. Kyle stumbled back and landed on the couch. And, within a half-second, Biscuit was on top of him, beating him savagely on his face with his hands. “You motherfucker. I ought to fucking kill you,” he screamed as he beat him. Kyle was either unconscious or dead. He didn’t even lift a hand to defend himself. For as tough as he portrayed himself as being, he sure didn’t look the part now. I had no idea of what I should have felt, standing there watching Biscuit beat Kyle, but I felt relieved, honored, and protected. Not one single shred of my being felt sorrow or compassion for what he was doing to Kyle. “Beat his ass, Biscuit,” I shouted. After a few seconds, Biscuit stopped punching him, bent down, and appeared to be kissing him. And Kyle screamed a cry like he was being tortured. Biscuit turned his head to the side, spit something on the floor, and picked Kyle up from the couch. As he drug him toward the door by the hair and his half-removed jeans, he spoke to me in a remarkably calm tone. “Open the door, would ya?” he asked flatly. I ran past them, grabbed the door, and pulled it open. As I turned around and made eye contact with Biscuit, he shook his head and grumbled out a growl that sounded like a rabid pit bull. And he dropped Kyle to the floor. “You son of a worthless little bitch,” he said as he began kicking Kyle’s face with his boots. I stepped out onto the hallway between my apartment and the adjoining apartment, and glanced around nervously. After several swift kicks to the face, Biscuit picked up Kyle and slapped him a few times. “Can you fuckin’ hear me, you little bitch?” he shouted as he slapped him.

Kyle groaned. “I need you to answer me, motherfucker. You hear me?” Biscuit growled. His face, arms and shirt covered in blood, Kyle moaned. “Either answer me, or I’m going to toss you on the floor and boot your ass again,” Biscuit said as he slapped him again, “Can you fuckin’ hear me?” “Yeah,” Kyle moaned. Biscuit held Kyle rather limp body in his hands, and pressed his face within inches of Kyle’s. “Good. Now listen up. I’m tellin’ you once. You ever come in contact with her again, for any reason - and believe me, I don’t give a fuck what it is - I’m gonna find you. And don’t worry you little punk assed bitch, I won’t kill you, but I’ll make you one solemn promise; you’ll wish you were fucking dead when I get done with your ass. I’ll have the fellas I run with butt fuck you until you can’t hold your shit in, and then I’ll come and cut your fuckin’ hands off – both of ‘em. You fuckin’ understand me?” he growled. Jesus. I swallowed heavily at the thought of what Biscuit said. Something told me he was far from joking. “Yeah,” Kyle moaned. “Tell me what’s going to happen if you ever come in contact with her. Tell me what I said,” Biscuit hissed. “Cut my…cut off my…my hands,” Kyle muttered. “And?” Biscuit asked as he shook Kyle violently. “Butt…Uhhm, butt fuck me,” he whined in response. “That’s right,” Biscuit growled. Biscuit shoved Kyle through the door, past me, and onto his back. I turned toward where Kyle

landed and gazed down at him, pleased the ordeal was over, but worried about Kyle’s bloody body being on the landing of my third floor apartment. I glanced toward Biscuit as he walked past me, grabbed Kyle’s boots, and promptly drug him toward the steps. Somewhat confused at what was next, Biscuit didn’t keep me wondering for long. After a swift tug on Kyle’s legs, he drug him feet first down the steps, Kyle’s head thumping against each step as he did so. The sound of it was almost grotesque. Almost. But I despised Kyle and his ability to call rape by another name. Men seemed to think if they ever fucked a woman or had a relationship with her, that it provided an open invitation for them to continue to fuck her. When our relationship ended, so did every feeling or desire I ever had for Kyle. And no meant no, whether I was his former girlfriend or not. The thumping sound continued until Biscuit reached the first floor landing - and each thud of Kyle’s head against a concrete step was like music to my ears.

BISCUIT I would rather spend the rest of my life without ever being in another fight. The odds of that happening, however, were pretty damned slim. I’d been in more fights than any other man I’d ever met, and looking back on it, most had been instigated by someone who I perceived as being disrespectful. I could stand for a lot of things, but for a man to be disrespectful to me, one of my brothers, or a woman wasn’t something I was willing to ever accept. The world seemed to be filled with people who had very little understanding of the importance of being respectful, and although I realized it was not my responsibility to teach them to do so, my ability to convince people of my beliefs on the matter made it difficult for me not to do my best to cleanse this earth of the filth which continued to fill it. The disrespectful men on this earth seemed to swim in circles like sharks, waiting for the next weak victim to expose itself, only to be savagely devoured solely for an inability to fight back. To think for one minute I could rid this earth of every man who resembled Kyle would be foolish on my part. But I did my God forsaken best to make certain what little portions of this world which exposed themselves to me were free of any and all men like him. Being raised by a father who spent all of his free time drunk and beating on my mother wasn’t easy for me. When I was young, I wasn’t big enough to whip him, and although I couldn’t convince my mother to leave, convincing myself to do so was easy. At fifteen years old, I left and never looked back, moving damned near eight hundred miles away from my hometown. Seventeen years later, accepting that I’d walked away from my mother - leaving her at the hands of that cruel prick - was impossible. I struggled with my decision on an almost daily basis, wondering if I

should have just killed my old man and took her from the abusive hell she lived in. Wondering what my mother’s life had become, and knowing men like him didn’t ever change, I was forced to either accept what I had done, or live with the guilt for doing it. The guilt suffocated me as if I were drowning, and my only way to obtain one more much needed breath was to fight my way to the surface of the water, eliminating every shark I encountered in the process. “So I beat the brakes off this so-called Marine, tossed his ass on the couch, and bent down there and breathed into his ear. You punk assed little bitch, I said. And then I bit off the bottom half of his ear and spit that fucker on the floor.” I nodded my head and reached for my bottle of beer. Axton shook his head for a moment, eventually fixing his eyes on mine. “God damn, Biscuit. Pulled a Mike fucking Tyson on his ass, huh?” I shrugged my shoulders, still fuming from what he had done to Kat. “Is that it? You didn’t kill the fucker did you?” Axton shrugged. “That ain’t all I did, but no, I didn’t kill him. I should have, but I didn’t. Put the boots to him for a bit, and told him I’d have Pete butt fuck him and cut his hands off if he ever came back. Oh, and I drug his ass down the steps, three god damned flights.” I chuckled as I lifted my bottle. “By his fuckin’ feet. His head bounced off each god damned step, thumpity-thumping all the way down. I think he got the point,” I said. “The girl alright?” Axton asked as he stood. I pushed myself from table and took a drink of beer. “Yeah. He slapped her a few times and tried to make her suck his cock. She was pretty shook up. Too fucked up to fuck, that’s for sure. I stuck around for an hour or so and just held her ‘till she fell asleep. You know, the whole deal reminded me of my mother. I just wish…” “Can’t change it Biscuit. We’ve talked about this a million times,” Axton said. “You did what you had to do. You did good by this girl. I’m pretty surprised you didn’t kill the prick, but I’m god damned pleased you aren’t in jail.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not certain of what to say. Each and every time I learned of another man abusing a woman, the sensible side of my mind went somewhere else, leaving a two hundred pound fifteen year old boy to make decisions. “She must have been worn the fuck out,” Axton said, breaking the silence. “Going to sleep at three in the afternoon.” “So did you take time to talk to her about her father’s little visit?” he asked. I shook my head and stood from my seat. “No. Kind of forgot about it at first, then when she was cryin’ and fallin’ asleep, didn’t really want to upset her.” “You know my recommendation. Get it over with as soon as you can. That’s all I’ve got for advice. You sure you’re alright, brother?” he asked as he stood. “I’m good. Just need to drink this beer,” I said. Axton nodded his head. “Well, I’m gonna get the fuck out of here, Avery’s off early today and we’re gonna ride out to Benton to the airport.” I raised the bottle and grinned. Axton said as he turned toward the door. “Lock up when you leave.” “Always do, Boss,” I said. He stopped at the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “Remember what I said. I don’t want that fucking cop back over here looking for you any time soon.” “Gotcha,” I said as I tilted my beer bottle toward him. “And don’t toss that fucking bottle in my trash,” he grunted as he walked down the hallway. After I heard him ride away, I sat in the office and thought about everything that had happened. Kat was no different than any other girl I’d ever fucked, but something about her made her more attractive to me. Unable to pinpoint exactly what it was, I wondered if her father’s insistence of my leaving her was what made her more appealing. The forbidden fruit.

After finishing my beer, I decided that wasn’t the case, as I seemed to have a fondness for her long before her father showed up at the shop. After struggling with my decision for some time, eventually I decided it was in my best interest to step aside for at least a few days, and see if she made contact with me. The time away would let me make a decision without a brain manipulated by the power of pussy. I walked into the shop, glanced down at my swollen knuckles, and tossed the empty beer bottle in the trash. As I gazed across the shop at my bike, I decided more than anything I needed to clear my mind. The only way I had found to truly rid my mind of what was bothering me was to ride, and ride hard. After pushing the bike into the parking lot and setting the alarm, I fired the engine and let it warm to operating temperature. As I reached for the hand controls and pulled in the clutch, the iPod switched songs, shuffling randomly to the next tune it selected from my 4,000 song playlist. Strangely, The National’s I Need My Girl blared out of the speakers and filled the parking lot with snippets of wisdom about a man in need of his girl. For some reason, no differently than the man in the song, I felt smaller and smaller as each moment passed. After the song stopped playing, I pressed the back button and repeated it. Half way through it, I pulled the clutch lever, shifted into gear, and released the clutch. As the bike slowly rolled down the street, the song ended and Cypress Hill’s How I Could Just Kill a Man began playing. I reached for the iPod, turned the volume to maximum, and rolled back the throttle. As the bike sped through the intersection and down the street, I tilted my head back, rested my feet on the floorboards, and grinned. The random cars parked at the side of the street rushed past me like fence posts on the highway. That’s more like it. I rounded the corner onto the highway 30 miles per hour faster than the speed limit - dragging the floorboards as I did so - sparks flying behind me until I straightened the bike up after the curve. There was no doubt the forty mile ride to Wichita would clear my mind. To me, riding my bike was like a shot of heroine to a junkie. There was nothing in the world that could ever replace it. Or make the itch go away. Nothing at all.

KAT I hadn’t heard from Biscuit in four days, and as much as I didn’t want to let it bother me, it did. Most would probably believe all we shared was sex, and that I was a typical clingy female for feeling the way I felt, but to me although our relationship wasn’t much more than sex, my feelings were based on how intrigued I was by him, my physical attraction to his handsome looks, and his ability to make me laugh on command. Lastly, I felt like when no one else ever attempted to or was able, Biscuit had saved me from the sickening piece of human garbage who continued to resurface in my life, Kyle. Maybe to Biscuit I was nothing more than a piece of ass, and although that was what I agreed to be, my mind struggled with accepting him as no more than a cock. His love for music, lack of desire to have a television or computer, and passion for the open road made him a far more appealing man to me than almost anyone I could ever remember meeting. There was no doubt he was a tough and capable biker, he’d proven that – but there seemed to be so much more to him. He possessed a certain kindness even when we were having sex, never giving me more than I was able to handle, but making sure I got everything I needed and deserved. As demanding as he was sexually and as naturally dominant as he seemed to be, it didn’t overshadow his natural kindness. The nights we sat in his living room naked, listening to music for hours after we had sex left me hoping that even if it was happening slowly, he was becoming attracted to having me in his life beyond sex. How he held me after dragging Kyle from my home wasn’t something he had to do. He did it because he wanted to. And, in the end, he didn’t even try to have sex with me. He held me until I fell asleep, tucked me into my bed, and kissed me on the forehead before he left. I wondered if he realized I knew he kissed me. I hoped he didn’t.

I suspected most people who didn’t actually know me would perceive me as an immature 22-yearold woman, concerned with nothing more than having a man who I could cling to, screw, and pilfer money from. Truthfully, I believed myself to be very mature, and longed for someone who was kind, funny, very masculine, simplistic in his needs, and willing as well as able to satisfy me sexually. My previous relationships, even eliminating Kyle, had been filled with sex, and excluded much reciprocating emotion. It seemed I used sex as a way to get back at my overbearing father, thinking if I fucked the men he despised; it would cause him to feel the same level of pain he imposed on me as I grew up under his oversized thumb he always pressed down upon me. In reality, something within me directed me toward the bad boys of this earth; and a kind, calm, cute office manager with a Mercedes-Benz and an unlimited bank account wasn’t attractive to me. Right or wrong, I wanted an alpha male who wasn’t afraid to put me in my place when I needed it, but take care of me and cherish me along the way. I had always told myself if that person was ever to be found, I would cling to him like gum to a shoe. In all reality, my desire was Biscuit. But he didn’t want a conventional relationship. And I gave my word I wouldn’t press the issue, and assured him I could be satisfied with a sexual relationship. NSA. No. Strings. Attached. Many people did it. I had no idea how many actually succeeded at it, but I really didn’t care. If I had to, at least for now, I’d do it unsuccessfully, hiding my true feelings until I was either able to be honest, or got disgusted with the lack of returned emotion. I needed to step up my game. The next time I saw him, I wasn’t going to let him fuck me. I had made up my mind. It wasn’t going to happen. I was going to turn the tables. It was high time Kat step up to her A-game. He wasn’t going to fuck me next time; I was going to fuck him.

BISCUIT I stood back and admired the new Sandstone Beige paint. The room looked significantly larger in the light beige tone than it did in the Chelsea Red. I turned slowly and studied all of the trim along the floor, making certain there were no spots in need of touch-up before I took the drop cloths from the floor. Everything looked perfect. After a satisfactory nod, I reached for the can of paint, pressed the lid onto the top, and carried everything to the garage. As I placed the can on the workbench I wondered how much I’d spent on paint over the years. It really didn’t matter, a bright well-painted room was something I truly enjoyed, and if it took me three dozen attempts to get it right, I could rest easily knowing I was giving it my best effort. As I glanced around the garage at the various half-empty cans of paint, I heard a car in the drive. Perfect timing. I walked to the edge of the garage, pressed the button, and opened the door. Cassie’s car was parked in the front of the drive, and she was walking up the sidewalk as the door opened. “Just come through here,” I shouted. “Oh, okay,” she responded. I hadn’t seen her since the day we fucked on my back deck by the pool, but considering how long she took to prepare, and what she looked like as she stood in front of me, I wondered if I’d seen her the first time through an overly aggressive pair of beer goggles. She was far from cute, sloppily dressed, had unhealthy looking hair, and was more than likely four foot ten in height.

I glanced down. Her feet were wrapped in a pair of three inch heels. I shifted my eyes upward. The scarring on her face from what I expected was a lifetime of acne caused her to look like someone had lit her face on fire and then put it out with a fork. I shifted my eyes downward slightly. She had no tits. I shrugged my shoulders and reached for the door leading into the house. “Come on in,” I said as I opened the door. “It’s really cool to get to see you again,” she said cheerily as she skipped toward the door. Wish I could say the same. “You fully understand why you’re here, right?” I asked. “Uhhm, yeah. You wanted to see me?” she responded. I shook my head, allowed my mouth to curl into a shitty little smirk, and chuckled. “No. I’m going to fuck you. You came here to fuck me. That’s the only reason you’re here.” She shrugged her shoulders again and grinned. “Oh, yeah. Okay.” She obviously lost her self-esteem at the same time she lost her face cleanser. I fought the urge to tell her to leave, and decided to do the complete opposite. I pointed toward the wide open garage door and waved my hand her direction. “Shut the door and get undressed.” She lowered her shoulder, dropped her purse, and reached for the door. As she pulled the door closed behind her, I stared blankly at her, hoping she’d change. She didn’t. She turned around and stared, seemingly confused on what get undressed meant. As she stood on one side of the island, and me on the other, I continued to glare at her in a combination of disgust and regret. “Cassie, right?” I asked.

She smiled and bobbed her head eagerly. “Yeah, you remembered.” “Get,” I said. “Undressed.” She glanced around the kitchen. “Here?” “No, in the fuckin’ street,” I responded in a sarcastic tone. She gazed at me with deer in the headlight eyes. I shook my head. “Yes, here. You’ll need to do it so we can fuck. Remember? We’re fuckin’, it’s why you’re here.” “I just. I wondered if you meant here,” she said as pointed toward the floor. “We’re currently in my kitchen. I’m going to fuck you, here in the kitchen. I really don’t know why, but I like fuckin’ in the kitchen. For me to fuck you, Cassie, I need your clothes in a pile on the floor. Most of them, anyway. So, take off your little shorts, those shoes, and if you think it’s necessary, yank off the top. When you’re done, we’re gonna fuck. Understand?” “Yes, Sir,” she responded sheepishly. Sir? “What’s with the authority?” I shrugged. “Huh?” she said as she pulled off her shoes. Standing a mere six feet from me, it was easy for me to be critical of everything about her which I disliked. I gazed at her as if disgusted, and to be honest, I was pretty close. After an exhausting three or four second glare, I expanded my question to hopefully allow her to comprehend my curiosity. “I asked if you understood, and you said yes, Sir. Why’d you say Sir?” I asked. She shifted her eyes to the floor and held her gaze. “I just read a book about a guy who was dominant and he taught a girl how to be submissive. I was just trying to please you,” she said. Perfect.

Another one of those. The world needs one more confused twenty-something year old who thinks she wants to be submissive. I tilted my head to the side and reached for my beard. “You wanna make me happy?” She glanced up and nodded her head eagerly. “Uh huh.” “Get un-fuckin’ dressed,” I snapped. I would have guessed, and I suspected pretty accurately so, there weren’t too many men who enjoyed a rough sexual tumble with a woman much more than me. Slapping a woman’s ass, pulling her hair, and fucking her as long and hard as I was able was roughly the extent of my sexual desire. The much wider offerings of the BDSM spectrum were left to the professionals and the kinksters, they weren’t for me. There was something about using the zit-faced girl with dirty hair as my willing sex toy for the next hour or so that had me feeling pretty good about my decision to ask her to come over. As she removed her shirt and tossed it on the floor, she glared at me as if confused. “Uhhm, you’re still dressed,” she shrugged as she did her best to cover her non-existent tits. I pointed to the island in front of me. “I’m well fuckin’ aware…” “Come over here and bend over,” I said as I slapped my hand against the counter. Although she seemed somewhat reluctant, she walked around the island and promptly stopped in front of me, smiled, and turned around. There was no way her short little legs were going to allow her to bend over the counter. One of the things that originally her attracted to me, and now came to mind, was her long torso. The fact she was less than five feet tall – and had a long torso – left very little to make up her bottom half. In short, her legs were all of two feet long. Leaning onto the countertop naked, she turned and peered over her right shoulder. “What now?” she asked.

“Hold on a minute,” I said as I raised my index finger in the air. I walked out to the garage, grabbed a step stool, and promptly returned. After carrying it to the side of the island she was standing on, I tossed it onto the floor beside her, kicked it closer with my feet, and told her to step on top of it. “Hop on top of that, it’ll make this a little fuckin’ easier,” I said. “Okay,” she responded. After a quick survey of the situation, she stepped onto the stool. Her ass was now at the proper height for me to fuck her, but I had almost no desire to do so. I leaned forward and studied her face. Correction. I had no desire. ‘You gonna do whatever the fuck I tell you, you submissive little bitch?” I asked in my best imitation of what I expected to be a Dom voice. “Yes, Sir,” she responded. “No matter what it is, you better fuckin’ do it, understand?” I barked. “Yes, Sir,” she snapped. Jesus. This is all too easy. “You’re going to fuck one of my biker buddies, understand?” “Okay,” she said. I reached in my pocket, pulled out my phone, and called the only person I knew would come on a moment’s notice. Corn Dog.

BISCUIT After a twenty minute wait for him to arrive, my boredom had peaked at an all-time high and I was ready to tell the zit-faced bartender to get her ass out of my house and go home. My promise of providing Corn Dog a piece twenty year old submissive pussy was the only thing that prevented me from doing just that. As I stood and watched her standing naked on the stool while we waited for him to arrive, I realized there was nothing even remotely attractive to me about her. Now watching from the edge of the living room as Corn Dog tried to orchestrate the fiasco, I couldn’t help but find humor in the ordeal, but felt no desire to involve myself in any way. My mind continued to fade to thoughts of Kat, wondering how she was doing after the run-in with her former boyfriend. Attempting to rid my mind of any outside influences so I would be able to enjoy the show, I turned down the music, peered through the doorway, and into the kitchen. To satisfy my request – and more than likely his desire to have a threesome – Corn Dog arrived with an overly eager attitude and an additional female, Sloan. Sloan was Avery’s best friend at one point in time, but as Avery’s interest in Axton became apparent, Sloan didn’t respect her or the developing relationship. Avery and Sloan lived together at the time, and Sloan’s slutty attitude around Axton finally ground on Avery’s last nerve. The friendship soon dissolved, leaving Sloan alone and desiring a boyfriend who resembled Axton. Toad, the MC’s former Marine and Sergeant-at-Arms stepped in, fucked Sloan a few times, and found her to be a very willing – but extremely annoying – sexual partner. One day, after wrapping Sloan’s head in Saran Wrap and fucking her until she was damned near suffocated, Toad lost interest in her, and simply dropped her off at Corn Dog’s house. Sloan, being the true slut she was, didn’t seem to care who she was with, only that the person was a biker, and he was willing to fuck. Corn Dog, having just been released from prison, was more than

willing to put up with Sloan’s annoying personality as long she was willing to satisfy him sexually. After Toad introduced them to one another they had been inseparable. Corn Dog stood on the stool I had provided Cassie. In front of him lying on her back, was Sloan. Her head - in an almost upside down position - dangled from the end of the countertop. As Corn Dog slowly and steadily pumped her mouth full of his schlong, saliva ran from her mouth, down to her nose, and along her forehead. Cassie stood the other end of the island with her face buried in Sloan’s lap, and was at least attempting to eat Sloan out. As Corn Dog continued to pummel Sloan’s throat, he craned his neck toward Cassie and sighed heavily. “God fucking damn,” Corn Dog whined as he pulled his cock free of Sloan’s mouth. “What?” Sloan responded as she wiped the slobber from her face and forehead. He waved his hand toward Sloan and leaned to the side. “Hey. Whatever your fucking name is, come here.” Cassie raised her head, stood, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She lowered her shoulders in apparent shame as she shuffled toward the end of the island. “Yeah,” she said as she sauntered toward him. “You eat pussy about like I eat escargot. Is there a fucking problem?” he asked as she approached. “I…I uhhm…it seems weird. I’ll do it if you want me to, it’s just…” she stammered. He raised his hand in the air and shook his head. “Nope, you’re done with the pussy licking. I can’t fucking stand it. It’s painful to see, and I’m about to go limp watching you do it.” He alternated glances between them and tossed his hands in the air, clearly frustrated. Sloan slid off the edge of the counter, stood beside Cassie, and waited for his instructions. After studying them both for a moment, he pointed to the counter. “Sloan, you get up there on your back with your pussy facing me,” he said as he turned to face Sloan. Sloan climbed onto the island, rolled onto her back, and let her legs dangle off the end of the island.

He glanced at Cassie. “You ain’t afraid of sucking a dick are you?” “Uh-uh. I like giving head,” Cassie responded. “Show me what you got,” Corn Dog snapped back as he pressed his hands against her shoulders. She dropped to her knees and began sucking Corn Dog’s dick like she owed him money, and giving him head was the pay off. Having watched her attempt to suck my big cock in the past - and encountering a few issues with the size - made seeing her go to town on Corn Dog’s average sized shaft with ease a little unnerving. It left me wishing – at least for the time being – that I had an average sized cock. Sex, in itself, satisfied me. Finding a woman, however, who was able to satisfy me and make use of my entire cock wasn’t easy. The few who were able to do so were reserved – at least in my mind – as my go to women. As I stood back and shook my head at the porn-fest as it unfolded, Sloan resituated herself on the countertop, rising up and onto her elbows so she could enjoy Cassie’s deep throating Corn Dog’s cock. As Cassie continued to bob her head and moan, Sloan gazed her direction and grinned. Satisfied this wasn’t going to end anytime soon, I sat down on the loveseat and rested my chin against my hand. I found it oddly satisfying that although I was entertained by the show in the kitchen, I wasn’t in the least bit aroused. Uncertain if it was my newfound disgust with Cassie or a combination of Cassie and Sloan – who I had no respect for – or the fact I perceived both women as possessing minimal amounts of pride, I relaxed into the arm of the chair as if I were sitting on the riverbank fishing. “Alright, alright, you’ve got a pretty good head game,” Corn Dog said as he pressed his hand against her forehead, forcing his dick to spring free from her mouth. “Stand up,” he barked. She wiped her mouth free of saliva and stood. It appeared she was beaming with pride as she gazed up at him grinning. “Now get up on top of her - on your hands and knees - and shove your pussy in her face,” he said to Cassie as he motioned toward Sloan. Cassie stepped onto the stool, struggled for a moment to climb onto the counter, and eventually straddled Sloan’s face. Lying on her back, Sloan reached up, wrapped her arms around Cassie’s waist,

and commenced to burying her mouth between Cassie’s legs. Cassie immediately arched her back and began moaning. At least it appeared Sloan was able to understand and follow directions. Seemingly pleased, Corn Dog glanced in my direction, shrugged, and stepped onto the stool. As he stood with his rigid cock in his hand, he tilted his head to the side and grinned. “You sure you don’t want in on this, brother?” he hollered. I grinned and shook my head. “Not today, Dog. It’s her punishment for pissing me off, she’s got nothin’ comin’ from me,” I shouted in return as I waved my hand in the air. It sounded good in theory, but wasn’t remotely close to the truth. I wanted nothing to do with Cassie, and would probably never see her again - unless Corn Dog brought her around. I imagine some men might look at me as somewhat of a hypocrite, fucking women and never allowing any kind of emotion to exist - all the while claiming I never hurt women - but in my mind, telling them what they were going to receive, and what they were not going to receive made all of the difference in the world. It was always their choice to become involved with me sexually, everything was explained in advance, and nothing was ever forced. As I watched them continue, it was almost as if I had an awakening of sorts. As I realized once again the live porn show wasn’t arousing me in the least, my eyes became unfocused and my mind faded to questions of why. What had changed within me, I wondered. Was it Cassie? Did I find her so repulsive that I couldn’t watch? As I searched for answers of a question that had yet to be asked, I realized not only did Kat satisfy me, but I truly looked forward to the time we spent together. Beyond sex, we seemed to share the same love for music, hatred for authority, and desire to live a simplistic life. Corn Dog’s shouting brought me back to reality, and the charade that followed confirmed my current lack of interest in such activities. “Your loss, brother,” he said as he grabbed the back of Cassie’s head and forced his dick deep into her throat. While Sloan did her best to please Cassie and stay in Corn Dog’s good graces, he arched his back and groaned. “Fuck yeah. Suck that cock you little slut,” he groaned as he glanced down at Cassie.

Sloan’s face stayed buried against Cassie’s mound, never letting up one bit. As Cassie bucked her hips against Sloan’s face, she repeatedly bobbed her head back and forth along the shaft of Corn Dog’s cock - her chin all but resting on Sloan’s pussy as she did so. “Bury your tongue in her pussy, baby. Bury it deep,” he bellowed toward Sloan as he fucked Cassie’s face. Baby? Now living a far cry from the prison he was in only a month prior, it appeared he was having the time of his life. If anyone deserved to enjoy life, it was Corn Dog. The epitome of a stand-up guy, he had done a five year bit in state prison for a crime he really didn’t commit - and could have easily rolled over on - but chose not to. A man had sold him a crate of legal firearms – pistols to be exact – and Corn Dog intended to re-sell them for profit. After doing so, it was determined the pistols were stolen, and he was subsequently arrested and questioned. All he had to do was provide the man’s name he had purchased them from, and he would have been set free. He refused to provide anything, and chose to spend the time in prison, and take care of the thief after he was released from prison. Most men would have crumbled at the thought of doing time for a crime they didn’t commit. But, being the hard motherfucker he was, he simply raised his chin, rolled back his shoulders, and did his time in prison. Now free and making up for lost time, he seemed to be enjoying what life outside the prison walls offered him. He pulled his dick from Cassie’s mouth and bent his knees slightly. As Cassie arched her back from the pleasure Sloan was providing her, Corn Dog pulled on Sloan’s thighs, sliding her ass forward slightly. As her pussy reached the end of the island, he leaned forward and began fucking her. While Cassie continued to enjoy Sloan’s tongue, she watched the Dog fuck Sloan violently, moaning in apparent ecstasy the entire time. After a few minutes, he pulled his cock from Sloan’s cock socket and grabbed Cassie’s head. As she gazed at him with wide eyes, he straightened his knees and shoved his cock in her mouth. “How’s that pussy taste now?” he grunted as he smashed his hips into her face. “Mmm,” Cassie moaned. After a few seconds of moaning and groaning on both of their parts, he pulled himself from Cassie’s mouth, grinned, and shoved it between Sloan’s legs.

He alternated between Cassie’s mouth and Sloan’s crotch, fucking each one for thirty seconds or so before switching. This very predictable and rather boring pattern continued for some time. When I was about ready to throw in the towel and go relax out at the pool, he reached for Cassie’s head and held it firmly in his hands. As he spoke, he continued to fuck Sloan slowly and steadily. “You like the taste of cum?” he growled. “Uh huh, I do,” Cassie responded eagerly as she continued to grind her mound in Sloan’s face. “Good,” he said as he began to fuck Sloan with much more force. A few more seconds, and Corn Dog arched his back and wailed like the dog he was. Now standing on his tip-toes and attempting to catch his breath, he pulled his hips back and grabbed Cassie’s hair in his hand. “See that?” he grunted as he jacked his cock free of the few remaining drops of cum. She gazed down at Sloan’s cum covered snatch and nodded her head. “Well, there you go. Make your little slut self useful and suck that cum out of Sloan’s twat,” he said as he pushed Cassie’s face between Sloan’s legs. As Cassie began to go down on Sloan, Sloan moaned in pleasure. While I shook my head in slight disbelief, Corn Dog pulled on his jeans and walked barefoot into the living room. “Good lookin’ out on the little submissive bitch,” he said as he buckled his belt. I nodded my head. “Can’t believe you didn’t join in. What’d that little whore do to piss ya off?” he asked. “Nothin’ really,” I shrugged, “Just sick of her. She’s yours now.” He narrowed his eyes slightly and tossed his head toward the kitchen. “Giving her to me are ya?” I gazed past him and into the kitchen. Sloan and Cassie were on the island making out. It seemed although Cassie didn’t enjoy eating another woman out, she was no stranger to kissing one on the lips. “Yeah, but it looks like you might have a fight on your hands,” I said as I pointed past him and

toward the women. He glanced over his shoulder and began to shout. “God damn it, I told you to suck the cum out of her pussy. You weren’t supposed to spit it in her mouth ‘till I got back in here. You need some training, don’t ya?” he growled as he stomped toward the kitchen. In my opinion, there wasn’t any amount of training in the world that would fix Cassie. For whatever reason, she had become unattractive to me, rendering her useless. As Corn Dog scolded the women for proceeding without him, once again my mind shifted to thoughts of Kat. “You guys want to hang out at the pool?” I asked as I stood. Sloan pulled her tongue from Cassie’s mouth and turned to face me. “Can we skinny dip?” she asked excitedly. “You can do whatever you want. I need to run somewhere for about an hour or so,” I said. “You alright with that, Dog?” “Okay by me, brother, we’ll be here when you get back,” he responded. Instead of walking through the kitchen and causing myself to feel more disgusted than I already felt, I opened the front door and walked down the sidewalk toward the garage. I needed to listen to some music and get a little riding time in to clear my head. Who’s kidding who? I wanted to check on Kat. It had nothing to do with feelings or emotion, I simply needed to check on her and make sure she was alright. Because it was the right thing to do. As I pulled my bike into the street, I turned up the volume. Almost immediately, Beck’s Loser finished playing. After a half-second lull, Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get it On began to blare throughout the neighborhood.

I grinned, twisted the throttle, and pointed the bike toward Winfield. Let’s get it On. Hell, who am I to argue with fate?

KAT I hadn’t developed hatred toward my father, to the best of my ability to recollect, it had always existed. Recently, however, it had become more noticeable. As embarrassed as I was to admit it, I probably wasn’t the only one who realized it. As much as I detested him and his way of doing things, I still attempted to be respectful toward him. As I sat on my mother’s couch and he stood in front of me justifying his actions, it became increasingly difficult. I sat and stared at the floor, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of making eye contact with me. “I’m twenty-two years old, not thirteen,” I said. “All I’m trying to do is protect you,” he said flatly. I glanced up. He stood, arms crossed, wearing his protective vest over his uniform. The word POLICE in six inch high white letters made certain everyone he encountered knew who and what he was – as if there could ever be any confusion. Disgusted at his mere existence, I stood from the couch. “Protect me? From what? Life?” “Sit down, we’re not done talking,” he demanded as he pointed toward the couch. I turned toward the kitchen and began walking away. “You’re not done talking. I am. And I’m done listening,” I responded over my shoulder. “You can’t go from one shit bird to another, Katrina. You’re going to have to learn to…” Before he finished speaking, I turned around and interrupted him. “My life, my decision, and I’ll

suffer the consequences. For once, stay out of my life.” He uncrossed his arms, lowered them, and quickly crossed them in front of his chest again. “I’ll pull you out of that college so fast your head spins,” he seethed. I gazed down at the floor and laughed an almost inaudible laugh. Almost. “I swear. I got a scholarship, remember? I’m an adult. You can’t pull me from anything. And you know what? You just…you make me…mad. That’s what you do. You make me mad. Who digs through their twenty-two year old daughter’s phone records? Who? Nobody does, that’s who. Nobody but some overbearing cop,” I fumed. My mother’s voice startled me, and provided not only a reminder that my father and I weren’t alone, but confirmation I had overstepped a boundary by challenging my father. “Katrina Chadsworth!” “Don’t you start on me too,” I said over my shoulder. I heard the sound of her heels on the kitchen floor as I studied my father. Standing in front of me fuming, he seemed to be in shock, ready to shoot me, or both. “Apologize to your father,” my mother said. I glanced over my shoulder. I chuckled. “Seriously?” “He needs to apologize to me. He’s interfering with my life, going through my phone records, reading my text messages, and just being a…” I paused and turned to face him. “A dick,” I huffed. “He’s being a dick.” “That’s it,” my father shouted as he thrust his hands in the air.

“Katrina!” my mother snapped. “What are you going to do? Use your cop power to dig through my shit? You know, I bet that’s against the law. I’ll look into it,” I said as I glanced around the room nervously. I felt trapped. Both of them now stood in front of me, arms crossed, and glaring. As they searched for their next insult, glanced down, grabbed my purse, and stomped toward the door. “If you leave here…” my father began. “Katrina…” my mother whined. I waved my arm in her direction. She supported my father regardless of his position. Growing up, my brother had the freedom to do as he pleased, and I was constantly under surveillance. He was able to be out all hours of the night with his friends – because he was a boy. I was required to be home much earlier, and when I was out, my father often drove by or stopped in to check on me. Having an overprotective cop for a father minimized my chances at having many true friends. I pulled the door open and turned around. “What? What are you going to threaten me with if I leave?” “You’ll disown me? Do me a favor, grant that wish. And I was serious about the text messages. I’m going to talk to an attorney,” I growled as I stomped out the door. For him to have talked to Biscuit would more than likely ruin my chances at ever having anything develop with him. I suspected it was the sole reason I hadn’t heard from him in a matter of several days. As I backed my Jeep out of the driveway and onto the street, I decided if nothing else, finding out what my father did would provide me with a reason to call Biscuit and apologize. Talking to him would be nice. Maybe I could convince him to meet me for a drink instead. If I got a few drinks in him, I could probably convince him to fuck me. And, if we had sex, and I really satisfied him, maybe he’d forgive me for having a dickhead father. Men. Maybe they’re all just pieces of shit, and it’s only a matter of time until you smell it. For some reason, I believed deep down inside Biscuit was a compassionate man. Penetrating the

thick outer shell would be difficult, but I was willing to give it a try. As I drove down the street, I began to cry. Not knowing if it was Biscuit’s absence, Kyle’s abusive behavior, or my father’s childish antics, I pulled the Jeep to the side of the street and attempted to collect my composure. Lately I seemed to be an emotional mess, and I needed to get my shit together. After a few minutes of sobbing for reasons unknown, I gathered my thoughts, regained my sanity, and wiped the mascara from my cheeks. As much as I wanted to go home and call Biscuit, I needed to rest. Maybe after a good night’s sleep I could call him and see what he thought about meeting for a drink. Some sleep, a three mile run, and a good breakfast should clear my mind of everything, and leave me in a good state of mind. I pulled my Jeep back into the street and drove toward the highway. The forty minute drive to Winfield would settle my nerves and let me forget about my father being a dick. I pushed through the controls on the back of my steering wheel, searching through the satellite channels for something. As I clicked past the radio stations frantically, Alt-J’s Left Hand Free caught my attention. I pushed the back button until I reached the channel playing it, and listened to the entire song, a rarity for me. Although my preference was Indie music, I preferred music that was more mellow and relaxing – music that meant something. Modern music seemed to have very little substance, and was a mixture of synthesizers, voice altering devices, and was filled with reference to money, pussy, or expensive cars. After the song ended, Elton John’s Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me began to play. I glanced toward the radio, confused as to why it was playing, but pleased nonetheless. The song had always been one of my favorites. I recognized the station as one of Sirius XM’s newer stations, one which alternated between a song from today and one of yesteryear. I turned up the volume, got lost in the words, and for the next few minutes, escaped to a world where everyone was free to make their own decisions. A far cry from reality, but that’s what music did for me.

It provided me an escape from reality.

BISCUIT Riding back toward Wichita and somewhat disappointed Kat wasn’t home, I twisted back the throttle and sped up to just shy of 100 miles per hour. As I sped down the two-lane highway, I realized just how alone I felt. My closest friends and forever riding companions - Toad, Axton, and Otis - were all tied up with Ol’ Ladies. Otis wasn’t technically sporting an Ol’ Lady yet, but he sure wasn’t far from it. Since encountering Sam in the bar that night, they had become inseparable, and if I was forced to guess, marriage wasn’t too far out in the future. As I wondered if the infiltration of women was going to be the death of the Sinners or the dawn of a new generation, I gazed out at the horizon with unfocused eyes. At the speed I was traveling, hearing the stereo was impossible, and my earbuds were at home; leaving me without music. In my head, Bob Seger’s Roll Me Away played, one of my natural highway tunes when I was without music. As I sang the song in my head for the zillionth time, a gray Jeep shot by me in the oncoming lane at an equally high rate of speed. I checked my rearview mirror. The brake lights illuminated. It seemed I was headed back to Wichita, and Kat was headed home. I slowed the bike down to a reasonable speed, pulled to the side, and turned around. Now going the same direction as the speeding Jeep, I twisted the throttle and quickly eliminated the distance between us. As I caught up to her, she slowed considerably. I pulled the bike alongside her Jeep, glanced her direction, and smiled. Still rolling along at forty miles an hour, Kat stuck her head out the window and grinned from ear to ear. “Hey stranger,” she shouted. I nodded my head and grinned.

“Follow me?” she yelled. I nodded once, applied the brakes lightly, and pulled in behind her. As I followed her into town, I was surprised to find my heart racing and my nerves aflutter. Convinced it was a result of lack of food, too few Red Bulls, and overexposure to live porn, I continued to follow her anxiously, literally counting the miles click away as I rode. Although I was one of very few men who could claim I had never been in a relationship, I could make the statement without any hesitation. Following behind Kat, studying what little of her I could see in her side view mirror, I began to wonder what life would be like with her in it on a permanent basis. Certain I was incapable of such ridiculousness, and convinced Axton, Otis and Toad were influencing my thoughts, I backed away from the Jeep and began following at a distance too far away to see her reflection. I pulled into the parking lot behind her Jeep. As I surveyed the lot for a place to park, I eventually pulled alongside her Jeep, turned around, and parked facing the rear of her vehicle. As I stepped off the left side of the bike, she opened the door and smiled. Regardless of our agreement regarding the elimination of emotion, and even as I reminded myself she was nothing more than a piece of ass to me, I couldn’t deny her beauty. She sat in the Jeep with the door open and gazed in my direction, her blonde hair hanging loosely alongside her face. I don’t really know that I had ever seen a woman more beautiful than she was at that moment, at least not in person. Kat was unique in many respects, her gorgeous appearance being only one of them. As I stared at her blankly, she eventually questioned my sanity. “What? What’s wrong?” she asked as she stepped out of the Jeep. I shook my head. “Nothin’.” “Is there something wrong? My makeup’s a mess, I know that,” she said as she shut the door. “You look good, that’s all,” I said as I locked the bike. “You busy?” She turned around and shook her head. “Not at all. I just got back from my parent’s house. And if you’ve got time, I’d like to talk.” “Sure. What’s up?” I asked as I turned toward her.

With her book bag over one shoulder and her purse over the other, she tossed her head toward the apartment building. “Let’s get out of this heat. Come on.” I followed her up the stairs and into the house. After grabbing two beers out of the fridge, and plugging her iPod into the stereo, she walked into the small living room and sat beside me on the couch. My mind immediately went to thoughts of Kyle and the day I beat his ass on the couch. I glanced to each side of where I was sitting, surprised there were no bloodstains on the fabric. “So, what’s goin’ on?” I asked. She glanced in my direction, held the gaze for a moment, and eventually took a long drink from her beer. As I considered that maybe I forgot to ask the question, or that she didn’t hear me, she responded. “I’m sorry about my father,” she said. I shrugged my shoulders. “No big deal.” “It is a big deal,” she said. “He’s a dick.” I chuckled, took a drink of my beer, and nodded my head. “He’s a cop.” “Cop. Dick. What’s the difference?” she said. “Sounds like somethin’ I’d say,” I said as I tilted my bottle toward her. She reached toward my bottle with hers and clanked them together. A blues tune with strong guitar played on the stereo. For the life of me I couldn’t make the artist. I hated to ask, but eventually the curiosity got to me. “Who’s this?” I asked as I tilted my head back. “Big Sugar,” she said. “Oh crap. It’s uhhm, Goodbye Train. They’re Canadian.” “Canadian? They sure don’t sound it,” I shrugged. As the music continued, I nodded my head. “Good shit.” “I like it,” she said.

As I relaxed, I realized I was under no pressure to do anything. If I didn’t bring up sex, Kat would probably be satisfied with simply spending time together. A nice departure from the norm, I sipped my bottle of beer and listened to the music as it played, becoming more and more relaxed as the time passed. We sat silently, drinking our beers and enjoying the music, I admired Kat’s beautiful face and blemish free complexion. “You ever have zits,” I asked. “Not really,” she responded. “You?” I nodded my head. “Yeah as a kid.” “So, why don’t you do relationships? I’m not complaining, but just out of curiosity, why not?” she asked. Shocked that she had the courage to ask, but glad she did so, I sighed and relaxed into the back of the couch. After a long minute, I inhaled a shallow breath, held it for a few seconds, and exhaled. “I’m gonna to tell you the truth,” I began. “That’s nice to know,” she responded in a sarcastic tone. I stared down at the floor and cleared my throat. “I think, or I thought, or whatever. Anyway, I always said God put me on this earth for one reason and one reason only.” She turned and glanced over her right shoulder. “Which is?” “Fuckin’ women,” I responded. Her eyes widened and she coughed a laugh. “You’re serious?” “Uh huh. One, I’m hung like a horse. Two, I’ve got a tongue like a giraffe. And three, I can recover from sex in about ten or fifteen minutes and go again. So why else would he give me all of those sexual gifts if he didn’t want me fuckin’ women?” I said. She finished her beer and stood. As she walked to the kitchen, I waited for her response. With her head stuck in the fridge and me regretting having spoken my mind, she responded. “I don’t know. Maybe to make one woman really happy,” she said. “Ever consider that?”

I stood and finished my beer. She had a valid point, and as stupid as it seemed to admit it, I had never really considered what she said as being God’s intention with me. Growing up in Alabama, dropping out of school at fourteen and leaving home at fifteen left me feeling as if I wasn’t a very smart boy. Over time, I believed I had developed into a man who could be perceived as smart, but I always felt I lacked true intelligence. As a boy, I was required to go to church, and as a man, although my belief in God persisted, my participation in Church services stopped. I always felt if I stepped a foot into one, I’d burst into flames. “No, never did,” I said as I tossed the empty beer bottle into the trash. “Ever been in love?” she asked as she handed me a beer. “Nope,” I responded. “You?” “Hard saying,” she said. “Maybe. Maybe not. Truthfully, I doubt I know what love is.” “Ever been close?” she asked. I shook my head. “Never even had a girlfriend.” She narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose slightly. “Seriously?” I nodded my head. Admitting it seemed strange, and I waited for her to begin to chastise me for never having committed to a woman. Although she never began to scold me or complain, she glared at me for a long minute before continuing. “If the right woman came along, do you think you’ll ever settle down?” she asked. I gazed across the floor toward a decorative wooden box. It was filled with various throws and small pillows. After staring blankly at it for some time, I shifted my eyes around the room, making note of all items which reminded me of a woman. Although the apartment was small, there were several flower arrangements which I hadn’t noticed in the past that stood out as being rather attractive and well put together. “Did you make those or buy them?” I asked as I tilted my head toward the two vases on the end table on the opposite side of the room.

She glanced toward the flowers and grinned. “Mad them, why?” “They’re nice,” I responded. “So, did you not want to answer the other question?” I shifted my eyes toward her, and after a moment, my head followed. Now facing her, I pressed the beer bottle between my legs, exhaled, and responded. I intertwined my fingers, extended my arm and cracked my knuckles. “Right woman? I’d always said there was no such thing. For some reason, starting oh I don’t know, say two hours ago, I began to wonder. If a woman came along that sparked my interest, I may give it a try. Hell, everyone else is.” “Because everyone else is?” she chuckled. “Who’s everyone else?” “The fellas I run with, Otis, Axton, and Toad. Pretty much they’re all hooked up with Ol’ Ladies,” I said. She turned, placed her beer bottle on the end table, and turned in my direction. Standing in front of me in cut-off sweat shorts, a Southwestern College tee shirt, and Converse sneakers, she looked adorable. As I studied her and attempted to guess her height, she tugged at the bottom of her tee shirt and twisted her hips slightly. “So, has anyone sparked your interest lately?” she asked. It bothered me having her stand over me and talk. One of the few things that irritated me - and something I couldn’t stand for more than a few seconds. I pulled the beer from between my legs, glanced to my right, and realized there was nowhere to place the bottle. Without responding, I stood, stepped past her, and leaned toward the end table sitting beside her. I placed the bottle beside hers, straightened my posture, and inhaled a shallow breath. The smell of her perfume filled my nostrils and caused me to smile. Couture La La. I closed my eyes for a split second and inhaled through my nose lightly, and it was then that I remembered. It was the girl from the grocery store who eventually moved to Ohio. The only woman I spoke to regularly without ever trying to fuck. She wore the same scent, and I had asked her once what it was. Couture and a warm smile each time I went through the checkout line were her two signatures.

“Only you,” I responded as I opened my eyes. She stood a mere two feet away from me fighting the urge to smile. “Good. I feel the same way. You know, I don’t buy into the entire love at first sight shit. Boy meets girl, and they say I knew the moment I met him…” “I’m an acquired taste,” I said. “Nobody is going to meet me and say they love me. How’d we jump to love, anyway? She shifted her eyes to the floor and held her gaze for a moment. “I was just saying. But if you say I sparked your interest, and I say you sparked mine, why don’t we see if we can make something work between us?” she asked as she shifted her eyes from the floor. I studied her for a moment. Her eyes were brown with little flecks in them. Her hair appeared to be a little more blonde than I remembered it being. Her skin was the golden brown color most women strive to achieve through the course of the summer. In summary, she was nothing short of beautiful. As I studied her for some type of imperfection, the response came to me. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “You know, I spent fifteen years bein’ exposed to a man and a woman in a relationship that just didn’t work. She hated him, but was afraid to leave, and he hated everyone and settled for taking out his hatred on her. Hell, he couldn’t remember her birthday and vice versa. They didn’t really know one thing about each other. Not a fuckin’ one. But they stayed together because of me.” “Your parents?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Yep.” “Do me a favor?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Huh?” She widened her eyes slightly. “Will you do me a favor?” “Suppose so,” I responded. “Turn around,” she said.

I cocked one eyebrow and reached for my beard. “Excuse me?” “Humor me. Turn around,” she said as she pointed toward the floor and turned her index finger in a circle. I turned around and shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Over your left eye there’s a scar. It’s small, but it separates your left eyebrow in to two almost identical halves. Your nose has a mole on it on the, oh shit, hold on. Left, it’s on the left side. It’s small too, about the size of a piece of sand. You’ve got a scar on your upper cheek that goes down and disappears into your beard. It looks like one that wasn’t professionally taken care of, because there aren’t any scars from the holes beside it where it would have been stitched.” Amazed, I started to turn around. “No, stay right there,” she demanded. “I’m not done.” “Your tooth in the front, the incisor or whatever they call it, it’s got a line down the center. It looks like it was broken or fractured. And the knuckles on your right hand are so covered with scars that it’s hard to tell where they start and stop, but I think it’s weird that your left hand really doesn’t have any. Let me see, oh, and your tag on your bike is a personalized one, it says RFOF.” I heard her exhale. “I guess that’s it, you can turn around now.” I turned around slowly and removed my hands from my pockets. I was truly impressed with not only her attention to detail, but the fact she had made a mental note of all of the things she recited about me. As I studied her in disbelief, a strange feeling of comfort washed over me. After a short minute of uncomfortable silence, I crossed my arms and glared. She was grinning from ear to ear. “There’s only three types of people I let get close enough to me to touch me,” I said flatly. “Huh?” she asked. “My license plate. RFOF. Ride Fuck Or Fight. The fellas I ride with, whoever I’m fuckin’, or the person who I’m beatin’ the shit out of. Those are the three who get close enough to me to touch me,” I explained.

She pressed her hands to her hips. “Well, I don’t ride.” I grinned and shook my head. “Wanna fight?” she asked as she raised her clenched fists. I shook my head. “Sorry, don’t fight women.” “Well, that only leaves one thing,” she said as she lowered her hands. “Damn the luck,” I responded as I uncrossed my arms. “Yeah,” she breathed as she lowered her chin slightly. Her hair fell into her face. As she gazed down at the floor in obvious thought, I reached for the strands that dangled from the sides of her head. “About that question earlier,” I said as I brushed her hair behind her ear. She glanced up and blinked her eyes. “Yeah?” “Let’s give that a try. Let’s get to know each other a little better and see what happens,” I said, “That’s about all I can promise.” “Enough for me,” she said. As much as I hated to admit it, it was all I could offer her. But for me, it was a huge step. And more than likely, all I would be able to handle. At least for a while.

KAT In the two weeks following our discussion about attempting to make something work between us, we had seen each other every day. Although we didn’t have sex on every single day, we came close. I found it rather reassuring that I no longer felt a need to have sex, only a desire. My problem seemed to be the same as Biscuit’s. My desire was overwhelming, leaving our sexual downtime as the only opportunity to truly get to know one another. “I think it’s funny you never asked what my name is.” The low rumble of his voice prevented me from falling asleep totally. I was probably a few seconds away from it, floating in the almost dream-like state that always seemed to precede my passing out. I blinked my eyes, confused on where I was and what was going on. The warm sun against my skin and the sight of him beside me reminded me of where we were and what was happening. I opened my eyes and began to fumble along the side of the lounge for my sunglasses. He rolled to his side and laid his head flat against the cushions of the chair. After finding my glasses and shading my tired eyes, I responded. “I uhhm. I never really…I don’t know. It’s not that it didn’t matter, but it didn’t matter. I figured when you were ready to tell me you would. I guess I didn’t want to pry. I know from talking to Avery that you’re a private bunch of men, I was just being respectful, I guess,” I said. “Dalton,” he said as he turned his head toward the sun. I nodded my head and grinned. “I like it.” “Ain’t got a middle name. They never gave me one. Last name’s Biskette. It’s where Biscuit came from, but that ain’t too difficult to figure out,” he said as he sat up in the chair.

He wiped the sweat from his brow as he stood. “I’m gonna hop in. It’s hotter’n grits on a motherfuckin’ griddle out here.” His speech patterns, funny sayings, and the slang he used led me to believe he grew up elsewhere. Not wanting to insult him, but curious about his upbringing, I stood from my lounge and tossed my glasses against the towel beside my chair. “Where did you grow up again?” I asked as I followed him across the concrete deck. “Alabama,” he said as he dove into the pool. He was an extremely graceful man in many respects. To watch him walk was nothing short of entertaining. There was a certain gate to his walk, not what most called swagger, but a small pattern. It was almost as if he had a bad hip or knee, but I knew he didn’t. With each step of his right foot, his right hip would dip forward. Not only did it make his walk interesting, but there was a certain grace to his walk, almost like watching a ballerina. Seeing him dive into the pool made me believe he had at least taken diving lessons at one point in time. His body entered the water in a manner that produced virtually no splash, and made me quite envious. As I dove into the pool, I wondered what my splash looked like. “Have you taken swimming lessons? And diving lessons?” I asked as I cleared the surface of the water. He wiped the water from his beard as he nodded his head. “At the Y. Figured when I bought the house I’d need to know how to swim and stuff, so I took lessons for a few years. You’ll find out I don’t do anything I can’t do properly. Ain’t nothin’ worse than someone tryin’ to do something and lookin’ like a fuckin’ idiot doin’ it.” “Do I look like an idiot when I dive in?” I asked. “No,” he chuckled. “You lying?” “Maybe a little,” he said as he swung his hand over the top of the water’s surface, splashing it into my face. “You fucker,” I howled as I attempted to do the same.

Now in a heated splashing fight, we both swung our arms violently, splashing and screaming like children. Being with Biscuit was so much different than being with Kyle. With Kyle, I was always on edge and wondering what his next complaint was going to be, and how he was going to treat me as a result of it. The tension between Kyle and I was thick, and I remained nervous throughout the entire relationship. At the time, I was convinced it was simply part of being with a man and the differences between men and women. Actually being accepted by a man and not having to worry about being criticized for every mistake I made was a pleasant change, and certainly something I would have to get used to. I found myself waiting for the axe to fall with Biscuit, and it never did. Oftentimes I would do or say something I fully realized Kyle would explode about, and wait for Biscuit to do the same. But the anger never came. Truly grateful to have met him and pleased at our ability to be ourselves in each other’s presence, I swung my arms like a flailing fool. Eventually we both stopped. Declaring a winner would have been impossible; he had better precision, but I possessed more determination. “Now I’m exhausted,” I said. “I’m glad it’s Saturday.” “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked as he tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Well, not everyone works on their own schedule. I’ve got the day off and no school, so I’m pretty happy. I get to relax,” I said as I waded across the pool away from him. “Relax?” he said as he splashed water at me. I turned to face him as I pulled myself from the pool. As he gazed up at me, I pulled my bikini top down as if to resituate it. Intentionally, I pulled it a little too far, but acted surprised as my boobs popped free of the material. “Yep,” I said as I glanced down at my breasts. “Shit, they popped out, didn’t they,” I said with a laugh. “It’s tough to keep these big fuckers in here.” “You tease,” he said as he splashed water at me.

“Tease?” I laughed as I pulled my top out and over my boobs. “I don’t think so.” He nodded his head and stuck out his tongue. “That’s teasing,” I said. “Not if I’m willin’ to use it,” he responded. I glanced around the deck. The entire pool area was protected from the neighbor’s view by a very tall privacy fence in every direction. I reached back, untied my top, and pulled my top over my head. As I reached for my bottom, he waded toward the side of the pool. While he was pulling himself from the pool, I relaxed onto the soft cushions of the lounge. “I hate tan lines,” I said as I reached for my glasses. “Damn shame,” he said. “I’m gonna lick that little pussy till you got a tan line of my head on your inner thighs.” “Promises, promises,” I said as I put on my sunglasses. As I felt his wet beard between my legs, I inhaled a deep breath and held it. Although I knew what was next, there was never anything I could do to prepare myself for it. No one could. The equivalent of riding a rollercoaster, jumping off a cliff, and witnessing a miracle all at the same time, having him lick my pussy was an entirely different kind of pleasure. As his tongue slowly penetrated me, I exhaled and reached for his head. I lightly gripped it in my hands as he raised his chin and smiled. “Fuck yeah, grab my head, Kat. Grab it and fuck my tongue,” he said. Being caught off guard by his unexpected request, I stared down at him through my sunglasses without responding. I held his head loosely in my hands as he lowered his chin and began to lick me softly. As his tongue began to press against my lips, I felt myself open up like a flower, inviting him into my warm, wet folds. I closed my eyes. Somewhat lost in the feeling of his tongue, the warm sun, and my developing love for his being, his consistent moaning reminded me of his request.

You better fuck his face, Kat. You don’t want to make him mad. I gripped his head in my hands lightly and slowly raised my hips. He pressed his tongue deeper, held it, and curled the tip into my g-spot. I lowered my hips slightly. His pulled his tongue from inside of me and flicked the tip against my clit. Holy hell. I could get used to this. I raised my hips again. He presses his tongue deep inside of me and curled the tip into my g-spot. I held my hips against his face. The g-spot licking continued until I was dizzy and lightheaded. I lowered my hips. He licked my clit. Well, he did say fuck my tongue, didn’t he? As Bill Wither’s Use Me began to play over the stereo, I grasped his head in my hands firmly and began grinding my hips to the sound of the music. After a few seconds, I was grinding my hips against his face like it was my last chance. Completely separated from all that surrounded me, I continued until I had an orgasm in his mouth. I pulled his head back and inhaled sharply. “You okay?’ I breathed. He raised his hand and wiped his beard. “Be a lot better if you’d fuck my face for a while. I don’t do this ‘cause I think you like it. I do it ‘cause I love it.” “Now fuck my tongue,” he demanded as he lowered his face into my lap. And who was I to argue with a demand like that? I pressed my hands into the edges of the lounge and raised my ass from the surface of the chair. I

held myself in position and released the edge of the chair. Using every muscle in my stomach, I ground my crotch into his face as I pulled against the back of his head with both hands. His tongue deep inside of me, I had no intention of allowing him to catch a breath until I was done. Right now, this was about me, and I was going to take advantage of the situation fully. As I held his face against my swollen mound, he continued to curl his tongue against my g-spot. The tingling deep within me began and I held my eyes closed until I reached a heightened state of sexual sensation unlike anything I had ever experienced. My breathing became choppy as I reached climax. I released the tension in my stomach and slowly collapsed into the chair, still holding his head tight against my pussy. As he worked his tongue in and out of me with great precision, I exhaled, relaxed every muscle in my body, and released his head. A tingling sensation between my ass, crotch, and nipples began. I felt pressure building inside of me. I opened my eyes and gazed into the sky, uncertain of what was happening. As his tongue pressed deeper and flicked against my g-spot one last time, I reached for his head and held it in place. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew I didn’t want it to end. As I reached the peak of climax, I felt as if something inside of me had burst. The feeling continued for what seemed like forever, but couldn’t have been any longer than a second. I released his head, flopped my and to the side, and heaved a sigh from the depths of my soul. “What happened?” I asked blankly as I felt him release his weight from the chair. “Fuck yes!” he growled as he stood. I blinked my eyes and stared. I shrugged my shoulders as I attempted to sit up slightly. “What?” “You came in my mouth. Like a ton. You squirted,” he said. “That was fuckin’ hot.” “I what?” I gasped. “You squirted. You came in my mouth like a faucet,” he said as he wiped his hand along his beard. “Seriously?” I said. He released his beard and reached for his shorts. “Fuck yeah. We’re gonna have to practice that.”

“That was awesome by the way, I’m exhausted,” I said as he untied the drawstring in his shorts. “What are you doing?” He shrugged his shoulders and widened his eyes. “Well, I can’t fuck you with them on, now can I?” I felt like I was still having an orgasm. My mind confused, and my body hypersensitive to everything, I sat and stared. The thought of sex wasn’t currently on the forefront of my desires. As he began to stroke his cock, my thoughts on the matter began to change. After a few seconds of watching him stroke his hand along the swollen shaft, I rolled onto my stomach, stuck my ass high in the air, and exhaled. “Come and get it, Dalton,” I said. I felt the chair twist as he climbed onto it. With his chest pressed against my back and his thighs grazing against my ass as he situated himself on the flimsy chair, he moved his mouth to my ear. With my ear against his lips, he inhaled a deep breath, sending chills down my spine. As I tilted my head his direction, attempting to force his mouth from my ear, he bit my earlobe and growled into my ear. “Come and get it? No, Kat. I’m gonna take it,” he whispered. “Oh God,” I said. “You know why?” he breathed into my ear. “Because it’s yours?” I squeaked. He released my earlobe from between his teeth. “That’s right. My pussy,” he whispered. Hearing him say it made me a melt. As I felt the tip of his cock pressing against my still throbbing pussy, I inhaled sharply, exhaled as he penetrated me, and bit my lower lip in anticipation of what was sure to come. Slowly and steadily, he began to fuck me. With each stroke I was one step closer to collapsing in a pile on the lounge chair. Still recovering from the squirting, and feeling rather exhausted, I was providing very little to the sexual act with the exception of a wet willing hole.

I moaned as his pace and depth slowly increased. When he reached a point that he was stroking me with every inch of his cock, he dug his fingernails into my shoulders and forced me to arch my back. “That’ll hit that spot,” he growled into my ear. And he was right. The tip of his ever so lovely cock was grinding against my g-spot with each stroke. No differently than someone shoving their fingers into my armpit and tickling me, his stiff cock was positioned perfectly and tickling me sexually. He released my shoulder, and reached for my breasts. As he squeezed them in his hands, he continued to pull me back, forcing his swollen tip into my tingling g-spot. Although I had no real way of knowing if all women shared my sexual chemistry, my boobs were connected by a direct sensual string to my pussy, and I enjoyed it immensely. As he squeezed them in his hands firmly and continued to fuck me, my body, mind, and spirit began to reach a heightened state of being. “My tits,” he said as he squeezed them firmly in his hands. “Yours,” I said. “My fucking ass,” he said as he released my right boob and slapped his hand against my ass. “Oh God yes. Yours,” I said. He slapped his hand against my ass again harshly, and then again. The force of his swats were a huge turn on, but took my breath completely from my lungs. As I attempted to catch my breath and focus on his cock, his hand gripped my neck. As he squeezed my neck in his hand and turned my head to the side, I peered upward. His mouth opened slightly and he encompassed my lower lip in between his upper and lower lip, biting it slightly. As he bit down with slightly more force, I groaned in pleasure. Certainly not for everyone, but a far cry from abusive, this was exactly what I desired in a sexual relationship - rough forceful sex at the hand of a bad boy who was, above all things, a good man. As he released my lip and began biting along my shoulder he continued to squeeze my neck in his

hand. With his left hand steadily squeezing my boob and pinching my nipple, he maintained a direct connection to my throbbing g-spot. I was close. It was almost time. Reaching a point of sensory overload, my eyes began to open and close rapidly. His cock continued to pound against my g-spot with each stroke, bringing me one step closer to climax. After dragging his teeth along my shoulder and up my neck, he breathed into my ear. “Ready?” “Uhhm,” I stammered. He released my neck, pressed his hand against the back of my head, and forced my face deep into the bottom cushion of the lounge. Startled, I naturally tried to resist. As I arched my back against his hand, he pushed harder, pressing my face firmly into the bottom of the chair. Now incapable of speaking and barely able to moan, my muffled groans melted into the fabric before they escaped onto the deck of the pool as nothing more than silence. My helpless state left me feeling sexually owned. Not abused. Not taken advantage of, and certainly not anything but the sexual property of Dalton Biskette. I had become Dalton’s, wholly and completely and he knew it. As he pulled against my hip with his free hand, I groaned into the chair and raised my ass high into the air. I whimpered into the chair as he pounded himself into me harder and deeper than he ever had. Although I couldn’t see him, I suspected he was standing on the balls of his feet, forcing himself into me as deep as his cock, my pussy, and the laws of physics would allow. As his hips pounded against the cheeks of my ass, my swollen muff throbbed like a beating heart. As I felt myself reaching climax, I screamed into the chair, his hand still pressing against the back of my head. For the sake of reassuring myself I was owned by the right man, I attempted to raise myself from the chair. A growl in return and a firm hand on my head reminded me I’d chosen the only one to properly tame me. “Hold still, little girl, we’re almost done.” I cried out into the chair as I reached climax, sorry the entire neighborhood wasn’t able to hear my screams of pleasure.

I wanted the world to know I was satisfied. For now, I’d settle for Dalton knowing. As I felt his cock swell inside of me, I knew he was close to climax. As I bellowed my tune of ecstasy into the cushion, I felt his cock slowly pull from my dripping pussy. He moved his hand from the back of my head, causing my shoulders to naturally lift slightly. “Turn around, I want you to see this,” he said. With my boobs still resting on the chair and my ass still high in the air, I craned my aching neck to look behind me. As my gaze met his throbbing cock, I watched him stroke it twice before it exploded between my ass cheeks. He stroked it a few more times, spurting warm cum onto my ass and pussy with each stroke. Some girls may have been repulsed. Some might have felt belittled or less of a woman as a result. I felt blessed. Because for that moment - as the cum ran along my ass and dripped onto the lounge - not only was I truly his, but he was mine. And in my mind at least, there was no denying it.

KAT Perfection. My life had become the definition of perfect. I prayed it would never change, tried to live with nothing more than a little hope - and cast any and all expectations to the wind. I would have never thought Dalton and I would have become so close, but I was sure glad we had. As we sat across from each other in P.F. Chang’s eating, I couldn’t help but wish the night would simply last forever. He spooned more of the chicken and rice mixture into a leaf of lettuce and rolled it tightly. As he lifted it toward his mouth, he gazed past it and fixed his eyes on me. “You suppose those fuckers in China or whatever actually eat this shit, or is it all a bunch of Americanized stuff?” he asked. “Americanized. I don’t know. Yeah, I’d say Americanized,” I shrugged. He took a bite of the lettuce wrap, swallowed it, and grinned as he pointed the remaining portion of the wrap toward me. “Well, either way, I fuckin’ like it.” “I do too,” I said as I grabbed a wonton with my chopsticks. “Ain’t figured out how to drive those damned things yet. You’re gonna have to teach me,” he said as he finished the last bite of his lettuce wrap. “Okay,” it’s easy, “Lay one across your finger like this…” I placed the middle of the stick in my web of my hand and rested the end of it on my middle finger. Carefully, I placed the other stick beside it and pinched it between my thumb and forefinger.

“And the other like that,” I said. “Now, you just click the ends together.” “We’ll have to get us some of ‘em and practice. I ain’t lookin’ to be somebody’s fool up in here,” he said as he glanced around the restaurant. “How are you two doing?” the waitress asked as she approached the table, “Does everything taste good?” Dalton nodded his head as he wagged his index finger in the air. “Tastes damn good. Can you bring us another plate of the lettuce wraps? While she was eating those little dumplin’s I ate all the lettuce wraps. And bring me another glass of water if you don’t mind.” “I’ll get that right out,” she said. “Anything else?” “Not yet, but keep checkin’ back, we’ll come up with somethin’, I’m sure of it,” he responded. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table, and ran his fingers along the edges of his beard, “You know, I ain’t even gonna try and bullshit you one bit. Kat, I like you. I like you a lot. I’m thinkin’ this deal we got between us is one of them every single fucker on this earth wants, but can’t get. Guys will hop from girl to girl lookin’ for the one. They never find her, so they keep lookin’. Well, I’m gonna announce it right now. I’m fucking done.” “Done what?” I asked, not sure of what point he had made. “Lookin’. I’m done lookin’. Found what I was lookin’ for. You make me happier’n fuck. Hell, six months ago I’d a never guessed I’d be sittin’ in some Chinese joint eatin’ shit wrapped up in a piece of lettuce and lovin’ it, but I am. You’re good for me,” he said as he continued to gaze at me admiringly. “Thank you. You make me happier’n fuck too,” I giggled. He released his beard and leaned away from the table as he nodded his head. After a few seconds he leaned forward and grinned. “When you get outta college, we should shack up and see how things go,” he said. Tickled pink by the mere mention of it, I nodded my head repeatedly. “We should. I think I’d like it.” “I know I’d like it,” he said with a nod.

His eyes were hazel, and the specific mix of color I’d always wondered if anyone truly had. After seeing his, I decided everyone else’s eyes were just stupid. As I attempted to stare into them and figure out what made them so different, he tilted his head to the side. “That was quick,” he said as the waitress placed the plate on the table. “And there’s a water,” she said a she slid a fresh glass of water beside his empty one. “Anything else?” she asked. He shook his head. “Can I say something?” the waitress asked. “Say whatever you want,” Dalton shrugged as he shifted his eyes to meet mine. I nodded my head in agreement. “You two are like the cutest couple in the world. I mean, I don’t know. It’s just that you’re like so happy together and it shows. I just wanted to tell you that,” she said with a grin. My mouth shot into a smile so quickly it hurt. “Oh, thank you,” I said as I covered my mouth with my hand. “She’s beautiful, huh?” Dalton asked as he tilted his head toward me. “She is,” the waitress agreed. “You ought to see inside of her. She’s twice that pretty on the inside, and that’s a damned fact,” he said. Officially falling in love. I moved my hand away from my mouth and mouthed the words. “Thank you.” As the waitress walked away Dalton reached into the glass container in the center of the table and removed a pair of chopsticks. After placing them just as I’d shown him into the web of his hand, he reached for the mixture, picked up a piece of chicken, and poked it into his mouth.

“Impressed,” I said as I clapped my hands together lightly. “Good teacher,” he responded. After a few more bites with his chopsticks, he rolled another wrap and held it in his hand. “We get done here, you think you can just stay at my place tonight?” he asked. “I nodded my head, “Sure. No school tomorrow, so I don’t see why not, why?” “Well,” he said as he took a bite of the wrap, “After all the fuckin’ and swimmin’ we did earlier, I’m wore out. Thought maybe we could eat, ride to my place, and just lay around in bed naked, you know with our bare skin just touchin’ each other. Maybe fall asleep like that. It’d be nice.” And, no differently than Dalton had said earlier, I was done. The search was over. I had fallen face first and landed in a puddle of love.

BISCUIT There wasn’t too much I enjoyed other than riding, fucking, and fighting. Well, until now. As I attempted to lay still and breathe easily, Kat’s leg was draped over my thigh and her bare chest was pressed against mine. After fifteen minutes or so of me being as motionless as I had ever been, she began to stir. As she began to moan, she rolled to the side. Lying flat on her back with her head pointed up at the ceiling, she opened her eyes. Upon realizing where she was, she immediately rolled right back on top of me. “Mornin’.” “Morning,” she responded. After a quick kiss, she ran to the bathroom. A few minutes later she walked into the room, still naked and as beautiful as ever. “What day is it?” she asked. I gazed at her for a long minute before responding. Her body, hair, skin…everything - was perfect. She was truly a god send. After I cleared my mind of what a fortunate man I was to have her in my life, I responded. “Monday,” I responded. “And the time?” she asked. I glanced at my watch.

“Almost six,” I responded. “Shit. I’ve got to go. I need to get home, take a shower, and go to damned school,” she said as she started picking up her things. “I feel like crap.” She quickly pulled on her shorts. “Probably wore smooth out,” I said as I rolled off the bed. “No, I feel sick,” she responded. I shrugged my shoulders. “Probably the Mexican food from last night, or hell maybe the Chinese from Saturday?” She pulled on her top and grabbed her purse. “Maybe. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get,” she said. “Time?” I glanced at my watch. “Six straight up.” “Shit. Okay,” she said as she leaned toward me. After she kissed me on the lips she stood back, stared for a minute, and kissed me again. “Miss you already,” she said as she turned toward the door. If you had any idea. “Miss you,” I said. As I watched her Jeep back out of the drive, I realized lying in bed naked with her was my new favorite thing in the world. I had no intention of telling the fellas, or Kat for that matter, but I damned sure couldn’t wait until she came back and we could do it again. She was a true one and only. And she was mine.



KAT Standing in my bathroom shaking, I stared down at the test I had taken an hour prior, still in absolute shock. The last thing a twenty-two year old girl who has an extremely independent bad boy biker for an almost boyfriend wants to see is a positive pregnancy test – especially nine months prior to her completion of college. I sighed and set the test on the side of the vanity and opened the second test, one capable of telling me the amount of weeks I was pregnant. I squatted, peed on the indicator, and waited. After a long stressful period of hoping the first test was inaccurate, I opened my eyes and looked down. Please… The indicator said “3+”. From my interpretation of the instructions, it meant just what I was afraid of – the baby was older than 5 weeks old. Fuck. My body’s reaction to the birth control I used wasn’t typical nor were my periods. Some months I had one, some months I didn’t, and yet other month’s I had a miniscule period which included light spotting. My most recent period was eight weeks back, and I had dismissed my missed period as nothing more than another month of my not-so-typical periods. I had only known Dalton for approximately four weeks, and if the test was accurate, it could only mean one thing. The baby would be Kyle’s. And it was conceived almost immediately before he went to jail, and after he beat the woman half

to death. He had come to my home in a drunken stupor, and demanded sex. After refusing him, he slapped me, choked, me, and held me down until I was exhausted. As I cried and whimpered, hoping for him to stop, he had sex with me and promptly left. It was the last time we had sex, and I was afraid it was the day the child I carried inside of me was conceived. I felt sick. I stood, leaned over the vanity, and vomited. After a long period of crying, and a longer period of denial, I walked to the living room and called my doctor. And afternoon cancellation allowed me to make an appointment forty-five minutes from now, almost the exact amount of time it would take me to drive there. I grabbed my purse, tossed my phone inside, and wiped the tears from my cheeks as I stepped out onto the landing. There’s no sense in torturing yourself over this until you’re certain, Kat. I walked to my Jeep in a daze, trying to figure out what my life was going to become if the child was truly Kyle’s. In my opinion, raising a fatherless child wasn’t an option, nor was abortion. Spending my life with Kyle, however, wasn’t something I could even begin to imagine. But if the child was truly his, I felt it was my only option. I leaned against the Jeep, pressing my hand against the hot metal as I attempted to prevent myself from collapsing onto the asphalt parking lot. As I stood and waited for my head to clear, my stomach convulsed once again. And I vomited between my feet. The thought of Kyle made me ill. I wanted a life with Dalton, but I seriously doubted the child was his. A life with him which

included raising a child wasn’t something I could see happening in the near future. As I reached for the door handle, I began to cry again. I closed my eyes, tilted my head toward the sky, and prayed. I don’t know what’s best, and you do. All I ask of you is this: Do whatever you can to make sure I raise this child safely and to the best of my ability. That’s all I ask of you. You take care of me, and I’ll take care of the baby. I opened my eyes and opened the door, knowing I had done all that I was able. The rest was up to God. And the father.

BISCUIT I had wondered for a large portion of my adult life if anything would ever happen to improve my way of living, thinking, or being. I eventually dismissed the thoughts, convinced the manner I lived my life was as good as I was personally able, therefore life was as good as it would ever become. I stood in the living room gazing blankly into the bedroom. My choice of colors for the room never seemed to last more than six weeks at best, but something about the beige appealed to me. It looked calm, peaceful, and bright – without being over the top. I nodded my head, grinned, and turned toward the kitchen. Satisfied my room was just as I wanted it, and my life wasn’t far behind, I walked to the fridge and opened it. An entire shelf of Red Bull’s looked back at me. I reached in, grabbed a yogurt and a Red Bull, and closed the door. As I scooped the yogurt from the container and sipped the Red Bull, I closed my eyes and said a quick prayer to the man in charge. You and I know I paint that room because it’s the only thing in my life I feel I have control over. If I can look at it and be satisfied, it must mean I’m satisfied with my life. I just want to let you know I appreciate you having Kat and I run into each other. I ain’t always been… Damn it, I mean ‘I’ve not’. That’s what I meant to say. ‘I’ve not’ always been the best man I could be, but I’m gonna give it an honest shake this time. I like this girl, and while I’m eatin’ my yogurt here, I just need one thing, Boss. Help me keep from doin’ dumb shit.

That’s all I need. Amen. I finished the yogurt, drank the remaining red Bull, and grabbed one for the road. I stumbled out to the garage, hopped on my bike, and opened the can. As I sat silently on the bike, I slowly sipped the beverage, thinking of how Kat allowed me to feel like it was okay to just be me. Grateful for her being in my life, I began to wish she wasn’t in college, but with me, able to enjoy my life with me on a daily basis. Eight more months and I wouldn’t have to worry about her being in college. Anxious to see what the future for us held, I finished the drink, tossed the can in the trash, and started the bike. As the engine warmed up, the exhaust echoed throughout the neighborhood. After a few moments of chuckling to myself about what my neighbors must think of me, I pulled in the clutch and shifted the bike into gear. I inched forward, pressed the remote clipped to my fairing, and watched in the rearview mirror as the door slowly closed. After turning up the music to a dull roar, I slowly rolled into the street and stopped. Hell, I ain’t done a burn out in longer than I can remember. I pulled in the clutch, revved the engine until the rev limiter stopped me, and released the clutch. As the bike’s rear tire began to smoke, the bike inched forward slowly. As the rear tire continued to screech and spin wildly, I realized as soon as it got a little traction I would lurch forward like I’d been shot out of a rocket. Within a few seconds, the neighbor across the street stepped onto the porch, pressed his hands to his hips, and shook his head. I released the controls with my left hand, waved, and continued to twist the throttle back. Smoke bellowed from the rear fender. I twisted the throttle a little further. And, as the neighbor watched in disgust, I grinned. Working the throttle back and forth, I screeched the tire in a smoky burnout, bellowing smoke from the fender, and leaving a black mark stretching along the street the width of my neighbor’s yard.

As I continued to grin and twist the throttle, my rear tire exploded into a thousand pieces. Rubber flew from the rear of the bike down the block behind me about a hundred feet. Almost instantly the bike fell six inches to the street and the wheel began to screech on the asphalt. I released the throttle and shook my head, knowing not only that I’d ruined the tire, but that I’d possibly damaged my wheel beyond repair. I glanced at the neighbor as I shut off the bike. His hands were now on his knees, and he was laughing uncontrollably. I might have known what I wanted out of life, but for me to think for one minute that I was anything more than a great big kid would have been an absolute lie. As the neighbor finally caught his breath and stood up straight, I stepped off the bike and attempted to push it back into the garage. Pushing the nine hundred pound bike alone on the steel wheel without a tire was almost impossible. Within a few seconds of my huffing, puffing, and shoving, the bike began to float easily along the pavement. I glanced over my shoulder. The neighbor was bent over, his hands against my saddlebags, pushing for all he was worth. Within a few minutes, the bike was parked safely in my garage. “Appreciate it. I’m Dalton Biskette,” I said as I extended my right hand. He chuckled as he reached for my hand. “Quite a show. I’m Randy Devlon. Hell, you’ve lived here for ten years and we’ve never met.” He had an average build, roughly six feet tall, with salt and pepper hair that seemed to be out of place for what I would guess to be a man in his latter thirties. Dressed in designer jeans and an untucked dress shirt with loafers, he looked like a desk jockey. . “Ain’t never been much on mingling with people I don’t know. Appreciate your help, though, I really do,” I said as I released his hand and gazed down at my bike. “I understand. You know, you’ll never know anyone if you don’t mingle. I guess that’s another way to look at it,” he said. “Well, stop by sometime, we can have a beer,” I said as I glanced in his direction. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise,” I agreed. As he turned and walked away, I realized I had lived across the street from him for the ten year period he’d indicated without meeting him. Feeling almost guilty, I turned toward the house and walked into the kitchen. I grabbed a Red Bull from the fridge, opened it, and stared down at the can. I was in a half-assed relationship with a woman, for once in my life had no desire to be with another, and had actually met one of my neighbors. What the fuck was my life becoming? I turned toward the door leading into the garage and opened it. My bike sat on the rear wheel, which was clearly ruined. I tipped the can up and drank half of it. I gazed at the bike. I drank the remainder. I tilted my head back and stared up at the ceiling of the garage. You’ve got a sense of humor, don’t you? I tossed the can in the trash can beside the door, stepped into the garage and gazed out toward the street. Pieces of tire littered the block for a hundred feet in front of my house. If anyone was going to keep me from doing dumb shit, it wasn’t going to be God, it was going to be me. Well, this new way of living is going to take some getting used, to, that’s for sure.

KAT Having a friend you truly trust and can count on regardless of what type of situation your life presents is invaluable. Jennifer was that type of friend for me. We didn’t always agree with each other, but I always knew she would be truthful with me about her opinions when so many others might not. As we sat at the coffee shop on College Road and waited for our drinks, she began to look nervous. “So what’s the deal, Kat? Why are we meeting here?” she said as she looked around at the various hipsters drinking their mocha-choka-lattes. “I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Kat!” the barista hollered. “I’ll be right back,” I said as I stood from my overstuffed chair. I walked to the bar, picked up our two smoothies, and walked back to where we were seated. After handing Jennifer her drink, I sat down and stared at my cup. It resembled a milkshake. I sucked on the straw until some of the frozen beverage escaped into my mouth. Holy shit, this is good. I nodded my head and raised my cup. “Holy shit, this is good.” “So…” she said as she studied her cup of frozen beverage. Talking to Jennifer about it would be easier than talking to Biscuit or my parents. I figured if nothing else, discussing it with her would provide me with a little experience. Beginning the conversation, however, is always the hardest part.

“I’m pregnant,” I said. “Excuse me? I thought you said you were pregnant,” she responded. I nodded my head. “I am.” She leaned forward in her seat - almost off the front edge. She lowered her hands between her knees as her eyes widened drastically. “Holy shit, what are you going to do?” she asked. “What’s Biscuit or whatever his name is going to say?” “Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. And before you go ballistic, let me finish,” I said. “Okay,” she said. “It’s Kyle’s. From when he came over and all but raped me that night after he got arrested. Remember me telling you about that?” I asked. “Oh my God,” she gasped as she covered her mouth. “What are you going to do?” she whispered. I gazed down at the floor and began to explain my intentions. “I’ve already told Kyle. I’m going to do the only thing I can do. We’re getting back together. I’m not going to raise this baby in a fatherless home. I can’t do that to him or her. We’ll just have to work out our differences.” “It’ll never work Kat. I hate to say it, but you and I both know it won’t work. He’s mean, abusive, and violent. He’s a douchebag, I’m sorry. He needs help, and it’s not help you can provide,” she paused and sat up in her chair. I raised my hand and held it between us. “Please. Don’t say that. I’ve decided it’s what’s right. And, no matter how difficult it is, I’m going to do it. For the baby. Maybe he’ll change once the baby is born.” “Maybe,” she said. “But I doubt it. I’m sorry, but I hate him. You’re better than that. And what about your parents? Told them yet?” I shifted my gaze from her toward the floor. As my eyes went unfocused, I began to speak. “Well,

that’s an entirely different issue. My father will be pissed. Truthfully, he’ll probably be glad it’s Kyle’s and not Biscuit’s. He doesn’t know how violent Kyle was, by the way.” “And Biscuit?” she asked. “Dalton. His name is Dalton,” I said as I shifted my eyes to meet hers. “Here’s what sucks. I love him, Jen. I really do. I know it’s going to seem weird to you, but I love Dalton, and I’m going to be with Kyle, and I can’t…I can’t…” And that was it. The pain in my heart was unbelievable. I began to blubber, crying uncontrollably. The thought of Dalton not being in my life was one I didn’t want to think of, but it was all I could think about. Being with Kyle was going to be torturous at best, but it was what had to happen, like it or not, for the baby. “Kat, it’ll all be fine. It will,” Jen said as she placed her hand on my knee. I continued to cry, alternating my eyes from the floor to Jen. “I’ll never…I’ll never be able…” “I won’t be able to…see him…and it’s going…it’s going to hurt,” I blubbered. I was a lot of things, but one thing I wasn’t was a cheater. If I was going to be with Kyle, there was no way I could ever see Dalton again – or talk to him. It wouldn’t be fair to Kyle, me, the relationship, or the baby. I was going to have to cut ties to him in any and all respects. Realizing it caused me pain that was over and above any pain Kyle ever caused me. Because my heart belonged to Dalton.

BISCUIT It’s never too late to change. I’d heard people say that phrase, from time to time, for my entire life. I’d heard it so many times I had actually begun to believe it. Like almost everything else do-gooders say, it was false. Luxuries most men and women of this earth are afforded don’t apply to me. The rules don’t apply to me. Because I am a Sinner. Sinner Forever, Forever a Sinner. She glanced down at her feet, crying. I didn’t know whether to hug her, tell her to kick rocks, or stare up at the sky and scream. I felt like life was a great big lie. For the first time in my life I cared for a woman - actually liked her - yet keeping her was out of my control. What upset me more than anything was my knowing the child was going to be brought up in an environment no different than the one I grew up in. A life exposed to violence between his or her parent’s would do to the child what was done to me. Nothing good would come of an upbringing in such an environment. In fact, it would cause permanent damage to the child, and its ability to discern right from wrong – regarding violence – when it was an adult. “So that’s it? The decision’s made?” I asked as I kicked my boot against the grass, digging a small hole with my foot as I did so. She nodded her head and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t…” She turned away. “And we’re not going to talk to each other?” I said as I shifted my eyes upward.

She turned to face me and wiped the tears from her face. “I’m sorry…” I’d never been in love, and I knew nothing about it. I couldn’t say whether what I felt for Kat was love or something else, but I knew the pain I felt from thinking about never seeing her or talking to her again was greater than any pain I had ever felt in my life – and I had my fair share of pain in my days. “Alright. I’ll respect that. Kat.” I didn’t quite what to say, especially if it was going to be my last words with her. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice was dry and full of emotion. I raised my hand to my beard and caressed it in my hand. “What we had was real. I want you to know that.” “I love you, Dalton,” she said. And she turned and walked away.

BISCUIT In the week following Kat’s departure, my life had gone into a whirlwind of activities, none of which were good. I’d spent all seven days drunk, depressed, and in pain. The club found out a fully patched member was an undercover ATF agent, and it was all I could do not to kill him. In the end, we decided to make a deal with him, giving him a chance to live – as long as he didn’t testify against us. My knee jerk reaction upon learning we had been infiltrated by the ATF was to kill the agent. After learning he had a wife, kids, and a desire to right what we believed was wrong, I didn’t go soft, but I considered things I never would have thought I’d consider in the past. Still uncertain if our decision was in the club’s best interest, I spent my days wallowing in the pain of living life without the woman I desperately wanted to share my days with. “You need to sober the fuck up, Brother,” Axton said. “Ain’t drunk now,” I responded. “It’s eight o’clock in the morning, I’d sure as fuck hope not,” he said. “I can’t convince myself that killin’ Gunner wasn’t the right choice. Lettin’ that fucker walk was wrong. He was gonna have us all doin’ time in club fed if he had any say,” I said as I stood. Axton crossed his arms and flexed his biceps as he narrowed his eyes slightly. “We’ve been over this every day for a god damned week,” he growled. “I don’t like it, but it was our only choice. Killing him would have had the ATF in here in a matter of fucking minutes. As soon as he didn’t report in, they’d have come looking for him. Talking about it makes me think of it, and I’m done with both. How about don’t fucking bring it up again?”

I cleared my throat and shook my head as I shifted my eyes to the door. “It’s eatin’ on me, Boss.” “I’ve got some news for you. What’s eating on you is the girl, not Gunner,” Axton said. I glanced toward Axton, somewhat surprised with his statement. Slightly embarrassed, but fully understanding Axton wouldn’t embarrass me further or poke fun at me like the other fellas might, I responded honestly. “Bein’ honest, it’s a little of both,” I said. “Well, from what you told me, there’s no changing it. She’s going to try and make things work with that kid. You need to respect that,” he said as he uncrossed his arms and turned his palms upward. I fixed my eyes on his for a long minute and eventually shifted them toward the tips of my boots. As I studied my scuffed up boots, I responded the best I felt I was able. “You know, when my iPod fucks up, or when my air ride fucks up, most times I can smack the fuck out of it and fix it. Just hit it real hard one time, and whatever’s fucked up fixes itself. I wish I could smack this deal and fix it, Boss,” I said. “Everything happens for a reason, Brother. Can’t say I know what the reason is behind this one, but there is one. It’ll make you stronger or it’ll kill you,” he said as he approached me. He wrapped his right arm around my back and pulled me in for a bro hug. As he slapped his hand against my back, he continued. “It just depends on whether you choose to accept it, or let it eat you up. Let’s lock this fucker up and go for a ride. We can go see if Jack and Toad are done cutting the grass. If they’re done, maybe we’ll all go for a ride out to Benton and have a little late breakfast, how’s that?” he asked. “Sounds good,” I responded. “Hell, maybe you’ll meet someone out there,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the door. The thought of any woman in my life other than Kat was unthinkable. Not only was I in pain from not having her in my life, I felt terrible for all of the women I had wasted my time with, wondering if I wasn’t busy with them if it would have been possible to meet Kat sooner, before she got pregnant, changing the outcome of my life, her life, and the life of the child.

“Don’t wanna meet someone. Don’t care to ever meet another woman as long as I live, Boss,” I seethed. “We’ll see how long that feeling lasts,” he said sarcastically. I followed him through the door and into the shop without speaking. There was no need for me to respond. Hell, if I did, he wouldn’t believe me. I was done. I needed to change the plate on the back of my bike to ROF. Ride or Fight. Those were the only two options left. And I was ready to do both.

KAT Trying to accept Kyle as my partner in life wasn’t something that was easy to do. To agree to have him as my husband or even significant other was almost impossible for me. Although in the last week we had taken the time to discuss marriage, the thought of it was repulsive to me and it would be nothing more than a shotgun marriage and I knew it. On a nightly basis I prayed for the ability to forgive him for his past actions, and accept him as not only the father of our child, but my lover. As much as I wanted everything to work between us, I had accepted that I would be living my life feeling alone and in love with someone I would more than likely never see again. So far, I had not made love to him, and spent my time thinking of Dalton, and making excuses for not being able to make love to Kyle. My heart belonged to Dalton. And it hurt. Realizing I was doing this not for myself, but for my child, allowed me to understand the bond a mother has with her child, even if unborn. Some of the decisions I’d seen young mother’s make in the past - wondering all the while why they made them - began to make perfect sense. We sacrifice ourselves for the sake of our children. And my sacrifice was huge. Gazing out into the living room as Kyle drank a beer I proceeded with cooking our dinner. Staying at Kyle’s house made me feel uneasy and exposed. I had always felt more comfortable in my home when we were together - primarily because I always believed I could kick him out if need be. Living in his place left me feeling vulnerable and full of fear. As I poured the noodles into the colander I wondered just how long the uncomfortable feelings

would last. As with anything, I decided, in enough time I would probably forget his past behavior as long as what he expressed in the future exhibited growth and change. After draining the noodles, I placed them in the pot on the stove, turned down the heat, and added the vegetable and meat mixture I had sautéed. Almost more than I feared Kyle and his potential for violent behavior, I feared getting fat throughout my pregnancy. Unlike some women who were able to eat as they pleased and remain thin, I was different. I had to constantly exercise, eat healthy foods, and count my daily caloric intake to remain in the physical condition I was in. The whole wheat pasta, chicken, and fresh vegetables sautéed in olive oil would be a healthy dinner for us both, but satisfying nonetheless. After stirring the pasta, I opened the oven and removed the bread I had prepared. A whole wheat loaf drizzled with olive oil, basil, and garlic. As I placed the bread on the counter, I turned toward the living room. “Dinner’s ready.” “Be there in a minute,” he responded. “We’re about to make a touchdown.” There was no doubt Monday nights were going to be one of my least favorite nights of the week. Kyle spent the majority of the time glued to the television watching football and shouting if the game didn’t go the way he wanted it to. As his choices for football teams could easily be compared to his choices in life, rarely did his team of choice win. Some women may simply accept the life of having a man in front of the television, and take him his food on a platter. I’m not that woman, nor would I ever become her. Kyle and I would learn to eat dinner as a couple; regardless of what was going on in our home, a thirty minute break from it to come together as a family wasn’t too much to ask of anyone. As I carefully placed the pasta on the plates, he began to scream and cuss at the television. “Call it both ways, ref. Motherfucking offsides!” he bellowed. “God fucking damn. Cocksuckers went offsides and sacked the fucking quarterback,” he screamed. “Son-of-a-bitch ref doesn’t call it both ways,” he grunted as he kicked the end table, knocking his can of beer onto the floor. “Fuckers,” he said as he walked toward the kitchen.

I did my best to act interested by shaking my head. “We’re getting our asses kicked, I’m just going to take mine in there and watch this,” he said as he reached for his plate. “Let’s sit down and eat. It’s not even half time, it’ll just take a few minutes,” I responded as I sat down on the stool. “I’m eating mine in there,” he said as he gazed down and studied the plate. I glanced upward and fixed my eyes on the top of his head. “Sit down,” I said. He tilted his head back, met my gaze, and wrinkled his nose. “What the fuck is this shit?” “Dinner,” I responded as I dropped my fork onto my plate, “It’s what I fixed for dinner. It’s pasta.” “Where’s the fucking meat?” he asked as he stirred his finger through the pasta. “There’s chicken in it, sit down please,” I said as I reached for my fork. “Ain’t eating it. Looks like shit,” he said as he turned toward the refrigerator. Seriously? You insensitive prick. I glanced over my shoulder as he pulled another can of beer from the refrigerator. After opening it and taking a drink, he began to walk the length of the kitchen and toward the living room. “Sit down,” I demanded as I turned in his direction. He reached up with his free hand as he passed me, and slapped me on the top of the head, “You eat it. I’m watching the game.” Don’t you dare touch me. As I ran my hand over my head to smooth my hair, he walked to the couch and sat down. I took a bite of my pasta, chewed it, and dropped my fork onto the plate. Only a week into our new relationship and he was already being a dick. I really had no idea why I’d expect him to be otherwise, but

accepting it wasn’t something I was willing to do. I was going to make this work regardless of his willingness to participate. I stood from my stool, walked to the couch, and crossed my arms in front of my chest. I sighed heavily. He turned to face me. I lifted my elbows and allowed them to drop onto my stomach heavily, sighing again as they did so. As he glanced in my direction, I opened my mouth and spoke my mind. “Get in there, sit down, and eat. It’s time for dinner,” I said flatly. He gazed at me, shook his head, and laughed. As he turned toward the television, I continued. “I’m serious,” I huffed. “Fuck off. I’m watching this,” he said as he waved his hand toward me. “Is this how it’s going to be?” I asked. “After our baby is born? Are you just going to tell me to fuck off when I want something?” “Depends on what you want,” he said. “You’re a selfish prick,” I said as I turned away. “What did you say?” he growled. “You heard me, you selfish prick,” I responded over my shoulder. I heard him get off the couch and begin following me into the kitchen. To think I would have to beg him to take time out for dinner was unnerving. As I sat down on the stool, I noticed he wasn’t walking toward his stool, he was walking toward me. And he was beet red. “Don’t ever talk me like that again, you mouthy bitch,” he bellowed. The blur of his hand caused me to lean back in the stool, but I didn’t lean far enough. As his hand impacted my jaw, everything went black. I realized as I tried to stand that he hit me so hard he had knocked me off the stool. Before I had a chance to shed a tear, and long before I was able to stand, he leaned over me.

For an instant, I thought he was going to help me up. I was sadly mistaken. The sound of his fists hitting my face was sickening. I raised my arms to try and block his hands from hitting me, but it did little good. Within a few seconds my arms were at my sides and his hands were pounding against my head. I attempted to stand and the force of his fist against my shoulder knocked me flat onto the floor. My eyes already swollen so severely that I was almost blind, I attempted to gaze around the room and find a way to get away from him. I hoped the few second lull in the beating meant that he was done. As I pressed my hands into the floor and tried to stand, something hit my head. And everything went dark.

BISCUIT Looking back on my life, I couldn’t say I had ever lived a day that I was depressed. Somehow or another, whatever life tossed my way seemed to roll off of me like water from a duck’s back. Never one to dwell on the bad, I always considered myself fortunate in that I was able to accept life as being nothing more than the system which haphazardly supported my existence. Living in a carefree manner allowed me to accept life as being no more than my continued existence on this earth. The clock proceeded to tick regardless of the state of mind I was in, so why not live every day wearing a smile? Incapable of changing my surroundings, and only able to slightly modify what was at my fingertips, I realized early in life I was in charge of my own fate. If I exposed myself to very few outsiders, and lived a life of solitude, life was as easy as breathing. My exposure to Kat, as much as I regretted nothing I had done, caused me to realize letting people into my life was a risk. With each and every one, I exposed myself to potential harm, pain, and feelings I wasn’t necessarily eager to accept as necessary. Surrounded by my brothers, I had always felt safe from harm. We supported each other wholeheartedly, and offered a hand of assistance and a shoulder to lean on whenever it was necessary. If the world were filled only with my brothers and people like them, it would truly be a better place to live. “Not a one? You telling me you don’t have a single solitary story to tell?” Toad asked as he leaned back in his chair. I glanced at Jack, shifted my eyes toward Axton, and shrugged my shoulders. “Nope.” “You need to see a doctor. Something’s wrong, Brother,” he said as he leaned forward.

I glanced at my untouched bottle of beer. “ATF deal has me all shook up.” “I’m telling you, that guy isn’t going to say shit. We’ve got devices in his kid’s backpacks, in their laptops, on his cars, shit…” He took a drink from his bottle of beer. “He isn’t going to go anywhere or do anything to risk harming his wife and kids. I’m thinking he regrets ever taking that fucking job. What are your thoughts, Slice,” Toad asked as he tilted his bottle toward Axton. “Agreed,” Axton said. Toad tilted his head toward Jack. Jack nodded his head. “I’ll agree,” Jack said. “See?” Toad said. “Nothing to worry about.” “Don’t mean I got a story to tell. I’ll be fine in a couple days,” I said as I reached for my beer. The bottle felt warm in my hand. I glanced around the table, realized everyone was almost done with their beers, and that I hadn’t so much as took a sip. “You want this?” I asked as I slid my bottle toward Toad. “Fuck I’ll drink it,” Jack said. “Drink it,” Toad said as he slid the beer toward Jack. “My gut hurts,” I said as I pushed myself away from the table. We had ridden to Stearman Airfield in Benton, Kansas. An old airfield originally designed to support the few Stearman bi-wing airplanes that collectors in the immediate area had, it increased in size over the years, and added a very nice bar alongside the runway. With large glass garage doors lining the entire wall, patrons could sit and watch the airfield regardless of the weather. Today was warm, sunny, and had very little wind, so the doors were open, and the planes were flying touch-and-go’s roughly every five minutes. The bar was also one of what had become fewer and fewer places that were biker friendly, always welcoming bikers in the establishment.

As I sat and stared out onto the runway, a bi-wing plane came rolled toward the fueling station. With my mind fading off into somewhere else, a buzzing in my pocket reminded me I was losing grip with reality. I leaned back in the chair, knowing the only person not in the group was Otis. “Any of you fellas heard from the big O?” I asked as I reached into my pocket. “Out fucking Sam is all I know. It’s all he does anymore,” Toad said. “Ain’t that the truth?” I blurted as I pulled the phone from my pocket. I found the similarities between us almost laughable. As I stared down at my phone, I realized it wasn’t ringing, but that I’d received a text message. After unlocking my phone and opening the text screen, a message from Kat was highlighted. Nervous, excited, and full of wonder, I pressed the message with my thumb. Can I call? I need to talk. Without thinking, I pressed my thumb onto the keypad and typed my response. Yes. I pressed send. “Otis?” Toad asked. I glanced at him and shook my head. “Nope. Someone wanting to know if they can call.” Almost immediately, the phone rang. I stood from my seat and began pacing along the length of the garage door as she spoke, anxious to see what she needed to talk about. Her request when we last spoke was clear. No contact whatsoever. “Can you talk?” she asked. “Sure, what’s going on?” I asked.

She started crying uncontrollably. After roughly fifteen seconds of worry, she regained her composure and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. Uhhm. Can you come get me? Maybe let me stay with you for a few days or something? I don’t know what else to do,” she stammered. Not necessarily wanting to open myself up to even more pain, but feeling I needed to do what I could to provide her whatever it was she needed, I pressed her for a little more information. “I thought we weren’t going to have any contact, out of respect to you and your relationship?” I asked. After I spoke, I felt like maybe I should have just kept my big mouth shut and said yes. The phone went silent for several seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. “He beat me. Bad,” she said. My eyes widened and I held the phone at arm’s length and gazed at it for a long minute. “Excuse me?” I said as I raised the phone to my ear. “He beat me, Dalton. He beat me bad, I’m in pretty bad shape,” she cried. “Where are you? I’m on the bike, can you ride?” I asked, trying to remain calm. I felt my body temperature increase twenty degrees. As the warmth of my anger washed over my face, I regretted not killing that prick when I had a chance. “I’m home. He’s at his place. I’m done Dalton. I promise, I’m done with him. Yeah, I can ride. I look like hell, but I can ride,” she responded. I bit my bottom lip so hard as she spoke it should have burst. “Be there in twenty,” I said as I released my lip. “Kat?” I asked. “Yeah?” she responded. “You have a gun?” I asked.

“No. Just a knife,” she said through the obvious tears. “I might bring one of the fellas, just in case. Kat, everything’ll be fine, I’ll be there in twenty.” “Okay, Dalton. I’ll be here. I love you.” “See ya in a few.” I pressed the end button and stared at the phone for a few seconds. After inhaling a deep breath and attempting to clear my mind, I turned to face the fellas. “Fellas,” I said. “We got a situation.” I tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the table and pushed my wallet into my rear pocket. “That kid beat Kat. The Marine I beat the shit out of a few weeks back. Sounds like she’s busted up pretty good. I need to go get her, and I don’t know when he’s gonna be back. Who’s rollin’ with me?” I asked. “Where’s he stay,” Big Jack asked. “I’ll take care of him, you go get the girl.” I shook my head. “Just want some back up, who’s in?” “Following you,” Toad said as he stepped over the short fence that separated the restaurant from the runway. “Lead the way,” Big Jack said as he hurdled the fence. Axton simply gazed in my direction and winked. “Everything happens for a reason, Brother. Lead the way.” And lead the way I did.

KAT Kyle had beaten me the night before. Whether I had a concussion, was knocked unconscious, or he had merely beaten me into a state of mental incompetence, I didn’t wake up until the next morning. When I woke up he was asleep. While I gathered my things and attempted to get cleaned up, he got up and apologized - blaming his drunkenness for the beating. When I explained I was leaving, he laughed saying I was sure to return. The look on his face as I walked out the door was one of worry and possibly shame. As I drove from his house in the country to my apartment in Winfield, I decided I never wanted to see him again no matter what the circumstances. Having lived in Winfield for just shy of four years, I had seen the Sinners on many occasions. More frequently, I had heard them. Living almost a mile from their clubhouse, I could still hear them when large groups rode in and out of their parking lot. Several times over the years, when I was eating pizza or having a beer at the little bar by the college, the hair on the back of my neck would raise as the sound of them riding by would fill the air. Hearing them several seconds before they appeared did very little to prepare me for the sound of their passing by, nothing on this earth sounds like a dozen Harley-Davidson’s with loud pipes. Nothing short of a tornado. Or maybe the rapture. As the windows of my house began to shake, the sound of the motorcycles in the parking lot became more and more prominent. The unmistakable rumble of them circling the lot and coming to my building provided me with a feeling of relief I had waited almost twelve hours to feel. The pounding on the door startled me.

I peeked through the peephole. Daltons beard filled the viewport. I dropped the knife on the floor and opened the door. As the door opened, he gasped. He tried to mask it, hide it, and act like he wasn’t startled by my looks, but I noticed. The look on his face did little to disguise how he truly felt. His eyes conveyed love while his face was unmistakably washed with anger. “Bad huh?” I asked. “Not bad at all,” he lied. “You look great, Kat. He ain’t here is he?” he asked as he peered over my shoulder and inhaled a deep breath. I shook my head. “You’re a shitty liar, I look like ass. And the asshole is probably at home. He took the day off work. I think he’s afraid you’re coming,” I said. “Where’s he stay?” he asked through his teeth as he studied my face. “Halfway between here and Wichita. Maybe ten minutes away, I don’t know. Up by Udall,” I said. He held my chin in his hand. As he lifted his hand slightly and tilted my head back, he fixed his eyes on mine. “Where specifically does he stay, Kat? I need to know.” “First house south of Udall on the east side of the street. It’s back away from the road by the river. His name’s on the box, Kyle Coffman,” I responded. After a moment, he inhaled a deep breath and glanced upward. As he shifted his eyes downward, he reached out, exhaled, and wrapped his arms around me. While he held me in his arms I felt his body shaking. “This’ll never happen again,” he whispered into my ear. “Grab anything you think you’ll need,” he said as he released me. I lifted my shoulder and patted my purse with my hand. “This is it.”

“Need me to carry you?” he asked as he looked down the length of the landing nervously. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine. Hell, he didn’t break my legs - or my pride for that matter,” I said as I stepped in front of him and locked the door. We walked down the stairs side by side, with his arm over my shoulder. Even so, I felt slightly nervous and slightly apprehensive. As I stepped off the bottom landing and into the parking lot, I gasped at what I saw. Three men, all tattooed, massive, wearing cuts and covered with muscles, stood beside their motorcycles with their arms crossed in front of their chests. My protectors. Seeing them caused my heart to begin to pound in my chest so hard I felt it in my throat. “Don’t wanna take her to my house just yet, Boss. I’m gonna need to see if she can stay in the shop for a bit. I gotta go take care of this,” Dalton said as we stepped past the men and toward his bike. Although I attempted not to face the men for no other reason than embarrassment, the one with a few days growth of beard and one hell of an expressed attitude reached out and held my shoulder. He was a massive man with huge arms, a wide chest, and shorter brown hair that was slightly curly. “Turn around for me, Kat,” he said. His voice sounded like what I would expect a bear to sound like - if a bear could speak. I stopped and reluctantly turned to face him. His cut had a patch on it that said President. Knowing what I knew about Avery, I realized this was her boyfriend, Axton – who went by the club name Slice. From what she had shared with me, he was not a man anyone should ever fuck with. As I stood staring down at the parking lot, embarrassed to look up, he lowered his head and gazed up at my face. After a very audible sigh he released my shoulder. “Bylaws say she can stay there without your approval if you’ve got your name marked on the board with an “X”, and you don’t. Other than that, she can only stay with your approval if she’s your Ol’ Lady. Didn’t write them, brother, but I’ve got to enforce them,” Axton responded. “She’s my Ol’ Lady, mark it on the board if you got to, I don’t give a fuck,” Dalton growled.

My heart immediately swelled to ten times its size. I swallowed heavily and turned toward Axton. He uncrossed his arms and turned toward the remaining two men. As he exchanged glances with them it was almost as if they were speaking without speaking. The message was clear. Axton had business to take care of and the other two men were agreeing. “Fellas,” Axton said. “You heard the man,” The dark skinned one with jet black hair and a buzz-cut said as he turned toward his bike and nodded his head. “Biscuit, you trust me?” the muscular tattooed man asked as he stepped over the seat of his bike. He was covered in muscles, tattoos, and looked like he just got out of prison. The patch on his cut said Big Jack. His hair was blonde and cut short, but not as short as the one with black hair. “You’re a fuckin’ Sinner, ain’t ya,” Dalton said over his shoulder as he climbed onto his seat. “Let me take her to the shop. You fellas go take care of business,” Big Jack said. Dalton glanced at me. I shrugged my shoulders. “I got to do this, Kat,” Dalton said. To my rear, it sounded like Axton was growling. The dark skinned man was mumbling audibly. Although I couldn’t make out everything he said I heard portions. It was apparent he was so angry with what Kyle had done to me he was mumbling his intentions under his breath. “You’re going to cut off his hands?” I asked Dalton sheepishly, remembering what he had said to Kyle the day he slapped me. He shook his head and gazed down at the parking lot. As he glanced upward and met my gaze, he responded. “Afraid it ain’t gonna be that simple.” I don’t even want to know. I nodded my head. “I’ll ride with him. You’re going to come back for me, right?” “You’ve got my word,” he said.

I pursed my lips, did my best not to start crying, and nodded my head. Dalton raised his hand in the air and spun it in a circle. “Let’s roll!” As the three of them sped out of the lot, I was scared, relieved, and a little curious. Whatever Kyle received in punishment wouldn’t be enough. “He’ll be back, don’t worry. I’m Big Jack,” the man on the motorcycle said as he stepped off and extended his hand. “Kat,” I said as I shook his hand. “Nothing’ll happen to you from here on out, least not on my watch,” he said in a low rumble. “Thank you,” I said. “Ready?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Yep.” As I got on the bike he tilted his head to the side. “Got a first-aid kit in the shop. While we’re waiting on the fellas, I’ll get you doctored up and looking like new.” “Miracle worker?” I asked. “According to some,” he responded flatly. Angels in Selected Sinners cuts is more like it. He released the clutch and slowly started to pull out of the lot. As I reached around his midsection and pressed my shaking hands against his stomach, I began to believe all of the Selected Sinners were just that. Protective angels.

BISCUIT Maintaining a clear state of mind during stressful times had always been one of my strengths. Similar to an experienced combat veteran, stepping into a dangerous situation, confrontation, or walking right into the middle of a fight never bothered me. I realized I wasn’t invincible, but I knew I was pretty god damned close. As we rode in Tater’s truck along the back side of the river I wasn’t nervous - and I damned sure wasn’t scared - but a clear state of mind wasn’t something I possessed. Toad immediately went into full U.S. Marine mode and directed our approach to the house as if it were a military operation. We followed a line of trees along the south side of the home, as the south side had only one small window – more than likely a bathroom – and was the least probable to be occupied. The three of us were armed with handguns, and Tater remained with the truck along the river. After agreeing we wouldn’t break the doors down unless we had to, Toad low-crawled toward the back door as Axton and I remained crouched along the south side of the house. After reaching for the door handle and attempting to open it, he gazed in our direction and shook his head. Fuck. Half way back to where we were positioned on the south side of the house, Toad stopped, tilted his head to the side, and raised clenched fist. As he appeared to be listening to something, Axton and I exchanged awkward glances. As Toad rose into a low crouch I turned to face Axton. “What the fuck is he doing?” I whispered. Axton shrugged his shoulders. And Toad disappeared toward the front of the house.

“Fuck,” Axton said. “What do we do?” I asked. “Hold tight,” Axton whispered. “Fuck that,” I responded. Axton narrowed his gaze and clenched his jaw muscles. “He told us to hold tight. Hold tight. He’s got about ten years of experience doing this shit on a daily basis, we’ll follow his lead.” Axton no more than finished speaking, and the sound of Toad whistling came from the front of the house. Axton stood. Somewhat reluctantly, I stood. “All clear,” Axton said as he began to walk around the rear of the home. I wrinkled my nose slightly and tilted my head his direction. “You two do this shit all the fuckin’ time?” Axton grinned his shitty little grin. As we came around the front of the house I immediately noticed the garage door was open. It was closed when we had driven past the home the first time. Although Toad wasn’t immediately visible, as we stepped into the garage, he was. He had Kyle in a Marine choke hold, and was grinning from ear to ear. “Fucker was trying to get in his truck and get out of here,” Toad grunted. “You motherfucker, I’m going to kill you,” I seethed. “Can he hear me?” “He can hear you just fine. Can’t respond though,” he said. “Let him go,” I growled as I stepped toward the driveway and started to peel off my ridiculous rubber gloves Toad had made us wear. “We already talked about this, and leave those god damned gloves on,” Axton snapped back as he turned to face me.

We had discussed all of the possibilities Toad could come up with for capturing Kyle, and lightly covered what we intended to do with him after we caught him. Although I agreed at the time not to beat Kyle – primarily to shut Axton up – honoring the agreement wasn’t easy. “I took a Beretta nine from him when I grabbed him. Think he knew we were coming,” Toad said over Kyle’s shoulder as he tilted his head toward the front of the truck. “Devil looks after his own, it’ll save us from searching for one,” Axton said as he walked toward Toad. “Biscuit, shut the garage door,” Axton said flatly. “Toad, drag his ass in the house. Take him to his bedroom,” Axton said as he bent over to pick up the pistol. Toad walked backward toward the door that led into the house. Still fuming with anger about what Kyle did to Kat, I followed close behind, and shut the garage door with the wall mounted button as I stepped into the threshold of the door. . A quick search of the house by Axton revealed two bedrooms, one with a bed and one full of weight lifting equipment. Toad drug Kyle into the room with a bed while I followed. As Toad rolled onto the bed with Kyle in his arms, Axton bent over and grabbed a pillow. “We’re going to need to fire two rounds…”Axton began. “Nope, just tell me when you’re ready,” Toad grunted. Axton narrowed his eyes and glared at Toad. “He’s got to have residue on his hands.” Toad nodded his head, “He will. Just tell me when you’re ready.” “Got anything you want to say to him?” Axton asked as he turned to face me, handing me the pillow. Faking a suicide wasn’t near as satisfying to me as beating Kyle to death with my bare hands. For me to beat him and not beat him to death would have probably been impossible. According to Toad and Axton, beating him would have left my DNA all over his body, and eventually I would have been caught. Even in my state of mind, what they said made perfect sense. So far, as we were all wearing rubber gloves and stocking caps, leaving our DNA at the scene wasn’t impossible, but it was far from probable.

Kyle’s eyes were wide and bulging as Toad continued to squeeze him in the chokehold. I stared at him blankly as his face contorted with each movement on Toad’s part. As much as I felt I needed to say something, I didn’t want to give Kyle any satisfaction knowing how I felt, nor did I want to allow him to understand he played a part in causing me to feel the grief that filled me as a result of what he had done to Kat. I clenched my jaw and alternated glances between Axton and Toad. “Nope. How’s this work?” “I’m going to knock him unconscious. It’ll last about ten or fifteen seconds. You cover his face with a pillow, wrap his hand around the weapon, and use his finger to pull the trigger. Your gloves aren’t torn are they?” he asked. I glanced down at my hands and inspected my gloves. I shifted my eyes toward Toad and shook my head. Axton slid the slide on the pistol back slightly, checked the breech for a round, nodded his head, and handed it to me. “It’s ready,” he said. Toad positioned himself on the side of the bed, holding Kyle in front of him with his legs dangling over the edge of the bed. In this position, it would appear to any investigator that Kyle regretted what he had done, sat in the edge of his bed, covered his face with a pillow, and shot himself. His fingerprints would be on the weapon, the weapon was his personal Beretta, and his hand would be covered in the residue from firing the gun. A simple suicide. I glanced toward Toad, gripped the pistol in my hand, and nodded my head once. In a blur of a movement, Toad released Kyle from the chokehold and immediately struck him sharply in the neck with the back of his palm. Kyle collapsed onto the bed. Quickly, Toad shifted onto his back and held Kyle upright by his lower back as he lay behind him. “Hurry the fuck up,” Toad howled. As I pressed the pillow into Kyle’s face Axton reached around me and held it in place. I grabbed Kyle’s limp arm and attempting to position his finger through the trigger guard of the pistol. After a few seconds of awkward fumbling, I held his hand in mine. I twisted his arm into place, pressing the pistol

into the pillow and against his face. While trying to make sense of it all in my head, Kyle began to regain consciousness. Nervously, I clenched his hand in mine, pressed against his finger, and waited. The sound of the pistol firing was almost deafening. As much as I had fired guns at various objects and in multiple situations, I had never fired one in the confines of a bedroom. As my ears rang and the taste of cordite filled the air, Toad rolled to the side and Kyle slumped onto the bed. “Don’t touch anything. Leave him lay there as natural as possible,” Toad said as he jumped from the bed. Toad began to brush the imperfections from the comforter with a decorative pillow. I gazed at him slightly confused and a little uneasy about everything. Beating the life out of Kyle seemed a natural choice to me, and shooting him - now that it was over with - seemed instantaneous, permanent, and almost criminal. I would have never guessed a feeling other than satisfaction would have filled me, but I was wrong. Although I wasn’t remorseful about what we had done, it was apparent part of me regretted the manner we chose to do it. After smoothing the comforter free of all of the wrinkles except the ones Kyle’s limp body created, Toad clutched the decorative pillow in his arms - leaving the one with the bullet hole on the bed and turned toward the door. “You alright, Brother?” Axton asked as he patted me on the shoulder. I nodded my head. With each step we took toward the river, I became more at peace with shooting Kyle. Although ridding this earth of Kyle wasn’t necessarily my responsibility - or anyone’s for that matter - doing so prevented him from repeating what he had done to Kat with anyone else. It also eliminated the possibility of him raising a child in the same atmosphere I was raised in. As we approached the truck, I wondered what my life would have been like if my father would have been absent throughout my childhood. The thought of growing up without my father in my life satisfied me completely, further convincing me what happened to Kyle was ultimately what needed to happen exactly when it needed to happen. As I

gazed down at the riverbank, Axton gripped my shoulder. “You getting in?” he asked. I nodded my head toward the river. “We’re telling her he wasn’t home, right?” “We came here and he wasn’t home. What happened today stays here, with us. And this is the last we’ll discuss it,” Axton responded. I sat quietly and gazed through the windshield as Tater drove along the edge of the river and toward the county road. As I considered exactly what we had done, I realized completely it wasn’t Axton’s or Toad’s first effort. The precautionary steps that were taken, the pillow, lack of DNA and fingerprints – even the smoothing of the bed with the pillow… I glanced over my shoulder. The pillow Toad had used was positioned between them in the rear seat. I shifted my eyes to the windshield and gazed with unfocused eyes as the trees lining the edge of the river passed us, wondering just how many people the Selected Sinners had eliminated from the bowels of society. And what a fractionally better place the world was as a result.

KAT My time in the shop with Jack passed quickly, and was very entertaining and informative. We discussed his time in prison, being released recently, and his accepting the ATF agent who arrested him as only doing his job. He also confided in me that he and his sister, Toad’s fiancée, had grown up in and out of orphanages, and eventually landed at a foster home, living with an overbearing preacher for several years. His insight into the difficulties of a child growing up in a broken home – and without parents – caused me to wonder just what the future might hold for my baby. Ultimately, regardless of the environment the child was reared in, growing up without Kyle in his or her life would be much better than growing up in any environment with him. After Jack did what he could to clean me up and make a repair to a cut high on my left cheek, I reapplied my makeup. I now resembled the girls in school I made fun of – the one’s with too much makeup – but at least I did not look like I had been beaten. As we sat and talked in what he described as Axton’s office, the sound of approaching angels filled the air. “Sounds like they’re back,” he said as he stood. “Thank you, for everything,” I said as I stood from my seat. “Anything for the Ol’ Lady of a brother,” he said. Hearing him describe me as Dalton’s Ol’ Lady seemed odd. In no more than a few days my life had again changed, sending me in another direction altogether. I was certain the change was for the better, but accepting it as reality wasn’t first nature for me by any stretch of the imagination.

As we walked into the hallway, the rumbling sound of the motorcycle’s exhaust stopped. I gazed out of the hallway and into the garage. Toad, Axton and Dalton stood beside their bikes talking. “Did you hit him once for me?” I said as I walked toward Dalton. “Motherfucker wasn’t home,” he said. “Hell, we looked all over the fuckin’ country for the prick. Finally gave up and came back. Cocksucker’s gonna get it when we finally find him.” “A-fucking-men to that,” Toad said as he pounded his hand into his fist. “Probably a good thing he wasn’t there,” Axton growled as he turned toward me. “You’re looking much better. Did Jack clean you up?” Axton asked. “He did,” I said as I turned toward Jack and grinned. Axton nodded his head toward Jack. I glanced toward Jack. Jack nodded his head in return. As Dalton wrapped his arm around my shoulder, he leaned over and studied my face. After a few seconds, he nodded his head once and grinned. He shrugged his shoulders and glanced toward Jack. “Hell, I can’t even tell.” “Damned sure wasn’t the first time I had to doctor somebody up. Damned sure won’t be the last,” Jack responded. I realized although at that particular moment I felt safe, and free of Kyle’s abusive tendencies, I couldn’t keep away from him forever. Sooner or later, as he always seemed to, he would find me. When he did, there was little remaining doubt that he would be civil and kind. Dalton held me against his shoulder as I stood listening to the men talk, wondering all the while what Kyle’s next visit might bring. I glanced around the group, silently hoping they would find Kyle before he found me – and that whatever their punishment consisted of would be sufficient in convincing him to leave me alone forever. I didn’t know for certain what the laws were regarding visitation of a child, but I suspected Kyle would have certain rights regardless of what my concerns were. Even the thought of him coming into contact with my baby sickened me to no end. As I stood at Dalton’s side not paying so much as an ounce of attention to what they were talking about, I turned my head toward Dalton and waited for him to finish speaking. “I bet he retires from fightin’ long before anyone beats him,” Dalton said as he waved his hand

toward Axton. “What’s on your mind, Kat?” he asked as he shifted his eyes to meet mine. I grinned and shrugged my shoulders. “Nothing really.” “Probably worn the fuck out, aren’t ya?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Well, let’s get my truck and come back to your place and get your stuff. You alright staying with me?” he asked. Oh hell yes. “I’d like that,” I responded. “Well, fellas, as much as I’d like to stay and mingle, I better get this poor girl home,” he said. “If you need anything,” Axton said. I melted into Dalton’s shoulder, feeling more secure than I had previously. “I’m talking to you. You sure you don’t have a concussion?” Axton asked. “I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?” I asked. “I said if you need anything…I just want to let you know, whatever it is you need, you just let Biscuit know. We’ll get it handled for you,” Axton said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were talking to me,” I responded. He narrowed his eyes slightly and crossed his arms. “Well, I was. Don’t forget what I said, either.” “I won’t. Thank you,” I responded. “If you need any help with that makeup, have Biscuit give me a holler,” Jack chuckled. “I’ll do it,” I responded.

Toad leaned over to hug Dalton, and I stepped aside. As he pulled away he slapped Dalton on the back and grinned. “If that fucker shows up, give me a call. I want first jab at him,” Toad said. “You can have him when I’m done,” Dalton grunted. “Maybe you could hold him while I kick him in his nuts,” I said. “Oh shit,” Axton said. “We got us a little fighter.” “You can count on it,” Toad responded with a nod. “We’re headin’ out before it gets too late. If he shows up, I’ll get at ya,” Dalton said as he opened his saddlebag. “Throw your purse in here,” he said as he extended his hand. He placed my purse in the saddlebag and latched it. After he got on the bike, I got on the back and relaxed into the seat. Being on the bike with him I felt safe – almost incapable of being harmed. I wanted to retain the feeling forever, but realized nothing in this world is forever. As he pulled out of the garage and into the street, I wondered just how long he’d have me stay with him. When we were at the apartment he did claim I was his Ol’ Lady. I wonder just what that means, anyway? As we pulled away from the stop sign and along the street leading to the highway, I squeezed him lightly in my arms. When we got to his house I’d text Avery and have her explain biker protocol to me. Hopefully being his Ol’ Lady meant he was going to keep Kyle away from me for a long, long time. But nothing lasts forever.

KAT Four days had passed since anyone had heard from Kyle, and even his boss contacted me regarding his whereabouts. Dalton had driven to his house twice trying to find him, but each time Kyle was gone. I began to feel more comfortable about his being away, and hoped he had simply decided to leave the area for fear of what may happen to him if he didn’t. I chose not to press the issue with Dalton regarding my staying at his house, and decided just to enjoy it as long as it lasted. I would have never guessed that anything could have increased my sexual desire, but being pregnant acted as some type of an accelerant to my already overly active sexual cravings. We had spent every spare moment either fucking, recovering from fucking, or seeking nourishment so we could fuck again. Jokingly, Dalton had shared with me the previous night that he was afraid he’d met his sexual match. If there was an upside, I guess it would be that I didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant. With his weight against my back and his mouth pressed against my ear, he inhaled a deep breath and exhaled into the side of my face. As his beard tickled the skin on my neck, I raised my shoulder for any relief I might be able to receive. He pressed with a little more force, moving my head and shoulder apart even further. “Don’t fight me, Kat,” he breathed into my ear. “I’m not. I’m just…” “Just what? Done?” he asked. His warm breath against my ear sent chills down my spine. I blinked my eyes a few times, focused on the headboard, and shook my head.

I was thirsty, worn completely out, and my pussy felt as if it were on fire. We’d been fucking on and off for almost two hours, and my arms were not only bound together at my wrists, but secured to the headboard of the bed. On my belly with my ass in the air and my tits pressed into the comforter, I truly wondered if I could outlast him. For him to get me to give in, he’d have to fuck me to death. “No. I’m not giving up,” I growled as I arched my back against him. “Fuck it. Have it your way,” he said as he shifted his weight to the side. I peered over my shoulder and watched him as he walked to the dresser and removed a small plastic bag. After removing what looked like a tube of toothpaste, he turned toward the bed. “Turn around before I slap that ass again,” he said as he climbed onto the end of the bed. Resting partially on my forearms and partially on my elbows, I turned toward the bed and sighed. Oh fuck he’s not going to… I felt the lubricant between my ass cheeks. As I began to speak, he pressed one hand against the center of my back lightly and attempted to comfort me. “Shhh,” he whispered. I felt his finger along the crack of my ass, gliding back and forth lightly through the lubricant. As the tip of his finger slid across my anus each time, my sphincter would tighten and my entire spine would tingle. As much as I wanted to hate what he was doing, I began to enjoy it immensely. After a few more strokes of his finger, I felt light pressure against my anus. Within a split-second, his finger was in my ass. And I loved it. In and out his finger slid, causing me to moan in pleasure with each stroke. I buried my face into the comforter, not necessarily wanting him to understand how much I was enjoying what he was doing. I pulled against the restraints. Acting as if he was doing everything against my will provided me with even more satisfaction. As I yanked against the binding which held my hands to the headboard, I

arched my back and mentally begged for him to never stop. I wondered if I was supposed to enjoy it, and felt almost guilty for doing so. After a few seconds, I felt more lubricant on my ass, and breathed into to the comforter – relieved and excited he intended on continuing. His finger slid in and out of my ass slowly. My pussy, which I was certain fifteen minutes earlier was done for the night, began to tingle. Whatever he was doing was working. I wanted more cock. I lifted my head from the comforter, craned my neck, and growled. “Fuck me.” “Believe me,” he said as he continued to fuck my ass with his finger. “I intend to.” I felt his hand slide up the center of my back and grip my hair. As he pulled my hair taught, I arched my back in response. “That’s right. Arch that back good, Kat. I want to get that spot. You know the one,” he breathed. Do I ever… “Do it,” I growled, “Do it…” After a second of slight pressure against my pussy, it opened up like a spring tulip, allowing his length to easily slide inside. As he slowly began to fuck my pussy with his massive cock, his finger continued to fuck my ass. The sensation of both holes being filled at once was embarrassingly sensual. I bit my bottom lip, hoping the sensation would last forever, but knowing I was a matter of minutes from collapse. He pulled against my hair sharply. As I arched my back further, the tip of his cock pressed against my g-spot. A tingling sensation throughout my lady bits reminded me once again of Dalton’s sexual strength. He knew how to fuck me right. And he had the equipment to do it. “You like that little finger of mine in your ass, Kat?” he asked.

I lifted my head from the bed. “Yes. Yes I do.” His cock slid back and forth, sending a sensation throughout my lower body with each in stroke. His speed increased and within a few seconds he was pounding himself into me with tremendous speed, his hips pounding against my ass and his tight scrotum slapping against my clit with each stroke. His finger continued to fuck my ass, causing a tingling that seemed to connect my ass to my pussy. My mind had gone into sexual sensory overload. It was almost as if my brain was incapable of realizing all of the feelings my body was experiencing in real time. My body began to tense into one solid contracted muscle. This was going to be it. I was going to die. I clenched my eyes closed and focused. And he stopped. He slowly pulled his cock from my sopping wet pussy, and his finger from my perfectly satisfied virgin ass. I opened my eyes, turned my head to the side, and pulled against the restraints. “No, don’t stop. I was…” I begged. I realized I was out of breath and attempted to take another gulp of air and speak my mind. While my mind worked to catch up with my body and my tongue sought a little guidance to form the words I desperately needed to say, I felt pressure once again against my ass. Thank God. I sighed and pushed my face into the comforter. But it wasn’t his finger this time. A light vibration and a little more girth caused me to open my mouth and widen my eyes. I had no idea what he’d snuck out of the dresser and onto the bed, but whatever it was… I loved.

With my mouth agape and my mind reeling to accept a totally new feeling of sensual and sensual bliss, I willingly allowed him to explore my ass with his buzzing butt toy. In and out of my ass he slid the joyous delight. I bit my lower lip, knowing I was enjoying the experience far more than I should. I had no idea if this was punishment, an effort on his part to get me to scream uncle, or if he intended for it to be pleasurable, but I was loving every minute of it, and every stroke of my little buzzing friend. I pulled against the restraints, released my lip, and began to breathe heavily. I desperately needed to rub my clit and cast myself off into space. “You like it when I fuck that tight little ass, Kat?” he said. I opened my mouth and craned my neck slightly. The words came a few seconds later, cast from my lungs in a bust of warm breath. “Love it,” I heaved. “I’m going to fuck it good for you, Kat. I’m going to make you give up. I’m going to win,” he breathed. I lowered my head to the comforter and pressed my face flat against the fabric. “Do it…” I grunted. I wanted it all. Every girlfriend who’d ever spoken to me about anal told me it was dirty, nasty, and painful. I had no idea who was fucking them in the ass, but obviously it wasn’t Dalton. As he continued to work his magic in and out of my ass, I felt guilty, dirty, nasty, and absolutely satisfied. A few more strokes with my newfound buzzing friend, and he pulled it from inside of me. With my ass still tingling, and my mind begging for more, I grunted the word no into the surface of the bed. I needed to gain the strength to raise my head and protest, I wanted more. Anal sex was my new escape, and I needed to become lost in it. Face down and ass up as they say, I attempted to gain the strength to beg for more. Try as I might, I could not. I was completely exhausted and pretty damned close to extremely satisfied. He pulled against my hair with his hand, causing me to raise my head and arch my back. He pulled

steadily, and with more force. As he pulled, I arched my back ever further, knowing regardless of my desire to win this ridiculous competition; I was going to have to throw in the proverbial towel. As I no more than opened my mouth, I felt pressure against my anus again. “Breathe, Kat. You need to breathe,” he whispered. He was right. I was going to pass out if I didn’t watch myself. I was a mental mess. As I tried to decide whether to thank God or scream for him to stop, I felt the unmistakable girth of his cock slowly penetrate my anus and begin to slide into my ass. My mind said no, but my ass was saying yes. Within a few seconds, my ass won the argument, and my mind eventually agreed. And my mind drifted off into heaven. “You got something to say, Kat?” he growled as he pulled steadily on my hair. I shook my head. “Not a fucking word?” his laugh was almost sinister. I bit my lower lip and shook my head once more. “You like that big fat cock in your tight little ass?” he asked as his hand came down against my right butt cheek. Oh fuck yes. Slap it. “Fuck…yes,” I blurted as he continued to slowly fuck my ass. The sensation was indescribable. Whether it was a combination of previous feelings – or his cock in my ass alone was causing it – I didn’t care. All I knew was that it felt so far beyond amazing. His hand slapped my ass again, sending a stinging feeling along my thigh. I pressed my face into the comforter and breathed against the material, feeling my breath surround my face each time I exhaled. After another obvious squirt of lubricant, he maintained his perfect rhythm of slowly fucking my ass deeply, carefully, and perfectly. And then his free hand found my clit.

It was too much. I would have stopped him if I could, but with my hands tied, I wasn’t able to do anything but writhe against him on the surface of the bed. “Dalton…” I begged. “Shhhh, not a word,” he whispered. I lowered my head and bit into the fabric. As I clenched it in my teeth, he carefully fucked my tight ass and flicked his finger against my swollen nub. My nipples began to ache. I released the comforter from my teeth and howled out into the room. As he slowly and steadily fucked my ass while fingering my clit, I felt as if my body burst into pieces and was thrust out into the room - pieces of me traveled in each and every possible direction. I felt like a human firework, exploding into thousands of small fragments and being cast out into the sky for all to enjoy. As my screaming echoed throughout the room, he carefully pulled his cock from my ass. Within a few seconds I heard him groan and I felt his warm cum against my back, and along the crack of my ass. I collapsed into the comforter. This time, I was truly done. To continue would kill me. His chest pressed against my back lightly and his beard tickled my cheek. “Truce?” he breathed into my ear. I tilted my head to the side. “No winner, no loser?” I whispered. “Yep. Two winners. Deal?” he asked. “Deal,” I responded. I realized as he reached to untie me that not only was Dalton different than anyone I would probably ever meet, but that he was caring, kind, and always considerate of me. His huge heart was disguised by a beard, tattoos, gauges in his ears, and an outer bad-boy shell as tough as diamonds.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

KAT I could recall when I was young and my grandmother died from breast cancer. The feeling deep in the pit of my stomach when my parents told me she passed away wasn’t anything I could compare to another feeling. The pain was deep, dull, and lasted for what seemed to be a lifetime. Since her death, I had never felt anything comparable, but I had not had to deal with death again either. When I was a little older, my brother won the bull riding competition at the state level. The bull they selected for him was a tough one, feared by most men, and known for breaking bones, maiming riders, and just being downright mean. Upon learning which bull he was to ride that night, we all felt as if he could certainly die trying to ride it for the eight second requirement. His ride was nothing short of perfect, he scored an 88, and he won the competition. The feeling I felt for him, the level of joy, and the depth of my pride was the polar opposite of what I felt when my grandmother died. That level of joy, at least for me, had yet to be matched. Until now. “So, you ready to talk?” Dalton asked. I took a bite of my eggs, and as I chewed them, glanced in his direction. “Sure.” “Alright then,” he said as he placed his fork on the plate. “I want this baby to be mine. I wanna adopt it or whatever I have to so you and I can raise it like a family. And, I guess it goes without sayin’ that I want you to stick around here forever,” he said flatly.

I dropped my fork onto the plate. Although I meant to place it there, my mind disagreed. It fell the twelve inches from my hand to the plate with a loud clank. “You don’t have to do that,” I responded. As the words escaped my mouth, I felt like a fool. I was elated, overjoyed, and beyond grateful. “I don’t have to do anything. I realize that, Kat. I want to. Been thinkin’ about it for some time now. No matter what becomes of Kyle, I want that baby to be mine. Well, you know, ours. I want that. What do ya think?” he asked. He was so calm. So matter-of-fact. It was difficult for me not to jump up, bounce across the table, and hug him. “I think that would be nice. I like the thought of it,” I responded. I was going to start crying. There was no two ways about it. It was coming, and I could tell. “Axton’s Ol’ Lady, Avery, works for an attorney. I’ll see what we have to do to get something done, but I just want you to know, I want to raise that baby like it’s my own. I want you to know that, Kat. No need in havin’ that kid grow up like I did, none at all,” he said as he reached for his fork. “None at all,” I agreed as I shook my head. I covered my hand with my mouth and coughed. “Bathroom,” I said as I tossed my head to the rear and stood. He nodded his head. As I turned away, I began to softly cry. On my way to the bathroom, tears of joy ran down my cheeks and onto the floor. Once in the bathroom, I turned on the exhaust fan and the faucet to mask the noise. And I cried tears of happiness while thinking about having a child and living with the man I truly loved. All at the same time.

When the tears finally stopped, I wiped my face, grateful it was early in the morning and I hadn’t done my makeup yet. I glanced in the mirror and grinned. I walked into the kitchen and sat down. After studying my plate for a moment, I glanced in Dalton’s direction. He had bitten a hole in the center of his piece of toast and held it in front of his right eye, peering through it as if he were looking through a knot hole in a fence. “You know,” he said. “Lookin’ through this piece of toast like this is the shits. You can only see what’s right in front of ya. And when I move it to the side…” He moved the toast beside his face and let it dangle from his fingers. “Well, then you can see it all,” he said as he surveyed the entire kitchen. I nodded my head and eventually began to laugh. “I’m thinkin’ I had toast eye for my entire damned life and meetin’ you was like chuckin’ the fucker to the side,” he said as he tossed the toast toward the sink. I glanced toward the sink. The toast landed perfectly in the center. I turned to face him, still giggling at the analogy he’d created. “Toast eye?” I chuckled. “Not anymore,” he said. Dalton wasn’t a difficult man by any means. But he was complex. Complex in a very simple way. And as simple as that, Dalton had made me comfortable that not only did he want to raise another man’s child as his own, but that he attributed the broader field of vision in his recent life to having me as a lover. Well, that and knocking the toast away from his eye.



KAT Regardless of the resentment I felt toward my father, he was still my father. As much as I wanted to go against his each and every wish, from time to time his desires and mine were either similar or exactly the same. It was infrequent that he agreed with me, but when he did it allowed me to understand he had the ability to be human. “I don’t know. We were together three years,” I said. “To try and count them now would be impossible.” “Educated guess?” my father shrugged. I gazed beyond him and toward the people seated at the far side of the coffee shop. “Fifteen or maybe twenty.” “Actual beatings? Where he hit you?” he asked, trying to keep his rage from showing. I bit my lower lip and nodded my head slightly. “Not like this time, but yeah. You know, slapped me. Pushed me against the wall and slapped me. Sometimes he dragged me around the house by my hair. I don’t know what you want to call it all, but I call it bullshit. I mean looking at it all now, I call bullshit. At the time I was just, I don’t know. I think I told myself it was part of it. You know part of what it was like to be in an adult relationship. Fuck, I don’t know,” I said. “Watch your mouth, Katrina,” he said. “Seriously? Watch my mouth? Okay,” I huffed as I glanced down toward my shoes.

“Listen,” he said as he reached for my shoulder. I shifted my eyes upward and met his gaze. His face portrayed his true feelings for once. He was sorry. “Why didn’t you ask me for help? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” he asked softly. I shrugged my shoulders. “Because you didn’t raise a pussy. You’re a cop, and don’t get mad, but you’re a dick cop. You raised me like I was another son. My best friend growing up was my bull riding brother. I’m not soft, and I don’t complain. It’s over, and I lived through it. I’m a stronger person now. You know, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” “A dick cop?” he half chuckled and half cried. Without responding, I widened my eyes slightly and tilted my head to the side in affirmation as I turned my palms upward. He reached up and wiped his finger along the bottom of his eye as he turned his head to the side slightly. After a long sigh, he faced me again. “So, you’re staying with Biskette now?” he asked as our eyes met. “His name is Dalton. He’s not a suspect in a crime, so don’t call him Biskette, please,” I said. “And yes.” “And you say he came to your house and saved you? He drug Kyle outside and kicked the shit out of him?” he asked. I nodded my head as I reached for my vanilla bean smoothie. “Sure did.” “What threats did he make afterward? Upon Kyle’s departure he had to tell him something. What did he say?” he asked. I was beginning to feel like I was under investigation. My father, try as he might, was always a cop first, and a human being later. Seeing no value in telling him the complete truth, I shrugged my shoulders and told my version of the story. “He, he Kyle, not he Dalton. He was forcing me to suck his dick. He had me…”

“Stop,” he said as he raised his hand in the air “No need for the graphic details.” “So you want me to sugar coat it for you? Lie to you?” I asked as I placed the cup on the table beside me. He glanced around the coffee shop and eventually fixed his eyes on mine. “I wish you hadn’t picked this place to meet. I wish you’d have met me at our house.” I widened my eyes as my mouth curled into a slight smirk. “When we’re at your house you have the upper hand. At least here we’re closer to even.” He shook his head and leaned to the side and turned to face me, positioning himself much closer to me. “Continue,” he whispered. “So he had his little dick in one hand and my hair in the other. He tried to force me to suck his dick. When I refused, he slapped me. I don’t know, it seems like I stood up and told him to leave. Then he slapped the absolute fuck out of me and knocked me down. He picked me up by the hair and was trying to shove his ratty little dick in my mouth again, and Dalton burst into the room.” “He broke into your apartment? Knocked the door down?” he asked. “No, god damn it. The door was open, Kyle left it open. Dalton’s not some thug, Dad,” I said. “So anyway, Dalton grabbed him, beat the shit out of him, and drug him downstairs and made him leave. He told Kyle if he ever came back, he’d give it to him again.” I reached for my drink as I waited for his response. He widened his eyes slightly. “And that was it?” “Maybe you should have been there. It was enough. Dalton beat the absolute shit out of him,” I responded. “And then what?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders as I slid my lips over the end of the straw. After sucking half of the remaining vanilla lusciousness from the cup I lowered it to my side and responded.

“He carried me to my room, held me in his arms, and I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, he was gone,” I responded. “And after that time? What about the most recent time? What did Dalton do?” he asked. “Jesus, dad. He came to get me, they fixed up my face with some butterfly stitches, cleaned me up, and they went looking for him. It’s been five days and so far, nothing,” I said as I reached for my drink. “When was the last time they went looking, do you know?” he asked. Back under investigation. I swear. “Yesterday, I think,” I said. “Still trying to find him, huh?” he asked as he relaxed into his seat. “Uh huh,” I nodded. “Katrina, I’ve got some news. I don’t know how you’re going to take it, but I need to tell you. I don’t want you to hear it from anyone else but me. I want to be the one who’s here for you through this,” he said. Oh my god. Mom’s got cancer, doesn’t she? I bit my lower lip and nodded my head, not wanting to hear whatever he had to say, but knowing whatever it was needed to be heard. “They found Kyle, this morning. An apparent suicide. It appears he’s been dead for five days,” he paused and inhaled a shallow breath. I sighed heavily and the words escaped my mouth as I exhaled. “Thank god,” I heaved. His eyes narrowed and he looked confused. “He’s dead, Katrina,” he said as he shook his head.

I nodded my head. I had no idea how I should have felt, but I was nothing short of relieved. Whatever feelings I had for Kyle in the past, regardless of what they were, vanished the day he beat me the way he did the last time. Now, there was nothing left. Nothing at all. With Kyle gone, I could truly begin a new life with Dalton without worry or fear of him returning someday. “I got that. And I’m happy,” I said as I raised my cup. He gazed at me with a look of clear confusion. “Dalton said he wanted to adopt the baby. We found out he couldn’t without Kyle’s consent. This just makes everything easier. Dad, he was an animal. A fucking beast. He probably realized exactly what he did, regretted it, and killed himself in a drunken stupor,” I said. “Alcohol played a part. The county investigated it, but I’ve seen the report. His toxicity was…” I raised my hand in the air to stop him from continuing. “La la la la I don’t care.” He shook his head and grinned. “You really don’t care, do you?” “Nope. I want to celebrate,” I said as I stood from my chair. “Lunch, my treat?” he asked. “Depends,” I said as I reached for my purse. I shifted my eyes upward as I stood. He gazed back with wide eyes, waiting for me to continue. I stared at him for a moment. He looked happier than I had seen him in some time, and I had no idea what about our mid-morning coffee would have pleased him so much. “On?’ he eventually asked. “You going to leave Dalton alone? Let us be?” I asked. “Are you truly happy?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Never been happier.” “Is there any fear that one day he’ll harm you?” he asked. I shook my head. “The complete opposite. He’s sweet, Dad. He really is. Not only will he never

hurt me, he’ll make damned sure no one else does, either.” He nodded his head and opened his arms. “All I want is for my little girl to be happy.” “She is,” I said as I hugged him. As he held me in his arms, I sighed. And, although my father didn’t raise a pussy, a tear escaped my eye and ran down my cheek. It was the first time in my life I could remember my father holding me in his arms that I didn’t want him to let me go. I love you, Dad.

BISCUIT There’s two things that will make a 1%er’s asshole pucker for sure. One is an unscheduled visit from the police, and the other is a former girlfriend showing up at his door with a baby in her belly. I’d never had a girlfriend show up pregnant, and until now, I’d never had a cop show up at my house. “I’ve got a gun on the bench beside me, and if you come in my god damned garage I’ll drop you where you stand, Cop. Your threat didn’t settle well with me,” I said as I turned his direction and reached for my pistol. “Katrina tells me you’re not a violent man, Dalton. I’m beginning to wonder,” he said as he continued to walk up my driveway. “I’m not,” I said as I placed my hand against the grip of the pistol, “But you threatened to kill me. Kind of made matters personal when you did that.” “I’m not here as a police officer. I’m here as Katrina’s father,” he said as he stopped at the edge of the garage door. I released the grip of the pistol, wiped my hands on a rag, and turned to face him. As I crossed my arms in front of my chest and did my best to swell to twice my size, I studied his six foot six frame. Whipping him in a fist fight would be an all day job for sure. “Sure look like a cop to me,” I said. “I just got off duty. Got a minute to talk?” he asked. I shook my head. “Don’t let cops in my house, sorry. Garage is part of my house. There’s nothing in here for ya. None of your god damned business what I got or what I’m doing.”

He shook his head and began to laugh. “Typical biker.” I inhaled, flexed my biceps, and pushed my chest forward. “Typical fuckin’ cop, tryin’ to make his way into a biker’s house so he can fuck with him.” “Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, do you care to talk about your relationship with my daughter?” he asked. Relationship? He seemed calm, accepting of what he was saying, and his hand didn’t hover over his pistol. “I’ll listen to ya. But it won’t be in my house,” I lowered my arms and glanced around the garage. “And it won’t be in here, either. Hold on a minute, I guess you can sit beside the pool and talk. I’ll let you in the side gate.” I turned toward the door, pressed the button to the garage door, and watched his body disappear as the door went down. After the door was fully closed, I stepped into the kitchen, grabbed two Red Bulls, and walked out the back door. As I opened the gate, he stood a few feet behind it, grinning from ear to ear. “Somethin’ funny happen while I was away?” I asked as I studied him. “Just find your protective nature humorous, I suppose,” he said. “Downright comedic, huh?” I said as I turned away. I pointed toward the table and chairs situated on the deck surrounding the pool. “We can sit here.” I pulled the cans of Red Bull out of my pockets and slid one across the table. As I pulled my chair from the table and sat down, I opened the can and drank half of it in one swig. He studied the can, opened it, and raised it to his lips. Almost immediately his face contorted and he held the can at arm’s length. “That tastes like shit. You like this stuff?” he asked. “Best shit ever,” I said. “So if sharin’ a Red Bull with a biker wasn’t your reason for comin’, what brings you to this part of town, Cop?” He shook his head and grinned. “Dave. My name is Dave.”

I raised my can. “What brings you to this part of town, Dave the cop?” He shook his head. “Sorry, sometimes I just can’t help myself,” I said with a laugh. “My daughter tells me you kicked the everloving shit out of that scumbag who slapped her around in her apartment?” he said. I stood from my seat and pointed toward the gate. “Investigation’s over, Cop. I’ll lock the gate behind you.” He stood and shook his head as he laughed a shallow laugh. “I’m here to thank you. And to tell you I appreciate you coming to my daughter’s aid. She said your friends helped her out and doctored her up afterward. I want to express my gratitude for their assistance in the matter. She also told me you and the gentlemen you ride with have been looking for the scumbag on a daily basis. I appreciate that as well,” he said. I relaxed, pulled out my chair, and sat down. “Have a seat,” I said as I pointed toward his chair. He sat, leaned over the table, and raised the can of Red Bull. After reading the label, he took another drink and shook his head. I leaned forward, rested my forearms on the table and sighed. I shifted my gaze up to his face and held it. As he realized my focus was on him, he locked eyes with me and lowered his chin. I widened my eyes. “I don’t ride with gentlemen. They’re my brothers. We have a brotherhood and a bond someone like you will never understand. Each and every one of those fellas would and will do whatever they must to protect her - because they’re my brothers.” “I know a little about that. When I call for backup, I put my life in the hands of my brothers. Each and every one of them would and will do whatever they must to protect me, and to protect you, Dalton, from harm.” He took a sip of red Bull.

I shook my head. “It’s not the same.” “You’d be surprised.” “Change the subject,” I said. He leaned back in his chair, inhaled a deep breath, and cleared his throat. “So, she tells me you’d like to adopt the baby?” I nodded my head. Talking to him about it seemed much different than talking to Kat. Somewhat uncomfortable, and not necessarily wanting to get into an argument with him about anything, I decided to minimize my speaking and keep things simple. “That’s right,” I responded. “Do you love her?’ he asked. I leaned back in the chair and stared beyond him with unfocused eyes. Love was something I wasn’t even sure existed. I’d never been in love, and I had my doubts, other than Kat, if anyone had truly ever loved me, short of the love my brothers in the club had for me. After a long minute of thinking, I focused my eyes on him and began to explain my thoughts. “Don’t know that I even know what love is for sure. A feelin’, I suppose. Not knowin’, it’s hard to say. I can tell ya this for sure. When your daughter’s with me, I feel like my life is kinda perfect for the first time. When she’s gone, like when she went back to Kyle, life ain’t much worth livin’. Never felt that way about anything before. You know, she came back, and everything that was broke immediately was fixed. I ain’t gonna shit ya, Dave. I’ve been with my share of women, and I ain’t never had one make me feel like Kat. So, maybe it’s love. But whatever it is, I’d like to make a commitment to her, and I suppose to you…” I lowered the can and leaned forward. “I want that baby to see me as it’s father, and know nothing different. We can raise that kid up never knowing any different. Kid deserves that.” He shifted his eyes from the can in front of him toward me and nodded his head. “What is it you do for a living?” he asked. “Off the record?” I asked.

He nodded his head. “Murder for hire,” I said flatly. He nodded his head again. “Comedian?” “According to some,” I grinned. I shook my head and leaned forward, resting my arms on the edge of the table. “I build high performance Harley motors. Between you and me, I make a hundred grand a year. House is paid for, bike too. I claim about forty to help on taxes, it’s an all cash business. I do pretty well. Save most of it,” I said. He studied the can for a moment and eventually shifted his eyes to meet mine. “They found that kid. Kyle. Found him this morning,” he said as he stood. “Got him in custody?” I asked as I stood from my seat. He shook his head. “Suicide. Been dead four or five days.” “Damned shame,” I said flatly. He gazed down at his feet and continued. “Sure is. You know, the county investigated it. Ruled it a clear case of suicide. Kid used his personal pistol, shot himself in the face. He used a pillow for some reason, I personally found that strange, but anyway,” he said as he shook his head slightly. “You know another thing I found strange?” he asked. I shook my head and shrugged. “No idea.” “I’ve known that kid for three years. He was left handed. The residue from the weapon discharging was on his right hand, and the pistol was still in his right hand. So I thought, why would this kid use his right hand to kill himself - if he was a natural leftie?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders.

“I didn’t bother telling the officer in charge what I knew. I just couldn’t see any sense in it. God has his way of weeding out the bad on this earth, you know. Sometimes it’s at the hand of a cop,” he said as he locked eyes with me. “And sometimes it’s not.” “Investigation’s over?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Closed case.” “And you’re alright with Kat and me? Me adopting the baby?” I asked. “I’ve accepted it. She says you’re good for her. She loves you, you need to know that, Dalton,” he responded. I tilted my head toward the back door. “Come in for a bit, Dave?” I asked. He glanced toward the door, turned to face me, and smiled. “I’d love to,” he responded. “Follow me,” I said as I turned toward the door. “We need to have us a little talk.” As I walked toward the door I realized he and I were similar in at least a few respects. No differently than he had a preconceived notion about me being a dirty biker, I had the same about him being a chicken-shit cop. In the end, all he was trying to do was the same thing I had tried to do. Keep Kat from being harmed. Together, if we could see eye to eye, there was no doubt in my mind that Kat could live a life not only safe from harm, but as a very, very happy woman. And I’d be a very happy man.

BISCUIT After painting our bedroom Fair Fieldstone Taupe, I painted the spare bedroom a combination of light blue and pink. Two opposing walls were pink, and the opposite two walls were light blue. For now, the color combination satisfied me, and would be satisfactory regardless of the sex of the baby. I stood in the doorway, admired the new colors, and studied the trim for imperfections. As always, I found nothing that needed touched up. My anal retentive nature prevented me from walking away from a job that wasn’t perfect. I sighed, inhaled the odor of the drying paint, and looked into the living room at the boxes of new furniture I’d purchased - a crib, changing table, and dresser, all in need of assembly. I glanced at my watch. It would take some hard work, but having it assembled and in place by the time Kat got back from shopping should be doable. A quick shower on my part afterward, and we should make Cash’s patch in party without any problems. It was nice to see Kat and Avery becoming close friends. Sydney was attached to Avery’s hip, so there was no doubt they’d all become close. There wasn’t much better women on this earth than those two, and as tough as Avery was, I wasn’t so sure Sydney wasn’t a little tougher. Making it out of her childhood with the peaceful, upbeat, and always eager attitude was a feat in itself, and left me impressed with who she was and what she stood for. Having a little of her rub off on Kat would suit me just fine. I closed the door to the bedroom and allowed the room to vent out into the yard through the open windows. After cleaning up the paint supplies, I knelt down on the floor and began to assemble the furniture.

Three and a half hours later, I cleaned up the mess, carried the furniture into the room, and moved it into place. I glanced around the room at the changes. A year prior, if someone would have brought up a baby being in my life, I would have laughed until I pissed myself. Now, looking around the room at the furniture and bright colors, I was excited, eager, and more than willing for the change. The reward, at least in my mind, was my knowing there wasn’t another man on this earth who was going to be as devoted to raising the child properly as me. A man has one chance to do what’s right in his being a father, and there’s no room for mistakes. As inexperienced as I was at being a father, I had years of exposure and a complete understanding of what not to do. I’m sure a man accepting another man’s child or children as his own is a far more difficult task than accepting his own children. In my current state of being, I was incapable of producing children, and as far as I was concerned, the baby wasn’t another man’s child. The child was mine. I had come to accept that what I shared with Kat could be nothing short of love, and if she and I loved one another - and I wasn’t able to produce children - God had done what he felt was necessary. His provision of a child wasn’t something I perceived as being a mistake, burden, or complication. To me, it was nothing short of what it truly was. An opportunity to right a lifetime of wrongs. A gift. And a blessing. As I heard Kat’s jeep rolling into the drive, I glanced around the room, making sure all of the evidence was cleaned up. I wanted the room to be a surprise, and I hoped to show it to her in a few days. As she rushed into the house and dropped her bags, she wrinkled her nose and stared. “Smells like paint,” she said. “Painted the room one last time,” I responded.

“Last time?” she chuckled. “I’m thinkin’ so,” I grinned as I walked into the kitchen. “Look,” she said as she reached into one of the bags. Dangling from the end of her fingers was a Harley-Davidson shirt. White, orange, and black, it was suitable for a boy or a girl. I grinned and nodded my head. “It’s cute.” “Cute? Seems funny hearing you say that,” she responded. “I’ve got bags of stuff,” she said as she pointed to the bags sitting on the floor. I was time for both of us to get ready for the patch in party, but I couldn’t resist. After a good solid thirty minutes of going through each and every item one by one, we decided to shower together to save time, water, and satisfy our sexual needs. “Better hurry the hell up and decide, it’s going to be six thirty before you know it,” I said as I glanced in the room. “Do I look fat?” she asked as she twisted her hips in front of the mirror. She looked beautiful. Her hair flipped around in a circle behind her as she twisted back and forth. Although she really hadn’t begun to indicate she was pregnant from her appearance regarding weight or size, something about her had changed. She had a certain glow about her that was unmistakable and incapable of accurate description. It had to be seen to be believed. Whatever it was worked well for her, and reassured me that not only was I fortunate, but I was with the most beautiful woman in the world. “Tough for you to look fat, you’re skinny,” I shrugged. “These jeans look good?” she asked as she turned her ass toward the mirror and gazed over her shoulder. “Better’n any I’ve ever seen,” I responded.

“Any?” she asked. “Any,” I responded. “Ready?” she asked as she reached for her purse. “Suppose so,” I said. “So what exactly is this again?” she asked. “Patch in party. A kid’s been prospecting for a year, and finally paid his dues. Tonight we eat, drink, and raise hell. It’s a party for him to celebrate his becoming a fully patched member of the club,” I said as we walked toward the garage. “Sam, Avery, and Sydney said they’re going too, so it’ll be fun for me,” she said. “Better get that hair tied up, or you’ll be spendin’ the night untanglin’ it,” I said as we stepped into the garage. “I think I’ll just let it blow,” she said with a nod. “You sure?” I asked. She nodded her head and grinned. “I like it that way. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. But it just kind of makes me feel free. Like a bird or something, I just can’t really explain it, but I love how it makes me feel.” She turned to face me and shrugged her shoulders. I leaned forward and kissed her, something I was still getting used to, but enjoyed more than almost anything. “No need for explanation,” I said as our lips parted. I knew exactly what she meant.

KAT I had always looked up to Avery. She was a year older than me in school, and one of the best volleyball players I had ever seen. Not admiring her for what she’d done for the team and what she’d done with her career would be difficult. It seemed she was a fierce as a legal assistant as she was on the volleyball court. Having her act now as my equal seemed strange, but I welcomed it; accepting the fact my life was slowly changing. As we stood in a circle talking, I turned almost giddy in excitement thinking about my future with the three women as my lifelong friends. “You can’t tell anyone, not yet. Dalton hasn’t told everyone, and I don’t know when he will. I think maybe Axton knows, but that’s it.” I glanced over my shoulder as I finished speaking, seeing where Dalton was. He stood with Otis, Axton, and a few others in a circle talking. As always, it seemed he was telling a story, and the others were listening to him. “Okay what is it?” Sam asked. She was as beautiful of a woman as I had ever seen. I gazed at her hoping when I was her age I could be half as beautiful as her. Her hair was long and blonde, and her body was phenomenal. I gazed down at her Chuck’s, and quickly noticed Sydney and Avery wore the same shoe. Aggravated I’d chosen to wear boots, I shifted my eyes to meet Sam’s and smiled. “I’m pregnant,” I whispered. “Oh dear God,” Sam gasped. “That’s so exciting.” Avery already knew, but I acted like she didn’t. Sydney stood back, grinned, and raised her finger to her lips. As she did, Avery turned toward her, placed her hands on her hips, and inhaled a deep breath.

Sydney stood with her finger pressed to her lips and began to giggle. “You little bitch,” Avery blurted. “You little fucking bitch. You aren’t, are you?” Avery seethed. Sydney nodded her head as she lowered her hand, “Shhh. We haven’t told anyone. I mean no one. Not even his parents. We want to make sure everything goes good. I mean it, you can’t tell a soul.” Sam turned toward Sydney and started to softly cry. As she wiped her eyes, Sydney opened her arms. “What is it, Sam?” Sydney said. Sam shook her head. “I’m just happy for you two. It’s just…I don’t know. Otis and I split up over my wanting kids when we were twenty-one years old. I don’t want them anymore, I’ll settle for him. It’s just…when two people can have it to share, and they both want it…it’s special.” I nodded my head. “We’re both really happy.” “Cambio wants twins. He’s freaking crazy,” Sydney chuckled. “Twins,” I coughed. “Oh my God. That would be insane.” Sydney nodded her head. “I know. But he wants two at the same time so bad it’s like an obsession.” I shook my head. “I think I’d die.” “You fucking hooker, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Avery fumed. Sydney shrugged as a she twisted her mouth to the side. The thought of one of the other girls having a baby at roughly the same time as me was very exciting to me. As I stood and considered how much life was going to change, I was truly grateful it wasn’t going to change for me and me alone. Having Sydney go through the changes with me was something I welcomed with open arms. As we all stood and talked about men, kids, and life in general, the sound of Axton’s voice over the stereo reminded me this party wasn’t for us, but for someone else. “So, without further ado, we’ll get back to it. Todd Parker, known by the club as Cash, has fulfilled his requirement of prospecting for twelve months. All patched in Selected Sinners in favor of his

advancement into the club and acceptance as a fully patched member respond in the form of aye,” Axton said. “Aye,” everyone wearing a Sinners cut screamed. Axton nodded his head and waved at the crowd. “Requires a one hundred percent vote to be a Sinner, any opposed respond in the form of nay,” he said into the microphone. I glanced out into the crowd at the one they called Cash. He was hugging his wife and preparing to walk toward Axton. “Well, it appears…” Axton started to say “Nay!” someone shouted from the crowd. “Oh dear God,” Sam gasped. “What?” Avery asked. “Otis. He’s opposed. Oh dear God,” Sam shrieked. “Do I have one opposed?” Axton shouted. Otis nodded his head and waved at Axton. I shifted my eyes toward Cash. He released his wife and began to run toward Otis. “Yes you do. My vote is nay,” Otis screamed. Within five seconds, and as Sam began to walk toward Otis, Cash got in front of Otis and started screaming. Otis swung one punch and knocked him flat on his back. Dalton, Axton, and Toad walked toward them both and helped Cash up to his feet. Axton walked Cash into the house. “Holy shit. Guess he didn’t make it,” Avery said. “Axton didn’t like him anyway.” “But he did his part or whatever, right?” I asked.

“Not that easy,” Avery said as she shook her head. “It takes a one hundred percent vote. Otis must have had a reason for not wanting him in the club. This is a tight knit bunch of guys, you’ll learn that. And to call them brothers wouldn’t even come close to describe the bond.” I nodded my head. “I see.” Cash’s wife began screaming out the back door of the house toward Otis. Almost immediately, Otis, Dalton, Toad, and Axton ran into the house. Sydney turned toward me and shrugged her shoulders. “Haven’t you ever had a friend that one day you decided wasn’t such a good friend?” Avery asked. I nodded my head. “Yeah.” “Well, imagine if you were stuck with your friends forever because you made some silly pact or blood oath. That’s what these guys do when they accept someone. They’re in for life. So, they’ve got to be careful about who they choose. You’re Biscuit’s Ol’ Lady, his brothers are your brothers. Be proud that your brothers are the best of the best,” she said. I nodded my head and grinned. “I will be. I mean I am.” Avery nodded her head and grinned as she turned toward the house. Dalton walked out the door, turned, and began walking our direction. His head hung low, as if he was upset about something. “We’re gonna need to get out of here. Cops will be here pretty quick. Cash offed himself,” he said. “Huh?” I said, confused at the phrase he’d said. He shook his head. “He killed himself, Kat. Right in the kitchen in front of his wife.” “Oh my God,” I gasped. He shook his head. “Cambio?” Sydney screeched. “Everyone’s fine. They’re covering up the body and talkin’ to his wife - it ain’t nothin’ you wanna see,” Dalton explained as he reached for Sydney’s shoulder and hugged her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Dalton shook his head. “Far as I’m concerned, just proves he was too weak for the club. Good call on Otis’ part.” I thought about the suicide, and what someone must be feeling to commit the act. Kyle’s suicide was no doubt a result of his guilt and grief for what he’d done. Cash’s was probably because he felt incompetent, or worthless. Maybe, the more I thought about it, Kyle felt worthless as well. As he should have. I stared down at the ground, closed my eyes, and said a small prayer. Bless them anyway, Lord. They were your children.

KAT I sat nervously in the courtroom, waiting for the judge to enter. Dalton sat beside the court appointed attorney in the front of the courtroom, looking rather dapper in the clothes I had bought for him. Although he refused to wear slacks, he allowed me to buy him a pair of new jeans, a button-down shirt, and a pair of black boots. With is freshly waxed beard, slightly trimmed hair, and perfectly waxed eyebrows, he looked fabulous. “All rise,” the bailiff howled. We all stood as the judge walked into the room. I had asked Dalton to tell the club about his court date, but he refused. I felt having Avery with me would ease my mind, but he insisted that she not know of the hearing either. As I stood on shaking legs, the judge reached his seat and sat down. “You may be seated,” the judge said. I sat down and pressed my palms onto my shaking knees. After looking on the internet at the severity of the charges, I learned Dalton could very well spend five years in prison for beating the men he beat in jail. Hopefully the judge would see that he wasn’t a troublemaker, and although he’d been arrested several times, he’d never been tried and convicted of a felony or a violent crime. “Will the defendant please rise,” the judge said. I stared at Dalton as he stood, wondering what the procedure would be. I suspected no differently than on television, people would give their testimony, Dalton would give his, and the jury or the judge would decide the case. Maybe after hearing what everyone had to say, I would feel better about the entire situation. I gazed blankly across the courtroom with unfocused eyes. The thought of losing Dalton was

something I chose to deny as even being a possibility. Raising our baby without him would be extremely difficult, and thinking about it made me cry. Even after Dalton gave me keys to the house, instructions on operating the pool equipment, and the combination to the safe, I refused to accept his incarceration as being even a slight probability. A hand lightly touched my shoulder, startling me. I turned to my right and glanced upward. Dad? “It’s getting ready to start,” I whispered. He raised his index finger to his lips and whispered his response. “It’s getting ready to end. It’ll be over before you know it.” Huh? I wrinkled my nose, shrugged my shoulders, and stared. He grinned. I slid to my left and patted the wooden bench beside me. He shook his head lightly, winked, and mouthed the words I love you as he reached for the door beside him. Before I could respond, he opened the door, slipped into the hall, and walked away. That was weird. I turned toward the courtroom and blinked my eyes a few times as I tried to focus on the judge’s statement. “…therefore, considering the electronic files were damaged while in evidence, rendering them useless and leaving the court without video, we would be required to rely solely on the testimony of the plaintiff’s to prosecute this case. As fate would have it, both plaintiffs have no recollection of the events on the day in question.” The judge paused and peered over the top of his glasses. After a moment, he reached up, removed his glasses, and studied Dalton. “Considering your plea of innocence has been maintained, Mr. Biskette, it saddens me greatly to announce the county has no ability to prosecute this case. In the matter of Sedgwick County versus Biskette, the case has been dropped by the county due to lack of evidence.” He hesitated, pounded his gavel onto the wooden block and shook his head.

“Mr. Biskette, you are free to go,” he said. Oh my God. I clapped my hands silently and stood. Dalton turned around and winked. I gazed at him for a moment, turned toward the door my father had walked through, and stared. With my gaze frozen on the door, I mouthed the words. I love you, too.

KAT I couldn’t believe the time had come for us to find out the sex of our baby. As I scrambled to get my hair finished, Dalton stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. He seemed excited, but by no means as excited as I was. I couldn’t seem to contain myself. Finally, I shook my head from side to side, let my hair fall slightly into my face, and settled for the loose ponytail I was wearing. “I’m almost ready,” I said as I ducked under his arm, ran past him, and into the bedroom. The room looked great in the new colors, but I had my doubts how long they’d last. The baby’s room was better than great, and I was so in love with it I brought my mother and father both over to see it. Seeing my father get along with Dalton, considering he was a cop and Dalton was an outlaw seemed almost too good to be true. They sure seemed to get along well, and my father laughed at his stories and jokes as he told them. Dalton never said one cross word about my father since the day he said my father stopped by to visit him. It was almost as if they’d somehow made peace with each other on that day. I pulled my shoes onto my feet and cocked my head slightly to the side. “Is the bike running?” I asked. He rubbed his beard in the palm of his hand his hand as he nodded his head, “Yep.” “Sorry,” I said. “Ready,” I shouted as I sprung to my feet. “Grab your purse,” he said as he motioned toward my purse.

I grabbed my purse, followed him through the garage, and stopped in the driveway. As I checked my ponytail, I glanced down at the back of his bike. Rumbling through the exhaust and shaking, the back fender shook from side to side. I glanced at the back of it with unfocused eyes, repositioned my purse, and started to get on. Something in my head registered a few seconds late. His plate was different. I stepped back, studied the license plate, and narrowed my eyes as I stared at it. “Your plate doesn’t say RFOF anymore,” I said as I stared down at it. He climbed off the bike, turned to face me, and crossed his arms. “Nope.” I read the letters out loud. “W.Y. M. M.” “What’s it mean now?” I shrugged. “Figure it out. Been on there for about three weeks waitin’ for ya to see it,” he huffed. I stared down at the tag. While. You. Might … Wont. You. What. You’re. I shook my head and stared. Shit like that had always bothered me. I hated not being able to figure out license plates. I gazed at it with unfocused eyes and thought. W.Y.M.M. Will. You Marry. Holy shit, no way. He’s not that… I glanced up at him. Standing with his arms crossed and his mouth covered with a full on smirk, he

studied me. I gazed down at the letters, not certain of their order. W.Y.M.M. “Will you marry me?” I whispered as I studied the plate. I glanced upward after I spoke. I had said it louder than I intended to, and was slightly embarrassed. As the words escaped my lips, my heart raced. I wondered if I guessed right. “As a matter of fact I will,” he said as he reached into his jeans pocket. “Been carryin’ this fucker for three weeks, since right after I asked your father if it was okay. Had to spend my bond money on somethin’ when they gave it back, figured this was as good as anything. Katrina Chadsworth…” He paused as he knelt down in front of me on one knee. You asked my father? “Will you marry me?” he asked. I raised my hand to my mouth and nodded my head as the tears rolled down my cheeks. He reached out, held my left hand in his, and slipped the ring onto my finger. “Not as pretty as you, but damn close,” he said. I glanced down at the ring, still in shock over what had happened. After a few minutes of absorbing the beauty of the ring, I shifted my eyes to meet Dalton’s and gazed at him in a semiconscious state. “I love you, Kat,” he said as he kissed me on the lips. “I love…I love…you,” I blubbered as our lips parted. He glanced at his watch. His eyes widened and left hand immediately shot into the air. As he extended his index finger, he twirled it in a circle. “Saddle up,” he shouted into the air. “Let’s roll.”

I laughed into my clenched hand as I climbed onto the bike. Life with Dalton Biskette was a lot of things. Wild. Crazy. Fun. Adventurous. Full of love. But there was one thing it wasn’t. Predictable.



EX-CON Scott Hildreth



DEDICATION We talked late nights, solved the world’s problems, and stood up when we had to regardless of the potential outcome. Here’s to standing proud, doing your time instead of letting the time do you, slinging ink (and not going to the SHU for the tattoo gun because we were always one step ahead of the guards), and enjoying NWA every time it came on the radio. All we needed was a second chance. Here’s to second chances and to having a cellie who’s always got your back. Deuce, this one is for you, brother.

AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. EX-CON 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Cover Photography by Darrin Birks Photography Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth



EMILY June 6, 2006 Neither of my parents abused me, nor was I exposed to pornography or a perverted uncle at an early age. My sexual desires weren’t something I developed; they were part of my being. The night we met I was in a sexual lull and had been there for some time. I was dissatisfied with men in general - for reasons I didn’t fully realize at the time - and I had become fed up with even attempting to move forward. I had all but given up on men and sex, and by nothing more than a small streak of blind luck, he entered my life. I had been in a bar dancing alone, and was disgusted with the behavior of the drunken men who were making comments about my choice of clothes. On that particular night, I was batting roughly .984 for being lightly sexually assaulted by strangers. In hindsight, maybe I should have worn a bra, but if I had I wouldn’t have met Jackson, so scratch that thought. I was walking out - well, stomping out would be a more accurate description. The departure stomp I often used when I wanted everyone to know just what it was I was thinking without actually saying it.

I tossed my hair over my shoulder and exhaled a sigh from my soul. “That’s it, I fucking swear,” I huffed as I turned toward the door. “Don’t leave mad,” the drunken thirty-something year old former frat boy said as he grabbed my arm and spun me around. “Let me go!” I demanded as I attempted to pull away. The music had changed from a dance beat to some lullaby bullshit, and most everyone had walked from the dance floor to their respective tables which were situated twenty or so feet away. Amidst the edge stood my closest possible assistance and he seemed to be immersed in talking to his drunken date. With his mouth still agape, the drunken asshole who held my arm gazed down at my boobs with wide eyes. After staring for what seemed like forever, he nodded his head toward my tits as he spoke. “You can’t go out in public dressed like that and expect a man not to notice,” he said. “Let me go, I mean it,” I said as I tried to free my arm from his grip. My top was sheer, but tasteful. Underneath, I wore a white tank and no bra. In my opinion, I was able to choose whether or not to wear a bra, because it wasn’t always necessary. Small “C” cup breasts were affixed to my chest like two stones, and cinching them even tighter to my narrow frame wasn’t necessarily required. The temperature in the bar was such that my nipples had been hard for the fifteen minutes I was inside, five of which I chose to pass by dancing. Alone. His hand still gripping my upper arm firmly, I had no reason to believe his half-drunken ass was going to release me anytime soon, so I felt screaming was my only way out. I hated to be that girl, but I desperately wanted to be left alone. I inhaled a deep breath, paused, and gave fair warning. And that was the moment when I met Jackson. “I mean it. I’ll fucking scream,” I said. “Is there a problem?” a voice from behind me asked. Thank God.

His tone was deep and calm, yet distinctly demanding of a response. Frat boy released my arm as his eyes went wide. “No, Sir, there’s no problem.” I turned around. My savior was tall, extremely muscular, and what portions of his body weren’t covered by the seemingly microscopic leather vest he was wearing were decorated with tattoos. With a very strong jaw covered by a few days growth of beard, he looked rough. The type of rough no man would want to cross. I may have been slightly biased at that particular moment, but describing him as attractive wouldn’t have done him justice. He was a far more refined handsome, a man I was certain had no idea he was as strikingly good looking as he appeared to be. As I gawked at him in the same manner I had been ogled all night, I pleaded my case. “That asshole was trying to pull my top down, and when I tried to leave, he grabbed me and wouldn’t let go,” I explained as I attempted to catch my breath. “You dropped this,” my savior said as he held my purse at arm’s length. I glanced toward his hand. I didn’t realize I had even dropped it. As I reached for the purse and took it from his grasp, he stepped around me and toward my nipple loving nemesis. Without warning, and so quickly I didn’t even realize what was going on for sure, my savior grabbed the man who was harassing me by his wrist. Although he only held his wrist, the asshole seemed to be in excruciating pain. As he winced and buckled his knees repeatedly, the questioning began. “You know her?” he asked as he twisted the man’s wrist. Frat boy shook his head and winced in pain as he gave his response. “No…” asshole murmured. “You’ve got no right to grab a woman like that,” he growled. “No fucking right.” He turned the man’s wrist slightly, forcing him to bend his knees even more. As my would-be attacker was almost kneeling on the floor, my newfound tattooed friend gazed down at him and sighed. “So, did you try and pull her top down?” he asked. “I…I…just…” dumbass groaned in response.

I leaned toward my handsome friend and whispered my response to the question he had asked. “He tried about ten times. When I decided to leave, he grabbed my arm. I’ve got the marks to prove it,” I shuddered. He peered over his shoulder. Still holding the man’s wrist in his hand, his eyes narrowed slightly and he seemed to grow angry as he visually inspected the red marks on my arm. As the anger seemed to build inside of him, he pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. “You don’t need to see this,” he said as he turned to face the asshole. “No, I want to see it,” I responded as I took a step away from him. A man and a woman approached from the left, pointing toward the boob groping idiot as they walked onto the dance floor. “I saw him. He was trying to pull her top down since she got here. She was leaving and he grabbed her arm. My wife and I saw it all,” he explained as he stepped beside us. My hero raised the man’s wrist, lifting the asshole from his crouched position. Without speaking, he released the man’s wrist. Immediately, the asshole raised his hands as if he was ready to fight. In shock that he didn’t at least attempt to turn and run away, I stood with my mouth open and stared. “Respect. You’ve got a lot to learn about respecting women. Hopefully after I’m done whipping your ass, you’ll see things differently. Remember this: show respect, get respect,” he said. In a blindingly fast blur, he struck the asshole in the face with his fist. As the shit head did his best to block the punches, my savior continued to beat him. Blood splattered from the jerk’s nose and lips, and as he raised his hands to his face, it began to drip on the floor. “And don’t forget it,” he grunted as he punched him one last time. The asshole fell to the floor and moaned. Oh, God. I really didn’t need to see that. Almost immediately, two bouncers were on the dance floor, attempting to grab both men.

“I’d back off if I were you,” my hero explained as he turned to face the two bouncers. His hands were raised to his chest and he was obviously ready to continue the fight. The muscles in his upper arms flared as he turned to the left and quickly to the right, situating his clenched fists in front of his chin as if prepared to box. After a quick study of my hero, the two bouncers exchanged nervous glances and eventually took a step back. “I’m walking the girl to her car. If either of you try to stop me, you’ll look like him when I’m done with you. And you need to call him an ambulance, his jaw’s broken,” he said flatly as he turned to face me. The pool of blood was slowly growing, spreading across the concrete floor as a reminder of what had happened. As one of the bouncers bent over to help the man up from the floor we turned and began to walk away. “You alright?” he asked me as he wiped his knuckles on his jeans. Other than watching you almost kill that guy for grabbing me? Yeah, I’m just fine. I bit my lower lip and nodded my head. “I’m Jackson,” he said as he bent his elbow and hooked his thumb on his belt. “Grab hold of my arm until we’re out in the parking lot.” “Em…Emily. Or Em…just uhhm…call me Em,” I stammered. As if I had no choice, I followed his instructions. I shifted my purse to my opposite shoulder, slipped my arm through his, and walked by his left side as we maneuvered past the whispers, stares, and extended fingers recognizing him as the man who’d fought a stranger to save a girl from being humiliated or something potentially much worse. We exited the bar and began to walk through the parking lot. The fact I didn’t know him wasn’t bothersome at all, and in fact, I felt rather comfortable walking with him; almost too comfortable. I tossed my head to the side as I recognized my car. “I’m the silver Camry, right over there,” I said. “So, why’d you do that? You know, beat the crap out of that guy?” I asked as we stepped alongside my car.

“Because it’s what he deserved. He had no right to touch you without your approval. And I can guarantee you one thing, the next time he considers acting like that, he’ll remember what happened tonight, and he’ll reconsider,” he responded. He brushed my hand from his arm as if he was preparing to turn and walk away. I didn’t want him to leave. I preferred it not be so simple. Walking through the parking lot with my arm wrapped around his I felt safe, secure, and even drawn to him no differently than if we had been out all night on a date. I realized I didn’t have any idea who he was, but there was a big part of me willing, and even more that seemed to be wanting, to take the time to get to know him. “What do you think about this top?” I asked. “You look remarkable,” he said with a nod, his eyes never shifting from mine. Standing there in a leather biker vest, covered in tattoos, and with one hand still bleeding, his manner of speaking didn’t seem to fit his looks. He was calm, had a distinctly decisive tone to his voice, and spoke differently than I expected a biker to speak. In short, he was intriguing, and I was beyond interested in knowing more about him. No one simply walks into a bar and beats the crap out of a random guy and then walks the girl to the car. He had a story, motive, a reason, something… And I wanted to hear it. I placed my hand on my hip and arched my back a little more. “You don’t think it’s too…I don’t know…revealing?” His eyes never leaving mine, he shook his head slowly. “Sure don’t. And it really doesn’t matter what you wear. A man doesn’t have a right to do what he did.” “Guys are assholes,” I breathed as I straightened my posture. “They sure can be,” he said as he glanced over his shoulder. He seemed either nervous or like he was looking for someone. “Do you need to go?” I asked. He turned to face me as he shrugged his shoulders. “Supposed to meet some of the fellas, but they seem to be running late,” he said.

He kicked the toe of his boot against the asphalt as if digging an imaginary hole. As I watched him continue to chip away, I decided to try my luck. “You wanna hang out sometime?” I asked sheepishly. Typically, I wouldn’t have been so forward; especially with someone I didn’t know. But resisting my desires seemed to be something I had all but forgotten. After I spoke, the lingering silence which followed led me to believe I had made a grave mistake. As I prepared to swallow my pride and become even more embarrassed by his ‘no’ response, I slumped my shoulders and waited. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he responded. “Why?” I snapped back. The question shot from my lips as if I took exception to his rejection. To be brutally honest, I thought it was a great idea. I was twenty-one, in great physical shape, and I believed I was a very attractive woman. I was considerably younger than what I guessed him to be, but I didn’t care and I felt he shouldn’t either. His mouth curled into a smirk. He shifted his eyes along the length of my frame. “I don’t hang out with women. There’s not much sense in it. Sooner or later, you’ll want to take it further, and it’ll never work out,” he explained. “Because?” I said. He started kicking the ground again, scraping the toe of his boot across the asphalt. After several swipes, he pursed his lips, inhaled through his nose, an exhaled. His lack of response to something I viewed as simple surprised me. “Well, I’ll tell ya,” he said as he looked up. “Sexually, I’m different than most men. I can’t be in a relationship with a woman unless she’s…” he paused and it seemed a hand had wiped his face with embarrassment. He began to kick his imaginary hole a little deeper, focusing on his boot as he did so. “Unless she’s…unless she’s what?” I said.

He tilted his head back, rolled his shoulders, and tilted his head to the left and then the right, popping his neck as he did so. After a short hesitation which included chewing on his bottom lip, he inhaled a shallow breath and sighed out the corner of his mouth. He fixed his eyes on mine. Breaking his stare seemed impossible. I consciously held my breath as I waited for him to continue. “I’m a dominant. I’ve got to be in a relationship with a woman who’s…” He paused and bit the edge of his lower lip. “All men are dominant,” I scoffed. The fact he felt the need to tell me he was dominant seemed ridiculous. To think he believed I was a woman who would want to wear the pants in a relationship, especially after he had just saved me from some random douchebag, was laughable. If he wasn’t interested, I wondered why he simply wouldn’t say so. As I stood wondering what might be wrong with me, he began to explain further. “Not dominant in the way I’m talking about,” he responded as he shook his head lightly. “What way are you talking about?” I asked. He shook his head again. “Wow. I’m a big girl. Afraid you’re going to scare me? I seriously doubt it,” I said. He continued to stare down at his boots and shake his head. “You never know, maybe you and I…” He glanced upward, sighed heavily, and slowly raised his hand between us, hesitating as it hovered in front of my neck. “Listen, I’m going to touch your neck. I won’t hurt you,” he said. I shook my head lightly and wrinkled my nose. “Touch my neck?” He nodded once. “I’m going to touch your neck to prove a point. We both might learn something from it. Depending

on how it goes, we might end up hanging out sometime,” he paused and chuckled lightly. “Remember, I won’t hurt you. I promise, and I don’t break promises,” he assured me. Touch my neck to prove a point? I glanced around the empty parking lot. After confirming there was no one watching, for some strange reason I nodded my head in agreement. In hindsight, I was glad I did. “Okay,” I said. “Don’t move,” he said in a soft yet slightly demanding tone as he reached for my neck. “And remember, I won’t hurt you. Not now, not ever.” I nodded my head once again and swallowed heavily in anticipation of what was to come. He leaned forward, positioning his face beside mine, and pressed his lips to my ear. As he inhaled slowly, his hand squeezed my neck firmly. As his strong hand clutched my neck, my knees went weak and I almost dropped my purse. I had never had a man wrap his hand around my neck, and although I had no idea what point he was trying to make, I enjoyed what he was doing. I closed my eyes and relaxed into his hand. “You like that?” he breathed into my ear. I nodded my head as I attempted to swallow. “When I ask you a question, I’ll need you to respond, Emily. I’ll ask you again,” he whispered into my ear. He remembered my name. I swallowed again as my knees wobbled beneath me. He inhaled, held his breath for a few seconds, and exhaled into my ear. Goosebumps rose along the length of my arm. He massaged the tips of his fingers into my neck, gripping fractionally tighter with each passing second. He was far from choking me, obviously knew exactly what he was doing, and he left no doubt in my mind he was in charge of the situation. I opened my eyes and gazed blankly at the dark asphalt parking lot. Whatever he had done to me was apparent. I was sexually aroused so deeply I had become uncomfortably wet.

“Do you like my hand on your neck?” he asked through his teeth, enunciating each word as he spoke. His warm breath against my jaw caused the hair on my neck to stand, and a tingle shot along my spine. The response barely escaped my lungs. “Yes,” I murmured. His grip tightened slightly. He pressed his mouth to my ear and held himself there for what seemed like a lifetime. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Okay,” I squeaked. “For the sake of this experiment, imagine being naked, Emily. Imagine me tying you up and binding your hands behind your back with a rope. Imagine me securing your bound hands to a steel post in a room, preventing you from escaping. Imagine me having my way with you sexually - for as long as I want. I would do as I wished, and you would allow me to do so, willingly. Imagine that, Emily,” he breathed into my ear. And he released my neck. I fell forward, stumbled, and almost dropped to the ground. He steadied me in his arms and grinned as he waited for me to either accept or reject his demonstration. My mind spinning, and aroused beyond the explanation of words, I stared at him in disbelief and blinked my eyes repeatedly. “Turn on? Or turn off?” he asked. I glanced down at my crotch. I wanted to tell him to stick his hand in my shorts and find out, but I was too much of a lady to make the offer. Instead, I fixed my gaze on his boots, sighed, and slowly shifted my eyes up and along the length of his muscular body until I reached his face. “On,” I said as our eyes met.

Okay, Jackson the biker, you’ve got my attention, now what? “On a scale of one to ten, how much of a turn on?” he asked. The sound of motorcycles pulling into the parking lot diverted my attention toward the entrance. Motorcycle after motorcycle came into the lot, one after another, all ridden by men who could have doubled as Jackson’s brothers. The rumbling of their exhaust echoed through the alley alongside the bar and caused goosebumps to rise along the backs of both of my arms. “Your friends?” I asked as I tossed my head in the direction of the motorcycles. “I asked you a question,” he said as he raised his index finger in the air. “I don’t like repeating myself, Emily, remember that,” he said. His voice was stern, but not in an angry sense. My mouth went immediately dry. In anticipation of at least attempting to respond, I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded my head. “On a scale of one to ten, how much of a turn on,” he asked again. “Twelve,” I managed to respond. “God damn, Killer. We got tied up at the DUI checkpoint. Fucking cops made us all blow in one of those breathalyzer things. Fucking pricks,” a man said as he walked up beside us. He was big, the kind of big that made people stare. He had a shaved head and a long dark beard that was sprinkled with gray hairs. His head was covered in various tattoos, and he looked like a pretty serious criminal. As he opened his arms and laughed, I noticed his hand, fingers, and at least one wrist were all heavily tattooed. Jackson hugged him as they shook hands. “Ready for a drink?” the man asked. I shifted my eyes to Jackson. “I’ll be back in a bit. This girl’s friends left her here. I gotta give her a ride home,” Jackson said as he nodded his head toward me.

I attempted to hide my excitement. “Worthless bitches,” I said. “Hurry the fuck up, we’re gonna close this fucker down, but it won’t be any fun without the Killer,” the man growled. “Don’t hold your breath, Sarge,” Jackson chuckled as he extended his elbow toward me. As if he’d somehow programmed me to do so, I reached for his arm and followed him to his motorcycle. I had no clue where we were going, and no idea what he had planned, but I really didn’t care. Something about him told me I would always be safe in his presence. As I stretched my leg over the back of his seat, the late evening breeze blowing into my shorts reminded me of what he’d done to me when he squeezed my neck. I really had no idea of what he meant by being dominant, but if what he had just done to me was any indication as to what would follow, I was ready to find out more. “I live at the corner of Thirty-third and…” I whispered. “Not going to your house. We’re going somewhere to talk,” he said as he started the motorcycle. “Okay,” I responded, disappointed slightly, but attempting not to show it. “You ready?” he asked as he reached for the levers on the handlebars. And, as strange as it seemed to respond as such, I was. I was ready for whatever he wanted to ask me, tell me, or show me. “Yes,” I responded as I leaned forward, pressing my boobs into his back. “I sure am.”

JACK June 6, 2006 “And, if you aren’t able to do that, there’s no sense in taking a single step in the direction of even going on the first date,” I explained. She gazed at me blankly as if she was thoroughly confused by my question. After a few seconds of silence, she blinked her eyes a few times and spoke. “So, what exactly does ‘submit to you sexually’ mean? I’ll need you to explain it, like I mean really explain it,” she said. I nodded my head as I lifted my coffee cup from the table. “You make a conscious decision to surrender yourself to me sexually. For my personal taste, outside of the bedroom, you and I are equal. Well, pretty damned close to it, anyway. Not many dominant men would agree with me in this regard, but I suppose I’m different than most. So, you make a decision to give me control of you - sexually. You submit yourself to me. Some men prefer that control to be twentyfour hours a day, seven days a week. I prefer it to be sexually, and depending on your personality and

needs outside the bedroom, I’d consider taking more control. If you were willing to consider submitting, we would discuss what each of us expected, agree on specific limits, establish boundaries, and proceed slowly,” I explained. She leaned onto the edge of the table, rested her elbows on the surface, and peered upward. The excitement in her eyes was obvious as she spoke. “So, during sex, you would call the shots? Doggy style, missionary, reverse cowgirl, stuff like that?” she asked. I took a slow drink of coffee as I studied her, pushed my cup to the side, and shook my head. “It’s not that easy. So, let’s say one night we may have casual sex. On another, I decide to tie you up, and have sex with you, but not allow you to touch me or maybe even deprive you of seeing me during the encounter. On another night, I may require you withhold your orgasms for all or most of the sexual act. Blindfolded, bound, the position, length of time, everything is up to me. It’s as much of a psychological surrender as a sexual surrender.” “Oh wow,” she gasped as she leaned into her chair. “No orgasms, really?” “Really,” I said flatly as I reached for my cup of coffee. I raised the cup to my mouth and sipped the warm coffee as I waited for her to consider what I had provided her as an explanation. “Okay, fuck it, I want to give it a try,” she said as she leaned forward. I laughed so hard I choked on my coffee. After coughing and hacking as if on my death bed for five solid minutes, I finally regained my breath, took a drink of water, and wagged my finger in the air. “It doesn’t work like that,” I assured her. “If we agreed this was what we both wanted, it would be a long, and I mean long time before we had sex,” I explained as I reached for a napkin. She wrinkled her nose and stared. “Why?” she asked. I raised my hand in the air, extended my index and forefinger, and spread them wide.

“I can count on these two fingers how many women I have had sex with. One I was in a relationship with for four years, and the other was almost five years long. I’m damned near thirty, you do the math,” I said. Her eyes widened as she continued to stare. I maintained eye contact with her as I proceeded to explain. “I’m not going to accept you without knowing, and I mean knowing you’re a match for me. And casual sex isn’t an option. Never has been, and it never will be. So if you want to give this a try, I’m game. And just so we’re in agreement this means we’d get to know each other, not start fucking. You’ve got a good attitude, you’re attractive, and you’re willing as fuck. For me, it’s pretty damned difficult to find someone who meets my needs, so bumping into you tonight is pretty god damned exciting.” “I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?” I asked. “Yeah, you don’t even want to know how many guys I’ve…yeah…questions, fire away,” she chuckled. “First, I have a few personal things. Try not to ever interrupt me. And remember, I hate repeating myself. Understood?” I asked. She nodded her head as she tapped her temple with her fingertip. “Got it.” Emily was an extremely attractive woman. She had dark brown hair which could pass for black in the dim light of the diner and the darkest brown eyes I had ever seen. Her complexion was clear, and her little button nose was the perfect complement to her narrow face and high cheeks. Her lips were full, but not to a point she had what I would have described as pouty lips. She was tall, roughly five foot six or five foot seven, and I guessed her weight at about one hundred twenty pounds. Based on the muscle tone in her arms, she seemed to be athletic, and I suspected she was disciplined in that regard. Her only downfall was her age. She was in a club drinking alcohol, so I hoped she was of legal age to drink, but she sure didn’t look it. “Age?” I asked. “Twenty-one.” “Parents? Alive or dead? And if alive, is your relationship with them good or bad?”

“Alive, and I’d say pretty good,” she said as she shrugged her shoulders slightly. “Graduate high school?” I asked. “Yes.” “College?” “No.” I leaned forward, rested my forearms on the edge of the table, and studied her. As she began to outwardly express signs of being uncomfortable, I continued. “If we were in a relationship, and you did something…I don’t know…say, disobeyed me…or maybe made a decision that really upset me, and I was disappointed in you - and not just disappointed but so disappointed that I expressed my disappointment to you.” I paused and studied her reaction. While I spoke, her eyes widened drastically, as if she was horrified at the thought of what I asked. Satisfied her answer was going to be favorable, I continued. “How would that make you feel? That you’d done something to disappoint me?” I asked, maintaining focus on her eyes as I spoke. She gazed down at the table as if ashamed. After a long hesitation, she glanced upward, but didn’t maintain eye contact for very long. “I wouldn’t like that. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you,” she said. I realized fully that I didn’t expect her to cook, clean, and wash and fold my clothes, but most naturally submissive women loved to feel as if they were providing for their Dom. Cooking and baking was truly satisfying to them; it provided a feeling of purpose, and also gave a manner for them to measure their own successes, based on their respective Dom’s praise or rejection of the meals. I decided to test the waters. “Would it satisfy you to cook for me? Say, cook me a meal and have me enjoy eating it?” I asked. “Oh, yeah. I’d love that,” she responded with a huge grin.

I glanced at my watch, studied it for a few seconds, and shifted my eyes across the table. “It’s still pretty early, want to go somewhere and grab something to eat?” She grinned and nodded her head eagerly. “Sure,” she responded. “Where do you want to go?” I asked. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care. Where do you want to go?” “Pizza, sound good?” I asked as I leaned back in the booth. “Sure,” she said. I gazed down at the table for a moment, glanced up, and acted as if I’d had a revelation. “How about Mexican?” “Sounds good to me,” she responded. “Chinese?” I asked. “Sure.” “Fuck it. You decide. Where do you want to go?” I asked. “Oh, I don’t know. Wherever you want to go,” she responded. Everything she had done, said, and expressed indicated she was naturally submissive, even if she didn’t realize it. I had never taken the time to actually search for a woman; I fully realized my relationship needs prevented me from being in a relationship with anyone but a true submissive. In my opinion, converting an independent woman into a submissive was nothing short of impossible; so I had always believed sifting through the throngs of women in search of a perfect submissive was wasting my time. In the unlikely event that I encountering a submissive, however, deciding if she was an acceptable match for me was something I felt I must do… If presented the opportunity. And Emily, in her entirety, was presenting all the opportunity I needed.

As I watched her admiringly, I decided our having met each other was not by chance. I intended to make every effort to see if she was exactly the woman I had been hoping to find since the loss of my former lover, and my quest for answers was going to begin immediately. “Do you prefer Em, or Emily?” I asked. “Em,” she responded. “But, I mean, you can call me Emily if you want to.” “Em, do you have to work tomorrow night?” I asked. She shook her head. “Nope. It’s Saturday, I’m always off on the weekends.” “I’m going to pick you up tomorrow night. If you’ve got plans, I’ll need you to cancel them. Wear something you’re comfortable riding with,” I said as I reached for my wallet. She grinned and nodded her head. “Okay, what time?” “I’ll pick you up at seven. Plan on being out late, real late,” I said as I tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Okay. What are we doing now?” she asked. “We’re headed back to the bar, but you’re going to get in your car and go home,” I said as I pushed myself away from the booth. “You’re the boss,” she responded as she stood from her seat. I wish it was that easy, Em. I really do.

EMILY June 7, 2006 As a girl, or young lady as I liked to refer to myself, I longed for attention, affection, and ultimately… Sex. The attention I received at the beginning of a relationship was much more satisfying than what followed after the new had worn off. I didn’t seem to desire a relationship per se, but the sex, physical attention, and the focus a newcomer provided caused me to bounce from one person to another; never taking the time to develop anything more than a long list of sexual partners. At one point, I wondered if I was addicted to the attention, praise, and remarks men made during the onset of a relationship, because the relationship in itself didn’t particularly satisfy me. I decided I was, and switched to alcohol, followed by coffee, and eventually sweets. I soon viewed myself as an addict of everything that provided me mental stimulation, and even reached a point I considered seeking treatment. I eventually dismissed my thoughts, however, convincing

myself I was not an addict, but someone who simply needed to focus on my cravings until my passion changed. There was no doubt desire was the spice of my life, but I couldn’t help but wonder. What if my deepest desire was not for the object of my affection, but for the longing itself? I now longed for Jackson’s approval. He was a very intriguing man, and the thought of being his sexual interest consumed me. Considering what he shared with me regarding his sexual prowess, my desire to be included in his short list of sexual partners weighed on me quite heavily. “So what exactly is this?” I asked as I stirred the noodle dish with my chopsticks. “Malaysian rice noodles,” Jackson responded. The noodles were thin, orange in color, and were mixed with various vegetables, chicken, and an unidentifiable spice which all but took my breath away with each bite. In short, it was repulsive. He paused. With his elbow resting on the table, noodles dangled from the tips of his chopsticks. “Do you like it?” he asked. I nodded my head and forced another bite into my mouth. “It’s good,” I lied. I wasn’t certain, but I suspected everything he was doing with me was a test of some sort. As I forced myself to consume the fiery noodles of Malaysian origin, I imagined him sitting at a computer, Googling ‘ten most repulsive dishes of all time’ - only to find Malaysian rice noodles at the top of the list. Upon determining the food was impossible to enjoy, he searched for a restaurant that was willing to risk their reputation, the lives of customers, and a few million respective taste buds by serving the dish to the unknowing - or the occasional innocent woman who desperately desired to be accepted - all the while hoping the acceptance would allow her to submit sexually to a handsome biker with quick fists, a soothing voice, and an iron stomach. I continued to force the food into my mouth, doing my best to wash away the taste every three or four bites with a drink of water. Soon, I was in a rhythm, shoveling the food down my unwilling throat no differently than a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat cupcake buffet. “So, you like curry?” Jackson asked.

“Huh?” I said as I reached for my glass of water. “Curry. The spice. I’m guessing you like it,” he said as he nodded his head toward my almost empty plate. I swallowed the water, pressed my tongue against the top of my mouth, and attempted to rid it of the spicy film that covered it. Curry? Actually, I hate it. “Is that what this is? The spice? Curry?” I asked as I dragged my tongue across my teeth. He nodded his head. “That’s it. It’s common in India, Indonesia, Vietnam, Thailand, China, Japan, Malaysia, Jamaica… I even think the Japanese use it in a few dishes,” he said. “It’s okay,” I said as I picked up my chopsticks and prepared to force myself to eat the remaining noodles. He glanced at his plate and plucked a piece of chicken from his noodles. I sat with the chopsticks dangling from my fingers and stared at him admiringly. He seemed too good to be true. He was articulate, intelligent, had a very attractive body, was handsome, and although he had proven his toughness, explained he would never harm me. The entire biker thing he had going on was enough of a bonus to place him on a pedestal clearly out of reach by all of the other men I expected I would ever encounter. I gazed at him while he ate, waiting for horns to pop from his forehead or his wife to storm into the restaurant screaming, but neither happened. I studied his hands, his face, and his pattern of eating. Thrilled to be in his presence, and eager to make long strides toward my ultimate goal of finding out if the entire submissive thing was for me, I eventually shifted my focus to what little of my meal remained. After a few well-placed Kung Fu chopstick grips on my noodles, I dropped the orange stained utensils onto my plate. Finito. What do I win?

Jackson took a few more slow bites and laid his chopsticks on the side of his plate. After taking a drink of water and wiping his mouth with a napkin, he pushed himself away from the table and studied me. “I want you to know something,” he said after a long but not-so-awkward silence. “Okay.” I sat nervously as he continued to study me, his eyes shifting from my face to my hands, and then along what portions of my body were exposed from the structure of the table in front of me. I wanted to ask if something was wrong, but I believed with Jackson the less I said the better off I would remain. As I began to squirm in my seat, he took a shallow breath and grinned slightly. Just slightly. “You’re a beautiful woman, Em,” he said. My heart rose into my throat. I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply sat and basked in his compliment until I began to believe him. “Thank you,” I responded. “You ready?” he asked. I wasn’t. As much as I enjoyed being on his motorcycle, I wanted to sit for the remaining portion of the night, admiring him, and having him admire me. “Sure,” I responded, even though it was on the threshold of being a lie. As he reached for his wallet, I objected. “Not really,” I blurted. He paused, crossed his arms, and widened his eyes slightly. “I really don’t know what I’m doing with all of this, you know, the submissive thing. But I’ve always been a straightforward person, so I’m just going to say it.” I hesitated and bit my lower lip as I collected my thoughts. “I like it when you look at me like you were a minute ago. It makes me feel good. And when you

said what you said, the beautiful thing? Yeah, that really made me happy. You intimidate me, like a lot. I feel comfortable with you, and protected - but you scare me. I’m afraid I’m going to do something and you’re going to just snap and say something like ‘okay, Em, that’s it. Sorry, but you failed’, and I don’t want that to happen,” I said, my voice beginning to show the emotion I felt as I spoke. He raised his index finger in the air. “The first woman I was with?” I nodded my head as I fought back tears that were unnecessarily filling my eyes. I wanted him to want me so desperately, but I feared I would undoubtedly fuck something up. In no way was I in love with him, nor was I even close, but for some reason I wanted his acceptance, and it bothered me that I didn’t feel I was obtaining it. I nodded my head. “Yeah.” “She was killed in a car accident,” he said flatly. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. He wagged his finger in the air as he shook his head. “And the second was in the Air Force. She got deployed to Iraq, and while she was there, had a reaction to a shot they gave her - some vaccination or something. She died a few days later.” “I believe in God, and I believe God provides me with challenges and rewards. I’m not a religious man, but I’m what many refer to as spiritual. I don’t believe I have to sit amongst the masses within the walls of a church to be accepted as being one of his children, I believe we all are, regardless. I have my own set of rules I live by, and most don’t agree with me. I’m an Outlaw, Em. I’ve always been one, and I always will be, but I believe God accepts me regardless. Now, the reason I told you about the two former loves of my life was to try to assure you of something,” He leaned forward and exhaled sharply. “We didn’t break up. There wasn’t a disagreement. They both died. Why? I have no idea. But I haven’t attempted to be with another woman since, and I really haven’t had a desire. It’s been almost two years since, and I’ve done nothing but wait for God to provide. Now, I am of the opinion you and me didn’t meet by accident, I really am. Does that mean I’m going to go back to your house and fuck you? It sure doesn’t. Does it mean this is destiny or some ridiculous shit? No, it sure as fuck doesn’t. But, does it mean I’m interested enough in you to give this a try? Yes, Em, it does. And, if it appears you’re someone who can put up with me and my faults, and I’m willing to accept yours…”

He leaned back into his seat and reached for his wallet. As he placed a fifty-dollar bill under his glass of water, he continued. “Well, I suppose this might last a lifetime, or until you’re sick of me, whichever comes first. But I can promise you this far in advance,” he said as he stood and extended his hand. I felt better about our situation, but I felt sorry for him. I wanted to hug him, hold him, explain my beliefs in God, religion, fate, love, lust and acceptance…but I remained silent and reached for his hand instead. “Along the way, I’m going to do things that’ll make you second guess whether or not you made the right choice,” he said as he positioned my hand on the inside of his bicep. “When will you know if we’re going to give it a try?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll just know.” As I gripped his arm lightly, I didn’t care what he might do to make me second guess myself or when he would know if I was capable of pleasing him. At that time I really didn’t care. During that moment, as we walked out of the restaurant and to his motorcycle, I was with him. And that was all that mattered.

JACK June 13, 2006 There seemed to be something about everyone that eventually came to the surface and bothered me. With Em, I had yet to have anything she said or did get under my skin. I suspected in time there would be something, but to date she had revealed nothing that caused me to take a step back and wonder. As a result of the perfection she portrayed, I made every effort to expose a part of her that I would find unacceptable. “Hand me the ratchet,” I said as I nodded my head toward the pile of tools on the garage floor. After a short study of the items in front of her, she handed me the ratchet. I didn’t need the ratchet, I needed the allen wrench set, but I had asked for the ratchet with the hope of frustrating her. To be honest, inviting her to my home while I worked on my bike was done solely to frustrate her. I placed the unneeded ratchet beside the chrome air cleaner cover and gazed in her direction. “Allen wrenches, please,” I said. She reached for the allen wrenches, picked them up, and studied them intently for a short time.

“It doesn’t say if they’re standard or metric, which do you want?” she asked as she handed me the set of wrenches. “Well, damn near everything on a Harley is standard, so this is the right set,” I responded. I had purchased a small rolling stool to relieve my knees while working on my motorcycle. It was twelve inches tall, rectangular shaped, and designed for mechanics to use while working on cars. As I worked on various areas on the bike, the stool allowed me to roll from one end to the other without repeated standing or kneeling. In a short time I purchased another, because it seemed there was always someone showing up and crouching beside me as I worked. As I sat on one stool and stared blankly at the carburetor, Em began to slowly twirl in circles on the other stool. Watching her made me feel young and happy - something I felt from time to time, but never as frequently as I liked. “You seem to know your way around a set of tools, where’d you learn about them?” I asked as her face twirled past me. She stopped on her next rotation and grinned as she responded. “My dad. I used to help him work on his cars when I was little. Well, I didn’t help him do the work, but I’d hand him the tools. It made me feel good to be helping him. This kind of reminds me of it.” I nodded my head. “Well, you’re a great help.” She grinned and began to spin in circles again. “Thank you,” she said as she began to twirl faster and faster. “You’re cute,” I said as she continued to pick up speed. She planted her feet on the floor, stopped spinning, and slowly inched her way around until she faced me. “Thank you,” she said with a grin. I removed the allen wrench from the set and tightened the air cleaner backing plate to the carburetor bracket. After checking the bracket for stability, I glanced in her direction. Still spinning in circles, she seemed to truly be enjoying herself.

“Come here for a minute,” I said as I shook my head in more of an envious manner than anything. I often wished I had fond memories of being a child and doing childish things. Forced to immediately grow up after the death of my parents, I felt the need to be a man much earlier than most boys my age. By the time I was ten years old I was taking care of my younger sister no differently than if I was her father. We lived in a foster home at the time, but the family didn’t provide any nurturing or love to either of us. Now, as a grown man, I felt as if I had missed out on being a child. She stopped the stool from spinning and scooted it from the rear of the bike to the side where I was working. “Yes?” she asked. I pointed toward the air cleaner backing plate and glanced in her direction. “See this?” I asked. She stood from the stool, pressed her hands against her bare thighs, and stared intently at the bracket almost as if she were trying to decide if it needed to be reengineered. Dressed in her jean shorts, sneakers, and a loose fitting tee shirt, she looked absolutely adorable. As she continued to gaze at the bracket, she reached for the strands of her hair which hung down into her line of sight. As she brushed them behind her ears, she grinned. “Yep” she said as she continued to study the bracket. I tore my eyes from her and turned toward the motorcycle. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to stare at her. As time passed, I found her to be more attractive, and in ways and manners other than her appearance. As difficult as it was becoming, I forced myself to maintain a level of discipline and not outwardly express my attraction. “This gets loose from all the vibration. Then, the air cleaner rattles, and it drives me fucking insane. So, you’ve got to tighten this up from time to time. Now, when I bolt the air cleaner back on, it won’t rattle,” I explained as I tapped my finger against the bracket. “Good, because it drove me nuts too,” she responded. “Oh really?” I said with a note of sarcasm in my voice. “Yep. When we were at a stoplight, and at about, oh I don’t know, maybe thirty miles an hour or

so. Didn’t notice it much any time other than that. But it was annoying,” she said with a nod of her head. At an idle and thirty miles an hour was exactly when the air cleaner rattled. Surprised that she noticed the noise, I narrowed my eyes slightly and gazed blankly at the air cleaner. “Alright, go back to doing what you were doing,” I said. She flopped onto the stool, gazed in my direction, and grinned. “I like watching you,” she said as she twisted her knees back and forth, swiveling the stool from left to right. “I’m growing pretty fond of watching you too,” I responded. “What’s the big guys name again? The one that came by the bar last night for a minute?” she asked. “Sarge, why?” I responded as I tightened the bolts in the air breather cover. “Well, that’s what I was thinking, and his little patch says that, but you called him something else,” she said. “I call him a lot of things. But his name’s Sarge,” I said as I gathered up the tools. “I like him, he’s nice. He scared me the first night, I didn’t know what to think. He’s huge. I mean you’re huge, but he’s like huge,” she said as she spread her arms wide. I nodded my head as I stood from my stool. “He’s a good man. And you’re right, he’s pretty damned big,” I agreed. She nodded her head and grinned. “Alright, we’re done with the bike,” I said. “You ready?” “Yep,” she responded as she stood. I laid the tools on the bench beside where she stood and turned to face her. No differently than any other man, I wanted a female companion. Knowing me, I realized simply having a female in my life didn’t solve any problems, and in fact, it created them. Having the right woman in my life, however, filled a

desire within me completely; leaving me with very little need in life. In many respects, the motorcycle club acted as my means of satisfaction in the absence of a woman. After spending the last ten days with Em, I was slowly beginning to believe she was potentially the answer to my life’s hope to feel complete. As I gazed at her blankly, satisfied with who she was and what she seemed to offer me, I decided to press a little further and see how she reacted. “If you did something that really pissed me off, and I reacted physically, how would that make you feel?” I asked. She narrowed her eyes slightly and scrunched her nose. “What do you mean, physically?” she asked. I did my utmost to remain straight-faced and show no emotion as I spoke. “Physically. If say you did something and I hit you or slapped the shit out of you in response?” I asked stone-faced. “Seriously? Is this one of your little tests? I’m not a doormat, Jackson. I may want to be your significant other, and I might show signs of being submissive or whatever, but that doesn’t mean I’m a punching bag. If you hit me or slapped me, I’d leave you,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. I nodded my head as I studied her posture. Now standing with her arms crossed and leaning away from me, it was apparent she took exception to my question. Satisfied with her response, and knowing I would never physically harm her no matter what she did, I believed I should clarify myself before she became even more angry thinking about it. I raised my hand in the air and extended my index finger. “I’ll never hit you or do anything for that matter to hurt you physically. I just wanted to know how you’d react to the thought of it,” I said. She gazed down at the floor and shook her head. “The thought of it makes me sick. One thing I liked about you from the beginning is that you said you’d never hurt me.” She glanced up and grinned. “Well, that and the entire take charge of me sexually thing,” she said. I nodded my head, satisfied she was proving to be the woman I so desired. As I considered reminding her we were leaving, she slowly walked in front of me and toward the bike. She turned her head to the side, her eyes locked on mine as she walked by.

I wanted to pull her close, wrap my hand around her neck, and kiss her until she melted into a puddle on the floor. As I felt my cock rising against the fabric of my jeans, I pushed my hand into my pocket and resituated myself. I pointed toward the motorcycle as I turned away. “Get on the bike and wait for me. I’m going to go wash my hands,” I said as I turned away from her. “Okay,” she responded as she carefully positioned herself on the back of the bike. I walked into the kitchen and washed my hands. To my satisfaction, my swollen cock relaxed and became much less of an eyesore. As I gazed out the kitchen window and into the yard, my mind slowly drifted to thoughts of Em, and eventually migrated to tying her to my bed and teasing her. Within a few seconds, I felt myself becoming aroused again. I turned the faucet on again, and splashed my face with cold water. After a moment of attempting to regain control of my wandering mind, I dried my hands and face and turned toward the garage. Typically, once my mind was made up, it was difficult for me to change my way of thinking, and it appeared my mind was made up. Em was a woman I was interested in attempting a relationship with. As I stepped into the garage she was still sitting on the back of the bike with her hands on her thighs, waiting patiently for me to return. “Ready?” she asked, grinning as she spoke. “I think so,” I responded. I felt myself begin to become aroused again. As my stiffening dick rose to attention, I pressed against it with the palm of my hand. I threw my leg over the seat and positioned my feet on the controls as I started the engine. As the engine warmed up to speed, I glanced down at my steadily rising jeans. And, in all honesty, I was ready.

EMILY June 13, 2006 We had ridden for some time, and the air cleaner never rattled. After a long period of wondering when we might stop, Jackson pulled over for a cup of coffee. We relaxed outside Starbucks in the early evening’s blazing sun, watching people walk in and out and talking about everything under the sun. Everything except whether or not we were making progress toward a relationship. As I baked in the sun and sipped my glass of mango tea, he sat in his chair and quietly watched people pass. I watched him intently as he studied the people coming and going, but I couldn’t tell what he was looking at unless he made a comment about it. Knowing what he was thinking was another thing altogether, he was impossible to read. As I sat and waited for the next word to spring from his lips, it became very apparent I wanted more from him. Much more. “I don’t like not seeing your eyes,” I said without looking up from my glass of tea. “Too fucking sunny to take ‘em off,” he said as he waved his hand toward the western sun.

I nodded and gazed down at my glass. He tilted his head in my direction. “You ready?” he asked. I nodded my head reluctantly, leaned forward, and sucked the remaining iced tea through my straw. Still slightly disappointed at our lack of progress, I stood from my seat, grabbed my empty glass, and turned toward the trash can. As I walked toward the corner of the building, the sound of motorcycles caught my attention, and I shifted my eyes toward the noise and out into the street. Two men wearing leather vests similar to Jackson’s were slowing down in traffic to enter the parking lot. I tossed my empty cup into the trash and quickly turned around. Although I hadn’t realized it, Jackson somehow had positioned himself immediately behind me. As I turned to face him, he reached up, gripped my neck lightly, and pushed me into the wall of windows which separated the patio area from the inside of the coffee shop. With my back pressed firmly to the glass and his hand gripping my neck, he pushed his sun glasses on top of his head and leaned in for a kiss. I opened my mouth slightly and waited, feeling like a complete novice and hoping my knees would continue to hold me up. This was at least one of the moments I had been waiting desperately to arrive, but for some reason I had no idea what to do, and time seemed to be standing still. Our lips finally met, and as they did I closed my eyes. He kissed me aggressively, pressing himself against me fully as his tongue explored my mouth. He kissed me deeply and passionately, biting my upper lip each time he pulled away for another breath. The waiting for this moment and the weeks of longing for his embrace all came rushing from me in an instant, and as all of the uncertainty of the first kiss escaped me, my pussy began to throb. His free hand gripped my butt cheek and his fingertips sank deep into the skin of my inner thigh. My entire body started to tingle as I fought to stay on my feet. My head started to spin, my stomach went into a mild frenzy, and he continued to kiss me as passionately as I had always expected women in some corner of the world were being kissed by someone who loved them. But that person had never been me. As the passage of time slowed to a point that seconds seemed like a lifetime, our mouths parted. He bit my upper lip lightly and released it. I opened my eyes and glanced upward. As our eyes met, he narrowed his slightly, and the corner of his mouth curled into a smirk. His hand still gripping my neck, he

squeezed with a little more force as if to remind me he was the one in charge. He leaned back and studied me. “God damn, Killer, get a fuckin’ room,” a voice behind me growled. Still gazing into my eyes, he lifted his free hand in the air as if to silence his friend. As they stood at our side staring, his eyes never shifted away from mine. His intensity was apparent, and it was ten-fold of what I had previously witnessed. He tightened his grip on my neck and tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. He released my neck and slid his hand upward slowly. As the web of his hand met my chin, he squeezed ever so slightly, resting his thumb along my jaw and his index finger on my cheek. As he lightly tapped the tip of his finger against my face, his eyes widened a little. “You’re mine,” he breathed. The moment I waited for was upon me. I had considered all of the possibilities of when and where it might happen, and rehearsed what I would say and do when the time arrived that he realized we were going to take the next step. At that moment, as I gazed into his eyes, my mind was blank and I was an emotional disaster. Incapable of speaking, I swallowed heavily and simply nodded my head. “Mine,” he repeated as his finger tapped lightly against my cheek. My eyes fell closed and I nodded my head in agreement, satisfied I was nothing less than his. As I felt the tip of his finger tracing along my jaw, I wondered what was next. Where I was and who I was surrounded by mattered not one bit. As the anticipation of what was to come built inside of me, his hand gripped my neck once again and he pushed me into the glass. As he pressed his lips against mine, my mind drifted away. At that moment, as he kissed me, I knew very little, but I knew one thing for certain. He was absolutely right. And as odd as it might have seemed to a conventional woman, Jackson had somehow taken ownership of a very large portion of my heart. And nothing else mattered.



JACK June 20, 2006 In the two weeks since I had met Em, my thoughts regarding attempting a relationship with her had changed from considering it to doing it. I had never moved so fast making a decision about anything in the past, but I always believed with matters of the heart, when the time comes it comes. To resist what feelings naturally developed between two responsible adults seemed foolish and slightly selfish. Acting on my desires was beyond satisfying, and Em was quickly proving herself to be exactly what I had so deeply desired. What little time I had spent with my club brothers since meeting Em was littered with thoughts of her and uneducated guesses at what the future might hold for us. I hoped for the best, prepared for the worst, and felt guilty for the time I was spending with her - but found no way to reduce or set aside my need for her companionship. I had ridden with Hell’s Fury Motorcycle Club for roughly ten years. The club provided me a family - something I had never known as a child. Although there were men in the club I didn’t care for as much as others, I accepted them all as my brothers. Some men were better than others - at least in my eyes - and Sarge was one of those men. He was an intense man of much greater than average size, and the

sound of his voice alone intimidated almost all who didn’t know him. The remaining few were terrorized by his menacing appearance. Covered from head to toe in tattoos, his long brown and gray beard stood in complete contrast to his cleanly shaven head. A little more than six feet tall, and tipping the scales at over two hundred and fifty pounds, he wasn’t a man many would attempt to argue with. His position as President of the club was not only where he believed he belonged, but where the club needed him the most. Considering the savagery of a typical member of Hell’s Fury, knowing Sarge had clawed his way through every single one of them to make it to the top made his position on the presidential pedestal an honorable one. His only life was the club, and the decisions he made regarding the club, club business, and his many brothers were all made with the best of intentions. “So, what’s the deal with the skinny little bitch, Killer?” he growled. “Just feeling her out and seeing if she’s capable,” I responded as I raised my hand in the air and waved toward the waitress. “Capable? Of fucking what? Being around the fellas? Shit, bring her around and see how she acts. You’ll know in a quick minute,” he said. I felt no real need to provide Sarge with details of our quickly developing relationship, and intended to merely extract his opinion on a few matters that were beginning to bother me. I had never been one to share my sexual experiences with my brothers in the club. Many of the men, and most bikers for that matter, took great pride in sharing their sexual escapades with anyone who would listen. Some of the men held their women, and their stories, as a trophy. I, on the other hand, viewed my life with a woman as sacred, and something she and I shared together. Providing the time we spent together in the form of a story to any or all who might care to listen would cheapen the relationship, making me question if it was for all the wrong reasons. As a result, I chose to keep my experiences and feelings regarding women to myself. “No, she’ll be fine around the fellas, just seeing if I think she can put up with my shit,” I responded as the waitress leaned over the table. “Two more?” she asked. I nodded my head. “You hungry?” “Look at me? Do you really need to ask that question?” he asked.

“I’ll have a burger. The biggest one you’ve got. Lettuce, tomato, pickles. No cheese,” I said. “Fries?” she asked. “Fuck no, he ain’t gonna eat fries. Look at him. He’s afraid he’ll end up looking like me. He eats like a high school girl on her first date. Bring me two burgers and his fries,” Sarge said. “I’ll bring the beers right back, burgers will be a few minutes, we make ‘em fresh,” she explained. “Sounds good,” I said. “So what’s the problem? Why are we here again?” Sarge asked as he reached for his beer. “Lucky. He keeps going on and on about guns. Motherfucker keeps asking everyone what they’ve got, and what they’re going to bring to our annual shoot out at Chili’s place. The other night he was asking if anyone had machine guns and shit, the motherfucker makes me nervous. Just seems a little too eager to get in everyone’s business,” I explained. Lucky was a huge concern, but not my main concern. I really wanted Sarge’s opinion about my previous relationships, his thoughts on karma, and whether or not he believed the deaths of my previous two love interests were a result of my having been bitten by karma. I didn’t, however, want to come right out and say it. A weakness regarding women, at least in Hell’s Fury’s eyes, was grounds for questioning a man’s sincerity with the club. “Well, Spike vouched for him,” Sarge said as he raised his beer bottle. “Guess they’ve known each other for a bit. Been with us for what? Almost two years now? Seems he irritates some of the fellas, but others like him just fine. Just like everyone else, I suppose, he’ll have his friends and his enemies.” I pursed my lips and tightened my jaw as I studied the label on my bottle of beer. “More to it than that?” Sarge asked. I glanced at the waitress as she slid two bottles of beer across the table and turned to walk away. As she disappeared toward the back of the bar, I shifted my focus to Sarge and shook my head. “Guess not. If you’re not worried about him, I’m not either,” I said. “Now god damn it, Killer. If you’re worried,” he hesitated and leaned forward.

As he cocked one eyebrow, he continued, “I’m worried.” “I’ll just say this. If the cock sucker keeps asking to come over to my place and look at my guns, I’m going to knock his ass out,” I said as I reached for my beer. “Fucker might just be a gun nut,” he said as he slowly raised the other eyebrow. “And he might be some nosy prick who’s looking to come rob me some night when I’m not home. Fucker makes me nervous, and not many motherfuckers do. That’s all I’m saying,” I said as I lifted my bottle of beer to my lips. Sarge relaxed into the back of the booth and crossed his arms in front of his massive chest. After glaring at me for a short moment, he cocked his head to the side. “So you wanted to meet for a beer to tell me Lucky’s a nosey fucker? What the fuck else is going on?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders as I slid my empty beer bottle toward the end of the table. “Fuck I don’t know.” He sat and stared in apparent disbelief. “You believe in karma?” I asked. “Now we’re headed for the rest of the story,” he chuckled as he slid to the center of the booth. He nodded his head as he reached for his beard. As he stroked the long strands of hair in his hands, he grinned. “Sure do, why?” he asked. “You know, my two Ol’ Ladies, they both passed away. Hell, neither of them was thirty years old, just seems kind of weird when you stop and think about it. You know, for a man to go through losing two Ol’ Ladies in five or six years. Whatever it’s been,” I said as I reached for my bottle of beer. “No disrespect, Killer, but you thinking they both had it coming? Or are ya thinking your fate is sealed, based on what you’ve done in the past?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, you asked, so gimme your opinion. I know you got one or you wouldn’t of asked in the first

fucking place,” he said as he took a drink of beer. “The girl I gave a ride home from the bar the other night, when we met at Joe’s. She and I been fucking around and spending some time together, and I just got to thinking. What if my future with anything or anyone is sealed from what I’ve done in the past. You know, what if God’s position on how I’ve lived my life is way different than mine? Hell, I think I’ve been pretty damned good at making sure I don’t cross those lines. Doesn’t mean the man upstairs agrees,” I paused and shrugged my shoulders. He nodded his head and continued to massage his beard in his fingers as the waitress walked up with our food. “Here we go, One half pound burger,” the waitress said as she placed a plate in front of me. “And two half pound burgers and fries,” she said as she handed Sarge his plate. “Condiments are right there,” she said as she pointed to the wire basket at the end of the table, “Anything else?” I shook my head, “Appreciate it.” She grinned and walked away. I pushed my plate to the side and continued, “So we’ve either got two really strange circumstances, or one undeniable case of being bit by karma.” Sarge picked up one of his burgers, held it in front of his face, and after a long pause, sighed. “You’re a good solid motherfucker. A lot of the fellas ain’t. Hell, some of them are just plain shitty assed dudes, but you ain’t one of ‘em. And you ain’t one of ‘em because you think before you make a move. Sometimes you make a decision pretty fucking quick, but you always think before you act. So,” he paused and took a bite. After chewing and swallowing the mouthful of food, he continued, “What it gets down to is this: is your head full of what’s good or what’s bad. I think we both know the answer to that, Killer.” Sarge was the type of man to say exactly what he thought. I had always believed I stood for what was right - at least in my mind - but often wondered what others thought of me. Being known as a man who was quick to stand up for what I believed in didn’t necessarily make my beliefs just or morally acceptable to all.

“So you think their deaths are coincidental?” I asked as I slid my plate in front of me. He shook his head as he took another bite. “Nope,” he said as he chewed. After he swallowed, he took a drink of beer, “Fuck, nothing’s coincidental. Shit happened for some kinda reason. Don’t mean the reason’s something that has to do with you and the way you’ve lived your life in the past. So you’re worried if you make that little gal your Ol’ Lady something’s gonna happen? Karma’s gonna get ya?” I shrugged my shoulders as I reached for my burger, “Something like that.” Sarge shoved the last bite into his mouth and shook his head. I bit into my mine wondering if I could mentally accept the loss of another woman in my life. As I focused on my food and attempted to clear my mind, Sarge pushed his plate to the side and continued. “I’m sure losing them two gals hurt ya. You know it’s the pain that’s making you second guess yourself, right?” he asked. I nodded my head as I continued to eat. “If you ask me, it gets down to acceptance. If you’d accepted their deaths, you wouldn’t still be feeling the pain. And if you weren’t still hurting, you and I wouldn’t be having this talk,” he paused and reached toward his plate. He raised his second burger to his mouth and held it in front of his face as he continued, “Accept the fact that what happened just happened. Stop trying to figure out why the fuck it happened, and just accept that there was a reason; and the reason wasn’t karma.” He took a bite and immediately shook his head as if something came to mind. Before swallowing, he spoke over his mouth full of food. “Wait a minute, you’re talking about the little gal from the night we all got stuck in that fucking DUI checkpoint deal?” he asked as his eyes narrowed slightly. I nodded my head. “Hell, fucking her is breaking the law, ain’t it?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders as I took the last bite of my burger, “How so?” “She looks like she’s fucking fifteen, Killer, God damn. How old is she?” he asked. “Twenty-one,” I responded. “Shit. She ain’t twenty-one. You better check that fucking ID or you’ll end up doing time for fucking a youngster,” he chuckled. “Well, she’s old enough to drink, so she’s at least twenty-one. She said she was when I asked, and believe me, I asked,” I responded. Emily did look young, but she sure didn’t look fifteen. She looked her age, but to Sarge, who was used to seeing the leathery-skinned women our MC Brothers typically fucked, making the comparison was a difficult stretch. “Yeah, I’ve never known a gal to bullshit one of the fellas,” he said as he tilted his bottle of beer toward me. I flipped him my middle finger with my left hand as I grabbed my beer with my right. As I took a long drink from the bottle, I recalled Emily’s facial features and smooth wrinkle-free skin. If she spent much time on the back of my bike in the sun, things would change and change fast. “Alright,” Sarge said as he wiped his hands free of a wad of mustard, “So Lucky gets on your last nerve, and you’re gonna start fucking a cute little high school girl. That about sum it up?” I shook my head and grinned, “Suppose so.” And, as simple as it sounded, it did sum it up. Lucky was a man I didn’t trust and never would, and I felt the need to make my position clear. I certainly didn’t need Sarge’s approval to proceed with Emily, but hearing his opinion on karma helped matters slightly. As he waved his hand toward the waitress, I considered what he said about acceptance. He was right. If I could accept my loss as being nothing more than life running it’s course, I didn’t need to understand it. I simply needed to accept it and move on. And I was eager to do both.

EMILY June 21, 2006. Two weeks. Two weeks wasn’t enough time to wage a war, prepare for a marathon, end the hockey playoffs, or even grow tomatoes in my makeshift garden - but it was more than enough time for me to understand Jackson was the man I had spent my lifetime searching for. He was a very unique person, and not at all what I expected an outlaw biker to be. Although I was quite certain he wasn’t the typical biker, and I was extremely grateful he was different, I stood in wait for him to become someone else. It seemed eventually all men changed into who they really were and I expected in time he would do the same. His statements regarding what was acceptable to him were easy for me to understand and follow. In my opinion, knowing in advance what he found tolerable and what he believed to be disrespectful was priceless. In general, it seemed men made an assumption regarding a woman’s understanding of them, and when their respective other did something contrary to their belief of what was acceptable; they would come apart at the seams. Having Jackson explain himself beforehand left little doubt in my mind. Because of my willingness to eagerly accept his relationship requirements, it was easy for me to hope that I was naturally the woman Jackson had been waiting for. For me, it wasn’t a matter of making adjustments to how I behaved or what I believed in; I was

simply able to be myself. And for once in my life, being me didn’t raise eyebrows or turn heads. If nothing else, it appeared being me was able to satisfy someone greatly. And satisfying Jackson, for whatever reason, satisfied me. According to Jackson, the time had come for us to have a talk. Since the night we met, we had spent almost every night together - and as many days and evenings as I was able. Although I was prepared for my little world to come crashing down around me, I reserved hope our talk was going to be a productive one and only reveal how happy he was with who he had found me to be. As odd as it seemed to be spending so much time with someone and still not having sex, it was a pleasant feeling to know a man could actually enjoy being with a woman and not be fucking her. Truthfully, kissing Jackson satisfied me much more than any sex I had experienced in the past, so I wasn’t about to complain. “Here’s what I’d like to do,” he explained. I sat on his couch, staring into my lap, waiting anxiously for him to continue. “Are you paying attention?” he asked. I glanced up and nodded my head. “Yes,” I responded. “Are you alright, Em? You look like something’s bothering you,” he said as he stood from the chair he was sitting in. As he walked in my direction, I forced a smile. I figured it was my best effort to convince him everything was fine. And, for the most part, everything was fine. I’d never really lacked self-esteem, nor was I a woman who was constantly worried or depressed, but with Jackson, I found myself wanting what it was he offered so deeply, that the thought of not having him all but seemed to consume me. And I was left waiting for the proverbial axe to fall. “Look at me, Em,” he said as he placed the tip of his finger under my chin and lifted it slightly. “We’re only having a talk. You need to understand, I’m always here to listen just as much as I’m here to talk. Not just now, but always. Understand?” I nodded my head as I glanced upward. It was almost as if he had read my mind. “Okay,” I responded.

He released my chin and sat down beside me. As he situated himself, he placed his hand on my thigh and turned to face me. “I’m ready to begin a sexual relationship with you. Sitting here talking about it may seem insensitive, but I can assure you it is not. In fact, it’s absolutely necessary,” he said. I repeated his every word in my mind. As his mouth continued to move, I heard very little. Containing my excitement was impossible, but somehow I managed to do so, at least for a while. I’m ready to begin a sexual relationship with you. I’m ready to begin a sexual relationship with you. I’m ready to begin a sexual relationship with you. “…and it’s important that you always remember that,” he paused and waited for me to respond. Shit. I hadn’t heard a single word he had said. Considering one thing he had drilled into my head was how much he hated repeating himself, I contemplated my options to get him to repeat himself without making it seem like he was repeating himself. “Do you have a pen and some paper? Or maybe a notepad?” I asked. He appeared confused, at least for a moment. After standing, he turned toward the back bedroom and walked away. When he returned to the living room he carried a pad of paper and a pen in his hand. “Here,” he said with a slight laugh as he held the pad and pen at arm’s length. His normal attire was jeans, a white tank top, and boots. Although the jeans changed daily in their style and the color of the denim or their wash, the shirt was always the same - as were his boots. It was something I expected he was comfortable with, and seeing him wear the same thing for a few weeks straight didn’t bother me at all. Until now.

Seeing him now, knowing I was going to be in a sexual relationship with him allowed me to see him in more of a sexual manner than simply an attractive one. With his arm extended, holding the pad and pen, he waited for me to accept his offer of office supplies. I was no longer interested. The muscles on the back of his arm flexed slightly as he held his arm in place. A large portion of his chest was now bare, stretched beyond the limits of his small shirt. The praying hands tattooed to his chest were slightly exposed, and for some strange reason were becoming a huge turn-on. As he shook the paper in front of me, his bicep flexed again, causing my focus to shift once again. I blinked my eyes as I realized I was drifting away. “Thank you,” I said as I reluctantly accepted the pad and pen. As he sat down, I leaned into the corner of the couch and turned to face him. After placing the pad in my lap and drawing a few circles in the corner of the page, I glanced up and grinned. “Okay, I know you hate repeating yourself, but I think it’s important I get everything down in notes - I’m an avid note taker. So, can you start at the beginning?” I asked. He grinned and shook his head. “Okay.” “I’m ready to start a sexual relationship with you. Although sitting here talking about it may seem insensitive, I can assure you it isn’t. It’s absolutely necessary, so we both have an understanding what it is we want, expect, and won’t accept. This relationship will always hinge on open communication between us both, and you need to remember it’s important to me that you always act like yourself, and you need to know that will please me more than anything. I don’t want you to try and become or be something you’re not,” he paused and gazed down at the empty pad. Shit. I scribbled my best recollection of what he had said onto the pad. Sexual relationship. Understand what we want. Open communication. Be yourself.

As I finished writing, he continued. “What it gets down to is this, Em. You need to fall in love with yourself before you can fall in love with someone else. Are you comfortable being you?” he asked. I raised my index finger in the air as I scribbled. You need to fall in love with yourself before you can fall in love with someone else. I glanced upward and tried to keep from smiling. It didn’t work for long. “Yes. I think so. Well, at least now that you said that, I am. Can I ask a question?” I asked, my mouth still curled into a full-on grin. “Absolutely,” he responded. “So you just want me to act like I’d act if you weren’t around? Like be myself? The way I’ve acted my whole life, and you won’t get mad at me?” I asked. “I’ll never get mad at you for being you, no,” he responded. I pressed the tip of the pen into the pad. Never gets mad. I glanced up from the pad as I tapped the pen on my cheek. “Okay that’s it for now, continue,” I said. “I’ll be committed to you, and I’ll need you to be committed to me. I’ll never cheat on you in any way, and I expect the same from you. I’m not controlling, and I won’t limit who you can see, when you can see them, or tell you what you can or can’t do. Just be comfortable with what you’re doing, and always do it with our best interest in mind. Is that understood?” he asked. I nodded my head as I scribbled. Committed relationship. No cheating.

He’s not controlling. “Got it,” I said as I tapped the pen against my temple. “I’ve said it before and I will remind you again. The MC is my family. The men are my brothers, and they may not always come first, but they’re pretty damned close. No matter what becomes of us, club business will always be club business, and it will never be open for discussion. That’ll never change. It has nothing to do with you, or my trust in you. And, just so you know, I won’t discuss our relationship with the club. Is this understood?” he asked. “Yes,” I responded as I nodded my head. Club business is club business, and not MY business. I scribbled as he sat and studied me. He leaned forward. “Now, the sex.” Saved the best for last… He rested his forearms on his knees and sighed. After inhaling a shallow breath and exhaling slowly, he turned to face me again. “We need to decide what our limitations are. What we’re willing to do, and not willing to do. Nothing is worse than not knowing what a partner’s limits are, hopefully anticipating something, and finding out she’s not willing to proceed with your desire. Knowing in advance will prevent disappointment and confusion for both of us. So, we’ll need to spend some time discussing these matters,” he said. I sat, waiting for him to continue. After a long silent pause, I explained myself. “I’ve been reading about this type of relationship on the internet. My limitations are pretty easy to remember. I’ll agree to nothing that includes piss, shit, or cutting me. My thoughts on cutting may change in the future, but the piss and shit will never change. I’m really excited to give everything that pleases you a try. I just really hope piss and shit aren’t included on your list of wants,” I blurted. He shook his head and sighed. “What if I want to tie you up and spank you?” he asked. “Spank away,” I responded. “Nipple clamps. Ever heard of nipple clamps?” he asked.

“Not until last week, but yes, I have. And yes, I’m ready,” I responded. “Butt plugs, anal play, piercing, fisting, electrocution, bondage…” he paused and raised one eyebrow. “If it turns you on, let’s give it a try,” I responded. “I want to be the woman you’ve always dreamed of. And not because I think that’s what you want to hear, but because it’s what I want. I really want this to work, and I want it to work without many limitations at all.” “Very well,” he said as he stood from the couch. “Want a drink?” “Sure,” I responded. “Water.” As he walked past, I gaze down at the pad. After a few seconds of staring blankly at my notes, I scribbled a few more. Fisting?? He wants to electrocute me. Google BDSM piercings. WTF? “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked as he handed me a glass of water. “Very much so,” I responded. “Alright,” he said as he sat down. “As of right now, you’re committed to me, and I’m committed to you. Our current limitations are no watersports, no feces, and no bloodletting. We need to decide on a safe word, and it’ll need to be something you’ll always remember, even when you’re under duress and possibly confused,” he paused and inhaled a deep breath. “You do know what a safe word is, don’t you?” he asked. I nodded my head. “A word we use if for some reason I want to stop or if things get out of hand.” “Any ideas?” he asked. I gazed down at the pad and thought. After a few minutes, I scribbled my safe word. Caterpillar.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, what?” he asked. “Caterpillar,” I said. “What?” he asked as he began to laugh. “Caterpillar. You know, they change into a butterfly - a metamorphosis - changing from one thing to another. That’s what’s going to be happening with me, so caterpillar is the best I can think of,” I said. “Well, caterpillar it is. So, do you have any questions?” he asked. I nodded my head. “When can we start?” I asked. “We already have. And you’ll be screaming caterpillar before you know it.” “Wanna bet?” I snapped back. For a long time, he studied me. After what seemed like an eternity, he shook his head. “No, something tells me you’d damn near die before you gave up,” he said. He was right. And I was more than ready to prove it.

JACK June 26, 2006 My having only had two previous sexual partners set me apart from almost every thirty year old man on the planet, and was definitely in clear contrast to the sexual escapades of every one of my brothers in the MC. My sexual partners, adventures, and who I was committed to never came into discussions with the Fury, and most of the men realized even asking was going to piss me off, so they didn’t bother. Being in a 1% club wasn’t for everyone, and for the select few who chose it as a way of life, nothing would ever compare to the feelings of family, brotherhood, or excitement associated with being a patched in member. Riding into a town twenty deep and being stared at by every civilian that passed by out of either disgust or envy - was a thrill in itself. Rolling through a small town or a major city, and being followed by the cops - knowing they were either wondering what brought an MC into their town or pondering just what may be boiling behind the scenes - was a satisfying and exciting feeling unlike many others. Protecting my brothers, and in turn protecting the club that the assembled brotherhood formed was something I didn’t have to think about. For me, a natural protector of what I loved, it was as easy as

allowing my heart to beat. The men who knew me often described me as intense. I spoke very little, glared much more than I probably should, and always stood ready to react to any and all adverse situations which may present themselves. Protecting what I loved and what I believed to be mine was the only way of assuring myself that my life would continue to be tomorrow everything it was for me today. And so far, every ‘today’ I had lived was pretty damned close to perfect. Sarge glanced around the crowd of men. He reached toward his beard, gripped it with his tattooed fingers, and stroked it slowly as he gazed out into the shop. The tugging of his beard was reserved for intimidation purposes or when he was thinking, and he sure wasn’t trying to intimidate his brothers. “Well, we knew this day was coming. Fat Bart and Woody were rolling into town and one of the Shovelheads was flying a lower rocker claiming our territory after refusing to pay us their tax. I’m sure most of you already heard, but Fat Bart forced him off the road and before he got his bike picked up, Woody stomped the shit out of him and took his cut. I’ve got his colors locked in the safe,” he said. As the men began to talk amongst themselves and grumble their opinions of what may be next, Sarge held his left hand in the air to quiet them. “Let’s just say, right now, you can figure we’re about one step from being at war with Shovelheads MC. That one lone member of their MC rolling through the outskirts of the city wasn’t the only one of them fuckers with a rocker on their cut. These cock suckers are asking us if we’re prepared to protect what’s rightfully ours, and I’m standing here asking you. Are you fucking prepared?” he shouted. The group erupted into cheers, thrusting their fists into the air and explaining to the man at their side what they’d do if they encountered a member of the Shovelheads claiming our territory as theirs. In the civilian world, what they had done was the equivalent of a home invasion. And, if said civilian woke from his sleep only to find a burglar sitting on his couch drinking one of his beers, there would be hell to pay. After questioning the thief produced a response of ‘this is going to be my house from here on out, you’ll need to leave,’ the civilian would certainly react in a manner which would be protective of what he believed was rightfully his. And we were no different; we simply reacted in a manner indicative of the world we lived in. One with very few rules, and almost no laws.

“Alright, alright, settle the fuck down. Jesus H. Christ, men, that wasn’t all we came here to discuss. Let’s see.” He glanced down at the notepad he was now holding in his hand. “So keep your eyes peeled for Shovelheads wearing a lower rocker. And keep me fucking posted on anything and everything you see. Now, Ride for the Red is next Saturday. This thing started last year, and it supports the American Red Cross. This is one of a few organizations that aren’t affiliated with the government, and they rely solely on volunteers and donations. One hundred percent of what they raise in the poker run goes to the Red Cross. Last year they raised about ten grand, and this year they’re hoping to double that number. I’m not making this a mandatory ride, but if you don’t show up, you can bet I’ll be paying you a personal visit when the ride is over. I want every one of you to plan on being there, and I want you to dig deep in those pockets of yours for a little extra money. Costs twenty-five bucks to ride, and that’ll get you a shirt, lunch, and a chance to win six hundred bucks if you’ve got the best poker hand. I’ll tell you right fucking now, if one of you wins that pot, you’re giving the money right back to ‘em. These fuckers just might save the life of one of your family members when a disaster hits. Show of hands, who’s gonna attend?” He looked up from the pad and gazed around the room. Every arm was high in the air. Sarge gazed down at the pad. “Alright. Shovelheads, Red Cross, and now for the closer. Chili is having a kegger at his house next Saturday night, after the poker run. It ain’t mandatory, but it’ll sure be a lot of fun. If you come, feel free to bring your Ol’ Ladies. Fat Bart’s donating a couple of hogs, and he’s also volunteered to cook ‘em, so they’ll sure as fuck be worth eatin’. Damned sure be better than what Woody tried to cook last year that made every one of us sick. Guess that’s it. Any new business needs discussed?” “So what if we run into a Shovelhead, it’s just on?” Woody asked. Sarge shook his head as he tossed his notepad onto the bench beside where he stood. “No, it ain’t just on. If they ain’t flying a bottom rocker, leave ‘em alone. If for some reason you run into one of ‘em and they are, well, I ain’t gonna give you a list of what to do and not to do, but if you respect your colors and the club, you’ll know what to do. Anything else?” Sarge asked. Short of a few men talking amongst themselves, the shop fell silent. “Meeting adjourned,” Sarge growled. I walked toward Sarge and stood a few feet away while a few of the men talked to him on their

way out. As I began to speak, Lucky stepped to Sarge’s side and began yapping like a little Chihuahua. “That’s really something about the ‘heads. Hard to believe them fuckers are tryin’ to fly a bottom rocker in our territory, huh, Killer?” Lucky asked openly as he glanced back and forth between Sarge and me. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, rocked back on my heels, and gazed down my nose as his irritating little ass. “You wanna know what’s even harder to believe?” I asked flatly. He gazed at me with wide eyes, waiting for me to continue. “That you’d step in the middle of my conversation with Sarge without an invite. It ain’t a fucking secret that you irritate the shit out of me, so why don’t you go find some rocks to kick on your way out to that little Sporty you’re riding?” I said. “Damn, didn’t mean to irritate you, Killer. I was just…” he began. “You were just leaving, that’s what you were just doing. Fucking leaving. Now kick rocks,” I said as I uncrossed my arms and narrowed my gaze. “Yeah, I better get. I’ll leave you two to it. See ya at the kegger,” he said as he turned away. After watching him walk out of the shop and into the parking lot, I turned to face Sarge. “Irritating little prick,” I hissed as I turned around. “Still a brother,” Sarge shrugged. “Red-headed fucking step-brother,” I said. Sarge shook his head and laughed. “You fucking hard ass,” he said as he turned toward the fridge. “Want one?” he asked as he opened the refrigerator door. “One. I’ll have one, then I gotta get,” I responded.

Sarge handed me a beer and tipped the neck of his bottle toward me before taking a drink. I returned the toast, and drank half the beer in one long gulp. Truthfully, I was eager to get home to Em, who was cooking dinner. Each day that passed gave me a new reason to be pleased with my decision to invite her into my life. I was quite confident many men would be pleased with her good looks alone, but for me there was far more to it than that. Em was a simple woman capable of pleasing me to no end by merely being herself, and it was the little things about her that pleased me the most. Her ability to sit quietly and enjoy life as it passed by was comforting. Her apparent admiration of me was almost humbling, and although I didn’t necessarily need it, massaged my ego slightly. The eager attitude she expressed at each and every obstacle that presented itself to her suggested she was a person who wouldn’t easily give up on anything she desired or held sacred. And it was that attitude and that attitude alone which convinced me I was going to have a tough time breaking her spirit. As I had in the beginning, I continued to stand back and wait, knowing eventually there would be something about her that rubbed me the wrong way or irritated me. Contrary to my expectations and certainly contradictory to my experiences with women - and people in general - she had yet to do, say, or suggest anything that I took exception to. My life was beginning to once again feel like it was complete - something I had felt in the past, but doubted I would ever feel again. “So, what do you see coming of this mess with the Shovelheads?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “They paid tax for a while then they stopped. When I talked to their president about it, he told me they were done paying for the right to wear the rocker. I told him without paying their dues they were done wearing the rocker. He agreed. Hell, you and I both know they haven’t worn it for years. Well, now it looks like they’re considering fighting us for the territory. Territory we claim and rightfully so, I might add. Suppose it coulda been one lone wolf out riding in his old cut, but we both know that’s wishful thinking.” I swallowed the rest of my beer and nodded my head as I reached for the trash. “Another?” he asked. I shook my head. “Not tonight. I’m going to get home.”

“You alright?” he asked. “I’m good,” I nodded, “That little girl from the bar’s cooking me some dinner.” “My Ol’ Lady’s cooking me some, too. As soon as all of these motherfuckers are outta here, I’m headed home to see if it’s worth eatin’. Hard saying with her. She’s hit and miss,” he said. “This is her first attempt, so we’ll see,” I said, knowing she had actually all but expertly prepared all of our meals for the last five days. “If I see a Shovelhead flying that rocker I’ll do a little more than kick him in the face,” I said as I turned away. “Fear the act of no man…” Sarge said. “For the fury of hell is yours,” I said as I walked toward the door. The club motto was an easy one for the majority of the men to adopt. As most of them believed they were individually strong, they further believed they were invincible with the strength of the club and their brothers at their side. I didn’t disagree, but I felt confident I could take care of most all of my problems alone. As I got on my bike and started the engine, I considered what may happen if I encountered a Shovelhead flying a rocker claiming territory. I shook my head as I swept the kickstand into the frame with my boot. I pulled in the clutch and gazed out past the parking lot and into the street. I didn’t want to accept the possibilities of what might happen. Instead, I said a short prayer asking that the rival club have enough common sense not to consider an act so blatantly disrespectful. And I thanked the man upstairs for allowing Em to enter my life.

EMILY June 26, 2006 I had no more than pulled our dinner from the oven, and I heard Jackson’s motorcycle in the driveway. As the sound of the garage door going closed caught my attention, I ran from the kitchen cupboards and into the dining room, tossing plates and silverware onto the table as I rushed past. Although he hadn’t formally invited me to do so, I had all but lived with him since the Saturday night we had the talk and officially began our committed relationship together. So far, everything I had cooked he enjoyed, and he even took the time to compliment me each night as soon as he finished eating. The feeling of having him truly appreciate me was beyond my expectations of what I had always believed to be satisfying. What little time I had spent with Jackson was redefining so many things in my life. He now filled my every thought. While I worked, I thought of what I was going to cook for him - frantically searching for a better or newer recipe on the internet. While I cooked, I thought of how he may react when he tasted it, and I filled with anticipation of what he might say when he was done. His courteous behavior was still difficult for me to believe, and I wondered just how much he would change in the presence of his club brothers.

Overall, and considering everything, I was in heaven. Although we still hadn’t had sex, I had a taste of what Jackson was going to be like in the bedroom, and I was beyond excited. I had been tickled with feathers, teased, tied up, deprived of hearing him, seeing him, and touching him. I had never in my life been as turned on as I had with him, and if it was any indication as to what sex might bring, I was worried that I may just burst into flames when the time came. I realized the decision making process regarding sex was his and his alone, and I respected him for not rushing into anything. I suspected in his mind he was slowly building my trust, but to be honest, I trusted him already. I had developed a new level of respect for him, and I guessed if nothing else, he had accomplished that much in the six days since our agreement. “Smells good,” he said as he walked into the kitchen. “Thank you,” I responded with a smile. Anticipation of the inevitable was always something I enjoyed. Reaching the apex on a rollercoaster, the assured surprise of the Jack-in-the-box immediately before it sprung from the confines of the box, and waiting for Christmas morning to arrive were things I truly enjoyed growing up. Now, as an adult, waiting on Jackson provided the same satisfaction. Knowing his routine was to kiss me before removing his boots caused my stomach to swirl with butterflies until he did so. As he sauntered past, he reached out, grasped my neck lightly, and spun me half way around. Surprised by his sudden movement, but not surprised as much by the kiss, I gasped as our lips melted together. After a passionate kiss, he released me without speaking. I sighed as he turned toward the bedroom, wanting more, but having enough discipline not to ask or complain. I had no idea if the entire neck thing was going to always act as the precursor to a kiss, but I sure hoped it was his intention. While he removed his boots washed his hands, the buzzer on the oven went off. I removed the chicken and set it aside. After removing the salad from the refrigerator, I prepared our plates and carried them to the table. I no more than placed the plates in front of our seats, and he walked into the room. “Perfect timing,” I said as he walked up to the table and gazed down at his plate. “Well, I’ve never been one who’s fond of being late,” he said as he sat down. “Damn that smells good, what is it?” he asked. “Chicken,” I responded.

“What kind of chicken,” he asked over his shoulder as I walked into the kitchen. “The kind with feathers. Beer or water?” I asked. “Water, you little smart ass,” he responded. I carried two glasses of water into the dining area and handed him one. “It’s special chicken. See if you like it. There’s spinach salad, and I cooked new potatoes in olive oil. They had some really little guys at the farmer’s market on Saturday. I think the little ones taste better, see what you think,” I said as I sat down. He watched me as I sat, obviously eager to start eating. After I picked up my fork and pierced a potato, he began to eat. I watched out of my peripheral as I chewed a potato, hoping the chicken I hadn’t taken time to taste was satisfactory. After slicing one of the breasts on his plate into half a dozen slices, he finally lifted his fork to his mouth. He no more than closed his mouth and started to chew and his eyes widened drastically. Please be good. I held my left hand under the edge of the table and crossed my fingers. “Holy shit, that’s the best fucking chicken I’ve ever tasted. What is it?” he asked. “Boneless chicken breast,” I said. Although I never told him where I got the recipes, most of them came from the internet. Men seemed to think - my father included - that women were some type of walking computer when it came to cooking, plucking recipes from the backs of their minds and working some type of voodoo magic with their preparation of a meal. Most men perceived cooking as something akin to nuclear science or biochemical engineering - they found it interesting, but impossible to comprehend. “God damn it, Em. What did you do to it? Shit, that’s fucking incredible. You could open a restaurant and just sell this shit right here. Fuck, you’d be rich,” he said as he pointed his fork toward the chicken. He poked another slice of chicken into his mouth and as he chewed it, immediately stabbed another with the tines of his fork.

“Seriously, what is it?” he asked as he chewed the piece of chicken. “Well, its Dijon mustard, maple syrup, salt, pepper, and rosemary. Not a big deal,” I said without looking up from my plate. No differently than if I’d eaten the chicken a thousand times, I nonchalantly lifted a piece from my plate, shrugged my shoulders, and poked it past my lips. Oh. My. God. That’s fucking incredible. I had typed ‘best chicken ever’ in the search engine and searched for recipes. The recipe I used was one of the first ones to pop up, and the pictures were pretty, so I tried it. I had no idea it would taste as good as it did. “Jesus, woman. These potatoes are…” he paused as he turned toward me. A potato teetered on the end of his fork, a second away from gravity pulling it down to his plate. With his eyes locked on mine, he guided the fork to his mouth, only to lose the potato half way there. As the empty tines contacted his lips, his eyes shifted downward. “Should have been paying attention to my food,” he said as he reached for the elusive potato. “Say you got these little fuckers at the farmer’s market?” he asked as he tossed the grape sized spud into his mouth. I nodded my head. “Last Saturday,” I said. “Go back this weekend and buy a hundred pounds of these little bastards. Jesus. Woman, you can cook a meal. I’m telling you, I’ve never eaten so good in my fucking life. You know what we’re going to do?” he asked as he began to slice the other chicken breast. “What’s that?” I asked. “Open a restaurant. I’m not shittin’. One of these days, you’re going to open a restaurant. We should all focus on what we’re good at. Me? I’m a natural outlaw, good at riding a bike, mean muggin’ assholes, and being devoted to my lady. You? You’re a natural at cooking. Shit, working at that office as a receptionist? One of these days that’s gonna have to change,” he said with a nod.

The thought lingered with me as he continued to eat. Having a restaurant would be a dream of mine, but I was no better of a cook than any other woman. I may have taken more time in my preparation, or had slightly more pride in the finished product than some women, but to think I could cook well enough to serve it to the public was almost laughable. Hearing Jackson praise me was one of the greatest things to ever happen, and I hoped it would never change. I ate my food quietly as I watched him finish his plate, eating his salad last, as always. “Let me get you some more, there’s plenty,” I said. He shook his head as he wagged his index finger in the air. “Hold up a minute. You’ll need to excuse me for a second, I’m gonna grab my phone out of my cut. I gotta send Sarge a picture of this meal. His Ol’ Lady can’t cook a lick, and I want him to see this shit I’m eatin’. How much is left?” he asked as he pushed his chair away from the table. “Well, I cooked six breasts. I’ve had one, and you’ve had two, so there’s three left,” I responded. “I might save one for him to try. Be back in a second,” he said as he stood from his seat. Little things about Jackson not only surprised me, but provided support to his claim of being different than any of the men he rode with. He never carried his phone with him in the house, and rarely used it when we were together. Other men I had been with were constantly texting on their phones. Jackson didn’t even have a Myspace account, and had no interest of ever setting one up. Although he had sent me a few text messages, it wasn’t common for him to do so. He typically called me before he left the shop, just to let me know he was on his way. His home was filled with pictures of Sarge, Chili, Woody, Fat Bart, and his sister. According to him, they were his family. Accepting him as being an orphan and not having family was easy, but understanding what he had been through as a child was impossible. His manners, excusing himself from the table, and saying ‘thank you’, ‘please’, and ‘you’re welcome’ on every occasion he felt necessary was a result - according to him - of being raised by a preacher who demanded the foster children adhere to his policies regarding behavior in the home. He walked into the kitchen, flipped open his phone and held it over the chicken. After taking a few pics of the potatoes and salad, he sat down and tapped his fingers against keys and texted the pictures to Sarge.

Upon satisfying himself the photos had been sent, he stood, walked to the bedroom, and promptly returned. “Sarge’s Ol’ Lady can’t cook to save her ass. He eats it anyway, but he always bitches,” he said as he carried his plate to the kitchen. He returned with two more chicken breasts, half a plate of salad, and several of the potatoes. As he sat down, he clutched the plate in his hands, turned toward me, and smiled. “I’m grateful for you, Em. I really am. Not for the things you provide me, but for how you make me feel. As far as I’m concerned, you’re proof the man upstairs hasn’t given up on me yet. You’re never going to regret taking this step with me.” He sat there for a moment, blankly gazing beyond me. He was as handsome of a man as I had ever seen in person, and believing he was satisfied with me was difficult, but I forced myself to accept it. Each time I studied him, I became more aware of just how handsome he really was, and a strange pride developed within me as I realized of all available women, he was committed to me. Eventually, he gazed down at his plate and shook his head. After a short hesitation, he glanced upward. A smirk washed over his face and he chuckled lightly. He didn’t laugh very often, but he did smile much more than when we met. The dimples I had thought were almost non-existent had become rather common, but I knew better than to point them out. I simply looked forward to him producing them, knowing they were reserved for when he was happier than any time at all. His dimples were my little secret. “What?” I asked. “I was just thinking of the hog we ate last year that made everyone sicker than absolute fuck. Woody had the entire club sick because he had no idea how to cook it. Meat temperature was probably way too low. Anyway, on Saturday we’ve got a poker run and a keg party at Chili’s place afterward. I want you to plan on going,” he said. Eating raw pork, food poisoning, and barfing were on my list of things not to do. I had no real idea what a poker run was, but I’d heard Jackson talk about them, and suspected it was some type of a biker rally. Although none of those things were something I would have done six weeks prior, and I would

never do them alone, in Jackson’s presence I would try almost anything. “Okay,” I said as I chewed my chicken. “And when we’re done eating, I want you to go take a warm bath. I’ll clean up the dishes,” he said. I knew better than to even attempt to argue with him or make any effort to try and change his mind. A warm bath sounded good. As I finished my meal and watched him finish his, I realized the thing I wanted the most had become the least of my worries. Jackson’s warm heart, simple way of living life, and constant praise provided me with more than enough satisfaction. The sex would come eventually, I was sure of it. But for the time being, I was quickly becoming the happiest woman on earth. One stolen internet recipe at a time.

EMILY June 27, 2006 Being deprived of my eyesight wasn’t something I had ever dreamed of happening to me, nor was it something I ever thought could or would be sensual. What little I knew of being blind was that the remaining senses, according to my understanding at least, were heightened or more refined. I now had first-hand information to support my previous beliefs. Long after he walked out of the room - and he had done so several times already - the smell of his cologne lingered. When he returned, his footsteps echoed throughout the house until he reached the carpeting in the bedroom. His breathing sounded as if he were a bull preparing to charge the matador in some third world country - even though I realized it was no different than any other breathing that had gone unnoticed on previous nights we had spent together. I had no idea of how long I had been deprived of my sight, but I suspected it had been at least a few hours. I knew one thing and one thing only.

The size of the wet spot my overly aroused pussy had deposited on the comforter was large enough I could feel it against my hips. With my hands and feet secured to each corner of the bed, I was face down, naked, blindfolded, and whatever the polar opposite of exhausted would be. I felt the way I suspected a meth-head would feel after smoking a paycheck’s worth of rock over the course of a weekend. As my heart continued to beat out of my chest in anticipation of what may or may not be happening next, Jackson startled me as he dragged something along the skin of my inner thigh. My every muscle tensed and my pussy ached as if it were going to pop. I bit my lower lip and pressed my face into the comforter. Enveloped in complete darkness, I could hear the springs in the mattress creaking as he shifted his weight from side-to-side on the bed. The tickling of my inner thigh ceased. Short of the ceiling fan and his breathing, the room was now silent. In the distance, I heard the refrigerator humming. The sound of the ceiling fan whirring above me became the center of my focus, the dull drone comforting me, slowly bringing me back down to earth with each rotation. I flinched as I felt something pressing against my aching pussy. Whatever it was slid inside of me without much effort what so ever. As I moaned into the surface of the cool comforter, I wondered if his decision to not gag my mouth was by mistake or part of a careful plan he had devised. As I became lost in what I now believed was his finger inside of me, I decided nothing Jackson did would be without thought. Having him not speak to me the entire time was something that took a little getting used to, but looking back on the entire experience, his initial demand of ‘unless I speak to you, do not say a word’ answered my question of whether or not the lack of a gag was intentional. He was testing my ability to follow his demands. Or something of that nature. As his finger slowly worked my pussy into a lathered up little mess, I decided I really didn’t give a fuck if he planned it or not. Whatever he was doing was working and working well. I had never been so sexually aroused in my life, and I felt as if each minute would certainly be my last, my death a result of some profound reaction of my brain’s inability to process my aching twat’s signals into meaningful

feelings. His finger continued to torture me, the tip tickling my g-spot with each stroke. An odd tingling sensation began deep inside my pussy and rang throughout my body, eventually making my overly sensitive nipples feel as if they were being mildly electrocuted. I had officially reached the point of climax, a heightened feeling of sexual bliss I had never known to exist. All as the result of a little light tickling, slapping my ass with a paddle, and his finger inside of me. I bit into the down comforter and prepared for an earth shattering orgasm which was slowly building within my soul. He pulled his finger from my pussy and wiped it on my cheek. Fuck. His breathing came closer and closer until I felt it against my neck. As the warmth of his breath against my ear caused me to wince in anticipation, he spoke the first words I had heard in hours. “If you have an orgasm, I’m going to deprive you of sex for six months. Is that understood?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Uh huh.” His weight shifted from the bed. I heard light footsteps across the room, some shifting of objects, and slight weight on the edge of the bed again. Whack! I felt the pain a fraction of a second after the sound of the paddle slapping my ass filled the room. I yelped out in pain against the comforter. The stinging was like fire against my skin. I tensed my muscles and pulled against my fur lined restraints, preparing for another slap of the paddle against my overly sensitive skin. The cool flat surface of the paddle pressing against my left cheek startled me as his breath filled my right ear. “If you have an orgasm, I’m going to deprive you of sex for six months. Is that understood? A Yes, Sir, or a No, Sir will suffice as a response,” he breathed into my ear. I swallowed heavily, licked my lips, and responded. “Yes, Sir,” I murmured.

I heard the paddle fall to the floor beside the bed. The unmistakable metallic clank of his belt unbuckling followed. Then, I grinned as I recognized the sound of his zipper being unzipped. As my ass continued to burn from the previous swat of the wooden paddle, I heard a noise similar to opening the mints the usher gave away at the movie theatre. A condom? The left edge of the bed shifted downward as it absorbed his weight, and almost immediately I felt his massive chest press against my side. As the forearm of his right arm pressed into the middle of my back, his hand gathered my hair and gripped it tightly. He pulled against it, lifting my head from the bed as he breathed into my right ear. “Not a word,” he exhaled into my ear. Fearing the paddle if I responded, and further fearing the paddle if I didn’t say ‘Yes, Sir,’ I opted to keep my mouth shut. As close as I was able to discern, I only needed to respond if he asked me a question. And, he had not. With my muscles tensed in anticipation of the swat, he crawled on top of me. I felt his cock against my inner thigh as he situated himself, and realized as much as I wanted him to be inside of me, his instructions were clear. No orgasms. As I felt him begin to guide himself into my throbbing mound, I realized I had never seen him naked. I had never seen his cock. I had no idea if he was massive, sufficient, or small. Although it didn’t really matter at this point in time, I for some reason found it odd. While my mind soared into the possibilities of someday seeing him naked, his lack of continued penetration left me wondering just what he was packing between his legs. And, as soon as the wonder filled my mind, the feeling of being impaled removed all speculation. Oh dear lord. I arched my back the best I was able and attempted unsuccessfully to lift my ass in the air. The angle at which he was now fucking me was determined primarily by the fact I was tied to the bed and

stretched to my limits. My arms extended straight out toward each corner of the bed, and my legs stretched in the same manner, he was forcing himself inside of me at an odd angle. Odd, but beyond pleasurable. With each stroke, the tip of his apparently massive cock was grinding against my g-spot. At this rate, I knew I’d be lucky to last thirty seconds. I had no idea what the punishment would be for not following his instructions, but granting his request of not reaching climax was going to be impossible. As he rhythmically worked himself in and out of my ever-so-willing pussy, instead of fully enjoying the experience, I worried. After what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like thirty minutes, I decided to count my accounts receivable list as I could best recall them. In alphabetical order. When I reached the letter ‘D’, he was roughly thirty strokes into the torturous affair. I could feel every millimeter of his length as it slid past my wet pussy lips. Within a matter of seconds, I was certain I would explode. His tight scrotum pounding against my swollen clit didn’t help matters. As I felt him tugging against my hair, I was reminded there was a lot more going on than I was even capable of comprehending. His warm breath against my right ear warned me he was going to say something, undoubtedly causing me to make a decision I would inevitably screw up. “If you pleasure yourself with an orgasm, Em, there’ll be hell to pay,” he breathed into my ear. Fuck… I bit my lower lip and began my effort to recall all of my clients in reverse, starting with ‘Z’. He continued to pull against my hair, pound his hips against my ass, and force every inch of himself inside my aching pussy, all the while breathing into my ear with each stroke. After a few more minutes, my level of arousal had risen to a point of no return. The absence of my sight, his warm breath against my ear, the sound of his skin slapping against mine, and the lingering smell of sex proved to be more than I was able to dismiss. I felt myself begin to contract making each stroke of his cock that much more pleasurable.

“If you come, I’ll paddle your ass so hard you’ll wish for the next year you hadn’t,” he growled. “Do you understand me?” “Yes,” I whimpered. As I felt his weight begin to shift, I corrected myself. “Yes, Sir!” His torture continued. Now fucking me as if I were his last potential piece of ass on earth, he pulled my hair taught, arching my back, and thrust himself into my twat as if possessed by the devil himself. Although the entire event had previously been without speaking for the most part, his methods changed within an instant of his newfound energetic pattern of providing me pleasure. “Fuck yes, Em, that little pussy of yours is a tight little fucker,” he bellowed. “You like that big cock?’ he asked. “Yes, Sir!” I shouted. His free hand slapped against my ass. As I whimpered to myself from the pain, I was grateful, if even for a short moment, it took my focus away from him fucking me. He leaned forward, smashing me into the comforter. As his chest pressed into my back, he bit my earlobe and exhaled into my ear. “I’m going to pull this cock out of you and come all over that cute little face of yours, you submissive little shit. Do you understand me?” he growled. “Yes…Yes, Sir,” I cried. His scrotum pummeled my overly sensitive clit, causing the little love button to send a tingling sensation throughout my entire body. As he lifted his weight from my back and pulled against my hair sharply, I arched my back for a little relief. “Don’t do it,” he demanded. “No, Sir!” I wailed in response. The weight of his body shifted as he fumbled around on the bed. After a few seconds of awkward feeling sex, his hands fumbled with my nipples, and then a pinching sensation…

Holy fucking… Oh…my…god… They felt as if they were on fire. I didn’t need to see them to understand what he had done. My nipples were in clamps, and ached like hell. The feeling soon became a strangely satisfying one, and as he thrust himself in and out of my soaked and seemingly never-going-to-dry-up pussy, the ends of the devices he had clamped to my nipples scraped against the comforter with every few strokes of his cock. I could feel the sensation shooting through my body, all the way to my pussy. He pounded away, and each time, my body tingled from nipple to crotch. The sensation was so pleasurable it was more than I was capable of enjoying without reaching climax. Note to self: I love nipple clamps. As I fought to forget what was happening and tried to force myself to hate it, I eventually embraced the feelings and allowed myself to enjoy them fully and totally, escaping into a blissful part of heaven only I knew to exist. His screaming cast me from my safe place and brought me back into the reality of being fucked to death by a biker on a squeaking bed. “You may…” he grunted. He pressed himself against my back. “Reach…” “Climax…” he breathed into my ear. Confused, excited, and somewhat scared, I tossed my thoughts aside and focused on my throbbing clit and cock-filled pussy. As he continued to pound himself into me, the only noise in the room was the flesh-on-flesh sound of my wet pussy being owned by the most intriguing man in the world. I arched my back, lifting my nipple clamps from the comforter slightly. As the tips of them brushed against the fabric, almost bringing me to climax, my entire body began to tingle. He continued to slide in and out, filling me with his manhood, and all of a sudden, my ears began to ring… And my body began to shudder.

And something happened that had never before happened. I bellowed out onto the room as my body convulsed into an orgasm unlike anything I had ever experienced. My body convulsed, my pussy clenched his cock, and my butthole puckered to the size of a grain of sand. Although the dull thud of him continuing to fuck me continued long after I reached climax, I didn’t necessarily feel it. Everything became distant and foggy, like a dream. After what I expected was a few minutes time, I felt him folding my arms in front of me, and rolling me onto my back. The lights of the bedroom seemed blindingly bright as he rolled beside me and softly spoke into my ear. “Em…Em…are you alright?” he asked. It was as if he was somewhere else, but I knew he wasn’t. Incapable of responding, but feeling the need to do so, I said ‘Yes, Sir’ in my mind, but the words never escaped my lips. “Em…come on back, Em…come on, Baby…” he said softly. I felt him caress my face, and rake his fingers through my hair. After a few minute’s time of him whispering into my ear, and softly touching me, I returned from wherever I was, and into a state of something close to reality. He lifted me from the bed and carried me into the master bathroom. I blinked my eyes and attempted to focus as he lowered himself into the tub, holding me in his arms. The warm water felt fabulous against my skin. I glanced around the bathroom, still slightly confused, almost as if I had never seen one before. On the wire shelves beside the tub, were towels, washcloths, and fruit… Fruit? “Is that fruit?” I asked as I blinked my eyes and tilted my head toward the rack. “Yes, you’ll need the nourishment,” he responded. “What happened?” I asked.

“You went into what’s called subspace. It’s a rush of endorphins that literally send you somewhere your mind has never experienced. The intensity of the orgasm from a session like that is ten-fold of what you’re used to. Then, you crash back down to earth. It’s called Sub Drop. If that’s not where you are now, you’ll probably be there pretty damned soon. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he said assured me. He stood from the tub and grabbed a banana. As he turned around, I gazed at his body. His chiseled torso had three words tattooed below his waist. As he peeled the banana, I studied the tattoo, and realized it was written in Latin. “What does that mean?” I asked as he handed me half of the banana. “I came, I saw, I conquered,” he responded. I bit into the banana as I nodded my head. “When did you run the bath water?” I asked as I glanced around the spacious bathroom. “When I left the room earlier. When I left the room a few minutes ago, I turned it off,” he said as he reached for the switch on the wall. “I’m going to turn on the jets. Ready?” he asked as he held his hand over the switch. I nodded my head, still pretty oblivious to my surroundings. “Yep,” I responded. I felt like it was the morning after a bad drunk. Mentally, I was completely lost. As he stepped into the tub, I focused on the half of a banana he held in his hand. “You gonna eat that?” I asked as I pointed at the banana. “No,” he chuckled. “It’s for you,” he said as he handed me the remaining banana. “So, what did you think of that?” he asked as he reached for the soap. “The banana?” I asked, knowing he meant the sex, but making at least an effort to be cute. “Yeah, Em, the banana,” he responded sarcastically. “The banana was kinda squishy, but the sex was some insane shit. What did you think?” I asked.

“Me?” he said as he squirted some soap onto a Loofah. “I couldn’t be any happier.” Truth be told, I couldn’t have been any happier either. But what mattered more than anything was that he was happy, and knowing the answer made me even happier yet. As he wiggled his way past me in the tub and began to wash my back, I remembered the night we met, and how he beat the absolute shit out of the guy who was grabbing my boobs. I never would have guessed the man in the bar that night would be carrying me into the Jacuzzi tub and washing my back as I ate fruit. But again, I expected Jackson Shephard was unlike any other man on this earth. And he was slowly proving me to be right.

JACK June 28, 2006 Hearing, smelling, and tasting had always been senses that brought back memories - some good and some not-so-good. The odor of Pine-Sol wasn’t something I ever cared to smell again, but sooner or later, it seemed to happen. Each time my nostrils flared from the scent, memories of the foster home filled my mind. The wife of the preacher cleaned everything with the solution at full strength, filling the house with a permanent stench of the cleaner. My memories of my slightly abusive and extremely controlling preacher who was our foster father were not fond, and in fact, I fought with myself not to return as an adult and beat him within an inch of his life. The taste or smell of bananas, however, was comforting to me. The small grocery store at the corner on our way to school always had ripe bananas, and often on our walks to and from school, the grocer would step out onto the sidewalk - his white apron tied tight around his waist - and give Sydney and me a banana as a treat. It wasn’t free, or provided out of sorrow; I cleaned his storage room on weekends - but I never told Sydney about my having worked to obtain the fruit. I allowed her to believe then, and continue to believe throughout our time in the foster home that there were people on this earth

who were filled with love, willing to graciously provide gifts to children who were kind, polite, and eager to return the love with a gentle grin or the wave of an appreciative hand. As a teen, the earthshaking roar of a group of motorcycles was one that not only caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand, but something that I perceived as being a resemblance of power. When I was a thirteen, a motorcycle club moved into town, opening a new chapter. Members wearing their cuts from Colorado Springs came into the city, and stayed for some time. After a matter of months of admiring them on every opportunity I was provided, a local chapter developed. As the number of members grew from six to over twenty, I watched in admiration of the power, the brotherhood, and the elegance of the club as they rode together side-by-side, ten motorcycles deep in a long thunderous line. I told myself one day I would join them, and counted the days until I was eighteen and able to escape the rules and regulations of my foster home. I knew as soon as I was able to buy a motorcycle, pay my dues to the club, and become a vest-wearing member of their club that no harm would come to me or those I loved, because as far as I was concerned, the men in the leather vests were untouchable. Em gripped my waist lightly as we pulled out of the fourth stop on the poker run. The day couldn’t have been nicer even if it had been chosen solely for our enjoyment. For late June in Kansas it was unseasonably cool, but at eighty-two degrees and sunny, it was perfect for riding, enjoying the scenery, and spending time with the woman I had come to believe was placed on this earth for one reason and one reason only. “There’s a river down at the bottom of the hill. Close your eyes and see if you can tell when we pass it,” I said over my shoulder as I rolled on the throttle. Two motorcycles were in front of us, riding side-by-side. The side-by-side pattern continued for approximately fifty bikes behind us. A large group of us left the American Red Cross building together, and had ridden as a group throughout the day. The rumble of the exhaust from the motorcycles could be heard and felt for miles prior to our arrival in the small cities we were riding into. The streets in the small town of 691 people we had just ridden out of were lined with children and their parents, gathered on their respective lawns, waving as we passed by on our way to the fire station. If being an outlaw, riding a Harley-Davidson, and being admired by the children of a small town in the Midwest wasn’t my calling in life, it sure was something I enjoyed. As I passed the spring-fed river, Em tapped me on the shoulder. A combination of the shade from the trees, the cool water, and the lower elevation caused the temperature to drop ten degrees as we rode

over the bridge. “I love it,” she whispered into my ear. “Smell the flowers?” I turned my head to the side slightly and nodded once. I had ridden by the river countless times, more often alone than with a group. The all but deserted county roads in the state were perfect for late evening rides as I attempted to accept the deaths of my two previous lovers, and I enjoyed the road we were riding along more than many of the others in the state. Riding with Em was similar to riding alone in some regards. Many women who had ridden on the back of my motorcycle looked at it as an opportunity to twist, turn, shift their weight, and test the resistance of the rear shock absorbers by bouncing in the seat. Each movement on the rear of a motorcycle not only had an effect on the path the motorcycle would take, but the stability of it while doing so. To have someone ride on the back of the seat and actually sit still was priceless. Em was a natural at riding, and she allowed me to enjoy having her with me as much as she was appreciated being there. As we pulled into the next town, lining the street in front of the bar, I couldn’t help but grin. The ‘town’ of a claimed 138 people had a bar, a post office, and a handful of houses. Our presence wasn’t as welcome - or at least not as appreciated - as it was in the much larger town of 691 we had just left. “Is this the last stop?” Em asked as we rolled to the stop. “This is it,” I said as I shut off the engine. “Latham, Kansas. Big fucker, ain’t it?” “I didn’t realize there were still towns this small. Did you see the sign when we pulled in?” she asked as she stepped off the back of the bike. “Which one?” I asked. “It said Latham, population 138,” she responded. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve had the pleasure of being here before. Quite a few times, actually.” “Can I get the card punched?” she asked as she pulled it from the front pocket of her shorts. “Yeah, it’s across the street,” I said as I tossed my head toward the bar.

“Fu…fu…fu…fucking…tah…tah…town gives me the wuh…willies,” Chili said as he stepped off his bike. “Afraid one of these farmers is going to shoot your ass, Chili?” Sarge chuckled as he walked alongside our bikes. Chili gazed up and down the two blocks that made up the small town. After a short study of the dozen or so homes, he removed his sunglasses, narrowed his eyes, and ran his hand through his short saltand-pepper hair as he shook his head. “Luh…Luh…like a fucking go…go…ghost town,” he said. “I’m hungrier than a motherfucker, they got food in that shit-hole bar?” Sarge asked as he rubbed the sweat from his bald head. “Hamburgers and hot dogs from what I can remember,” I said. Chili tossed his hands in the air as if frustrated. “Cuh…cuh…come on. I’m creeped the fuh…fuh… fuck out.” Chili was as solid of a man as I had ever met, and would do for his brothers in the club much more than he would do for himself. He was a man of average height with an above average build who stuttered terribly unless he was drunk. When he was drunk, his speech was soft, clear, and concise. When sober, he had a difficult time saying almost anything at all; therefore he chose short simple sentences. His stuttering and stammering earned him the name Chili, a modified version of chilly, a description the club decided fit him well, as it initially appeared he was always stuttering as a result of the chilly and wet winter weather when he began prospecting for the club. “Well, let’s get this over with, Chili. A forty minute ride and we’ll be home,” I said as I stepped around him. “You ready?” I asked Em. She nodded her head as she studied the envelope she held. The card hidden inside was marked along the outer edge with each of the fifty-two cards from a deck. On the outside of the envelope were fifty-two numbers. At each stop, a random number was drawn from a sack of chips, and the respective number on the card was punched with a hole punch. As each of the cards hidden inside the envelopes had playing cards in different orders, and no one was able to see into the sealed envelope, no one knew until

the ride was over who had which cards punched on the card inside their envelope. After the completion of the ride, the envelopes - each marked with a rider’s name and telephone number - were provided to a proctor who opened the envelope and ranked the hand as if it were a poker hand. The three best poker hands of the ride won prizes, the best hand of the ride receiving six hundred dollars. Over the years, I had won with five of a kind, and had a hand as bad as ace, deuce, three, five, six. It was anyone’s guess what you’d receive, and there was certainly no skill whatsoever required to win. “It creeps me out a little bit, too, Chili,” Em said as she stepped between us. Chili nodded his head and patted her on the shoulder as we walked across the street toward the bar. A line of thirty or so people still filtered out the door into the street, all waiting on getting their card punched. As we waited in line, Sarge stuck his head inside the door and screamed toward one of the many waitresses working the bar. “Gimme five cheeseburgers and another one without cheese. Just holler at me when they’re done. I’ll be standing out here in the sun withering away,” he chuckled. “You skinny little fucker, you need to eat something,” he said with a laugh as he slapped his hand against Em’s back, almost knocking her off balance. “I had eggs, a bagel, and some sausage for breakfast,” she said as she spread her feet shoulder width apart, undoubtedly preparing for the next playful slap of Sarge’s hand. “Stuh…stuh…stop picking on my guh…guh…girl, you big fuh…fuh…fucker,” Chili said as he put his arm around Em. I glanced over my right shoulder as she playfully nestled her head into Chili’s chest. As our eyes met, she winked. I winked back, not really caring if either of the two fellas saw me or not. Contrary to the belief of most, one-percenters were not all lady sharing, womanizing, male chauvinists. Over the years, I had been around a few dozen one percent clubs, thousands of various members of clubs, and countless parties, clubhouses, and bike rallies. One thing shared by all members of one percent clubs that many civilian ‘riding clubs’ didn’t practice was respect of a member’s Ol’ Lady. If

a patched member had an Ol’ Lady, no one messed with her. Sometimes the men accepted an Ol’ Lady easier than others, and often they simply put up with them because they had to, but they never treated another brother’s Ol’ Lady with anything but respect. The receipt of an Ol’ Lady with open arms generally meant she was perceived as being as solid as her Ol’ Man. Club whores, stripper poles in the clubhouse, and orgies amongst the ranks of the club weren’t something that ever happened in my presence with Hell’s Fury, nor in the presence of any of the other clubs I had exposed myself to. The stories of such things were often told by the liars, wannabes, and bullshitters. There was no doubt life in a one percent club was full of fights, shootings, felonious activities, murder, and an occasional alleged rape, but often the allegations of rape were not true and sprouted as a result of a barfly who got fucked in an alley, only to find out the man she had just fucked was married or had an Ol’ Lady waiting in the bar. It satisfied me greatly to see Sarge, Chili, and the other men accept Em as being an extension of me. Although I didn’t share my sexual experiences with the men, they all knew I was far from promiscuous. They more than likely perceived Em as being no different than the two women who had been in my presence in the past - a permanent fixture in my life - and therefore an eternal extension of one of their brothers in the club. “Fifteen dollars,” the waitress said as she raised a brown paper bag dripping with grease in front of Sarge. “Fifteen bucks?” he said. “For six fucking burgers?” “Two fifty each,” she nodded. Sarge reached for his wallet, pulled out a ten and a twenty and handed her both bills. “There’s thirty, keep it,” he said as he stuffed his wallet into his pocket. “Thank you,” she said cheerily as she shoved the money into the back pocket of her jeans. “Here,” Sarge said as he slapped a burger against Em’s back. She shook her head and chuckled as she reached over her shoulder and grabbed the burger. “Whu…whu…what did I…tuh…tuh…tell ya?” Chili said as he raised his fists in front of his

chest. “He doesn’t scare me, Chili,” Em said as she waved her hand toward Sarge. “Here,” Sarge said as he handed Chili and me each a burger. The line slowly progressed as we stood eating our burgers. As I suspected, Sarge ate two, we each ate one, and there was one left. As Sarge shoved the remaining burger into the front pocket of his cut, Em challenged him. “What’s that for?” she asked as she wadded the wax paper from her burger into a ball and nodded her head toward Sarge’s cut. “What the fuck you think it’s for? It’s for fucking later,” he responded. “Just wait, he’ll pull it out and eat it on the way home while we’re riding down the highway eighty fucking miles an hour,” I assured her. As a group of four men stepped through the door and past where we stood, I realized we were next in line for having our cards punched. “Next,” the man sitting behind the table bellowed as we stepped into the bar. The previous four stops had three or four people working at each table. The lack of progress in our line was now apparent as I realized one lone man was working the line which would eventually produce over six hundred cards. “Ladies fuh…fuh…first,” Chili said as he released Em and patted her on the back. “I need a winner,” she said as she reached into the bag of chips. She removed her hand, looked at the chip, and screeched as she held it in the air for me to see. “Twenty-one,” she wailed. “What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?” Sarge complained as he reached for his ears. The man took Em’s card, punched the number twenty-one, and handed it back to her. She turned to face me, raised herself onto her tip-toes, and leaned into my shoulder.

“Our anniversary,” she whispered. I nodded my head, slightly shocked she remembered the day I made our relationship official, and equally surprised she labeled the day as such. “We’re gonna win,” she announced as she waved the card toward Sarge and Chili. The sound of the long line of bikes riding out of town reminded me we had a forty mile before we would have our envelopes opened and judged. I turned toward the street, fully hoping Em was right. She seemed to get tremendous satisfaction out of small things, and seeing the look on her face if she won the grand prize would be a joy in itself. As we sat on our bikes in the sun and waited on the rest of the fellas to make their way through the line, Em tapped me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced over my shoulder, well aware her chin was resting against my upper back. As our eyes met, her mouth curled into a genuine grin. “Best day ever,” she whispered. I reached over my shoulder with my right hand, gripped the back of her neck, and pulled her face forward, pressing it against mine. As I positioned my mouth against her ear, she closed her eyes. “I’m going to fuck your sexy little ass ragged at Chili’s party later. When we’re done it’ll be the best day ever,” I growled into her ear. “Oh god,” she cooed. “Oh god is right,” I said as I released her neck and started the motorcycle. “Let’s get this show on the road, huh Sarge?” I said over the rumble of the exhaust. “Just as well,” he shrugged as he nodded his head toward the bar, “This could take all fucking day.” Em turned her head toward Chili. “When’s your party start?” she asked. “Soon as wuh…wuh…we…get buh…buh…back,” Chili responded as he started his bike.

“I’m ready,” Em announced cheerily. “I doubt that,” I said as I released the clutch. But, deep down in my heart of hearts, I was pretty damned sure she was ready for anything I had to offer.

EMILY July 26, 2006 Although it had only been two months since Jackson and I had met, we really hadn’t been separated at all during that period of time. And, if a person had the means and methods to measure the quality of time we had spent together, they would without a doubt agree our life together had been nothing short of a living dream. As a young girl, I often guessed what my life would become, and when I would reach a point that I was satisfied with what I had either obtained or achieved. I suspected I would be fifty or maybe even slightly younger, but certainly not twenty-one. If given an opportunity as a high school girl to paint a perfect picture of what I expected my dream man to be, I never would have painted a picture of Jackson, but maybe that’s why so many relationships when we are young and foolish just don’t seem to last beyond a matter of weeks. In my opinion, when we’re young, we don’t really know what we need, and it seems we settle for what we desire. Our desires are based on the thoughts and feelings of our inexperienced youth, and therefore aren’t in line with what we truly need, leaving us in the not-so-distant future in a position to choose either settling for what it is we have, or moving on in an attempt to find what we have come to

believe we actually need. And most women I knew seemed to settle for what they had, choosing not to seek what it was they truly needed. I was fortunate. Jackson found me. And, be it by blind luck or fate, he had proven to be exactly what I needed. “Put the fuckers wherever you want them,” he said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The July sun bore down on us like a heavy weight, the humidity from the previous night’s rain making the air so thick it was difficult to breathe. As if the temperature and my exposure to the sun over the course of the morning had caused mild brain damage, I continued to stare like an idiot at the ground. “Okay,” I said as I gazed blankly at the pots of flowers we had brought home. Jackson stood, studying the hole he had dug, and eventually turned away and walked into the garage. In a few minutes he returned with a small green box and carefully placed it into the hole. After tossing some dirt on top of the box, he lowered the rose bush into the hole and began adding some of the bagged soil we had purchased. In the previous month I had backed out of the lease on my apartment and moved all of my belongings into Jackson’s home. Although he continued to call it our home, I really felt like it was his, and that I was invading his space. The addition of the flowers we had purchased together was a great help in convincing me it was a home we shared, and not one I was simply a guest in. As I continued to stare at them, I wondered if he realized in suggesting we plant flowers together that it would make me feel more comfortable. “You realize those impatiens are annuals, and they won’t come back next year, don’t you?” he asked as he finished planting his rose bush. “Huh?” I responded as I gazed down at the pots of flowers, confused on where to put each one of them. “Annuals will last for this season and die. Perennials will come back year after year. The rose bush is a perennial; we’ll have it for as long as we live here. It’ll be ours forever…well…as long as it lives, but they say they live thirty years or longer…” he explained as he shoveled the extra soil into the wheelbarrow.

“So these guys are gonna die?” I asked as I peered down at my flowers. “That’s why they were on sale. We can enjoy ‘em for the rest of the summer, though,” he said as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. “Put it back on,” I said jokingly as I covered my eyes. Seeing him shirtless was sheer torture. His body was as perfect as I suspected anyone’s could ever be, and seeing it covered by a tight white tank tormented me enough. When he removed his shirt, I was forced to accept him as being a shirtless gorgeous tattooed biker until he chose to make sexual advancements toward me. I had learned a lot about Jackson since we met, and although I initially tried dressing scantily, acting horny, and making idle sexual suggestions, I learned he was a far too disciplined to allow me to coerce him into sex. I simply had to enjoy watching him and wait until he decided he was ready. As he pushed the wheelbarrow toward where I was standing, the muscles on his biceps flared. His washboard abs appeared to be chiseled out of stone, a product of his daily workouts, eating properly, and rarely enjoying sweets. The closer he got to me, the more I wanted to look away, but doing so was as impossible as any other time he was close enough for me to admire. As the sweat covering his torso glistened in the hot afternoon sun, I forced myself to tear my eyes from him and once again gaze down at my poor choice in flowers. “Staring at ‘em isn’t going to do a lot of good,” he said as he shoved the end of the wheelbarrow into my thigh. “Hey, watch where you’re going,” I said as I shoved against it. He released the wooden handles, walked around me as if I wasn’t there, and slapped my ass as he passed by. After turning on the garden hose, he dragged it toward the rose bush he had planted, placed it on top of the new soil, and returned to my withering one-time-only and soon to be dead choice of flowers. As he placed his hands on his hips and gazed down at the flowers, he exhaled a sigh and shook his head lightly. “What did you bury with the rose bush?” I asked. He shifted his eyes upward, met my gaze, and grinned.

“Something we’ll dig up together on a rainy day,” he responded. “What are we going to do with these guys?” I asked as I kicked my toe against one of the pots. “Don’t get mad because they’re going to die, Em. Everything dies. Everything has a beginning and an ending. Just be glad you’re allowed to enjoy them while you’re able,” he said as he picked up two of the pots and placed them into the wheelbarrow. “Where are we taking them?” I asked. “Well, they’re best in low sunlight, so maybe if we take them to the north side of the house and plant them over there…” “Which way’s north,” I asked. He shook his head. “Where the front door is.” “Oh,” I said with a nod. “There’s a planter over there under the window outside the kitchen, we can put them in the planter, it’ll look nice,” he said. “A what?” I asked as he picked up two more of the pots. “A wooden fucking box affixed to the side of the house, Em. You probably didn’t notice it because it’s empty. Grab those two and come on,” he said as he began to push the wheelbarrow toward the gate. “You can’t go out front with your shirt off,” I said as I bent over to pick up the flowers. He stopped the wheelbarrow and turned to face me. “Oh no?” I shook my head. “Neighbors will complain.” He cocked one eyebrow and stared. “About?” “Uhhm. Half-naked bikers?” I said. The thought of another woman walking by, driving by, or peering out her window at him made me angry. I would have never described myself as a possessive person, nor had I ever been the jealous type, but with Jackson, things were much different. As comfortable as I was in his presence, and as pleased as

he made me with his treatment of me, I lived in constant fear of losing him. I really had no reason to believe my fears were warranted, and in fact, they weren’t, but I harbored them nonetheless. “Well, can I take off my shirt?” I asked. “Sure,” he said as he pushed the wheelbarrow through the gate. “Don’t think I won’t,” I said. He stopped, turned to face me, and stared for a moment. Standing with a flower pot in each hand, I wondered what I might have gotten myself into. As I stood knowing he was going to do or say something to make me regret my smart assed remark, he grinned and lifted his chin slightly. “Take it off,” he said. I gazed around the yard. The back yard was protected slightly by a privacy fence, but it in no way prevented everyone from seeing in the back yard. The neighboring homes were two story houses, and anyone from a second story could see right into the yard if the wished. “Come on, let’s get these planted,” I said as I took a few steps in his direction. “Take off your shirt, Em,” he demanded. I lowered the flower pots to the ground, glanced around the yard, and lifted my shirt up and over my braless boobs. Now standing shirtless in the blazing sun, I felt slightly embarrassed, but the embarrassment only lasted for a few seconds. As the sun warmed my bare skin, I began to feel sexy and increasingly horny with each passing second. With the shirt dangling loosely from my fingertips, I waited for further instructions. I had learned over the last few months I wasn’t only acting as a submissive to fulfill Jackson’s desire, but I was doing so for myself. From what he had explained, and it made perfect sense, I desired pleasing him as much as he desired being pleased. In short, I yearned to make him happy with me, and knowing he was pleased with my actions, decisions, or thoughts pleased me to my core. After a few minutes of admiring me, he waved his arm toward my shirt-filled hand. “Put it back on,” he said flatly.

I pulled the shirt over my head and down along my sweaty torso. Surprised my hardened nipples hadn’t shredded the fabric as I pulled it past them, I situating it along the waist of my shorts and waited for his next demand. He pointed toward me and wagged his finger up and down. “Take ‘em off,” he said. “My shorts?” I asked. “No, your fucking Chuck’s, Em. I want you to take off your shoes. Jesus H. Christ, yes, your god damned shorts. And if you’ve got on any fucking panties, I’m going to drag you in by your heels and paddle that ass of yours until you can’t walk for a week,” he said. I had found out he preferred I not wear panties, but it certainly wasn’t natural - at least initially for me to do so. I had worn panties with every outfit I had ever chosen to wear, and the thought of not wearing them had never really crossed my mind - pre-Jackson, that is. Although I had acquired quite the collection of panties over the years, I now found not wearing them a guilty little newfound pleasure. As I unbuttoned my shorts and pushed them down my hips, I twisted my mouth to the side and acted as if I didn’t want to take them any further. “Off,” he demanded. I kicked my ragged shoes to the side and continued to play the hesitation game as I watched him become more anxious. Eventually I pushed my shorts down my thighs and dropped them to my ankles. As they came to rest at my feet, I stepped through the leg with my left foot and kicked my right foot upward. My shorts flew in a perfect arc toward where Jackson stood. Without expression or changing his stance, he reached up and plucked them from the air as if it were a daily occurrence. Now standing in the back yard with my cleanly shaved pussy out in the open for all to see, I waited eagerly to see what his next instruction was going to be. I suppose I should have felt embarrassed, or maybe even slightly guilty, but I didn’t. My only concern was what Jackson expected of me. As I stood twenty feet in front of him naked from the waist down, my pussy began to tingle as I thought of the possibility of him fucking me in the grass. As he stood and gazed at me, I focused on the crotch of his jeans. The shape of his zippered area changed from flat to full, and then slowly began to rise.

Score! “Get your little ass in the kitchen,” he demanded as he pointed toward the door leading into the garage. “Yes, Sir,” I responded as I slowly walked toward the garage in my best sexy runway model impersonation. As I stepped over the threshold of the door, I feigned stubbing my toe, and bent over as if to grab my damaged digit. With my ass in the air and my pussy pointed directly at him, I winced in non-existent pain and waited for him to scream. “In the kitchen, you little shit,” he bellowed. I stood, hobbled through the garage as if damaged, and ran into the kitchen as soon as I was out of his eyesight. Once in the kitchen I waited eagerly for what was sure to be some insanely satisfying sex for us both. As I leaned against the kitchen counter waiting for him, I did my very best to arch my back and thrust my non-existent ass in the air. Although I initially expected all of our sex would include some version of me being bound, gagged, or mildly tortured, I was proven wrong. I learned the BDSM acronym stood for Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism, and Masochism. With Jackson, his satisfaction wasn’t so much about any one of the aspects of the acronym, it was about control. He enjoyed variety, and in fact, we had sex on many occasions that was pretty conventional. Regardless of the flavor or intensity of the sex we both enjoyed it very much; but he was always in control, even if it was something as simple as telling me to get my ass in the kitchen. The control satisfied him, and me relinquishing control, and my living in the unknowing world of what was next satisfied me. He told me in the beginning he was different that anyone else I could ever encounter in life, and he was sure right. “Stand on your fucking tip-toes,” he barked as he entered the room. The sound of his voice startled me. “Yes, Sir,” I gasped as I stood on my tip-toes and peered over my shoulder. “You didn’t stub your fucking toe, you little shit. You think sticking your little pussy in the air is

enough to fluster me?’ he asked as he walked toward the sink. As he washed his hands, I responded. “No, Sir,” I said over my shoulder. It wasn’t necessarily the truth, but it was without a doubt what he wanted to hear, and therefore what I needed to say. “Face the other direction,” he demanded. “Snd don’t turn around again.” I turned away, wondering if he was really upset over the toe thing or if it was just a show. Most of the time, I never knew for sure. I guessed it was probably best that way, and although it often caused me slight grief, I realized it was exactly what he wanted. I rested my elbows on the kitchen counter and anxiously waited for him to call the next shot. After a few seconds, he leaned forward, pushing his massive chest against my back. His forearm slid against my right elbow, and his mouth moved alongside my cheek, resting at my right ear. His warm breath against my ear sent chills down my spine. “Put these in your mouth,” he whispered as he held three ice cubes in front of my face. What the fuck? As I reached for the ice cubes, he placed a small glass bowl of ice on the countertop in front of me. The ice wasn’t the square or rectangular cubes, but the half-moon style the ice machines on refrigerators typically make. I slid the three cubes into my mouth and began juggling them with my tongue. About the time I realized my mouth was much fuller than I was really comfortable with, and as I hoped the ice would quickly melt away, his freezing cold finger pressed into the folds of my pussy and caused me to jump. With my mind focused on the mouthful of ice, I was beyond startled by his half-frozen fingertip being shoved into my twat. I immediately jumped, banging my hips on the edge of the countertop. I then gasped from the pain, choked on my mouth full of water, and immediately coughed. Water shot out of my mouth and all over the counter. As I wailed in pain from my soon to be bruised hips, a piece of the melted ice escaped my mouth and slid along the length of the kitchen counter. “Did I tell you to suck on that shit for a minute, and then spit it across the fucking kitchen?” he

asked as he continued to finger fuck me. “No, thir,” I said over the pieces of remaining ice I was shuffling with my tongue. He reached for the bowl and plucked two more pieces of ice from it. “Here,” he said as he held them in front of my face. Oh, fuck. Luckily, the previous pieces were almost melted away. I poked the other two in my mouth and sucked on them like a mad woman, hoping my desire alone would melt them instantly. After an amount of time I’d be incapable of guessing, I realized once again he was fingering me and had probably never stopped. My sole focus had become getting rid of the ice he was making me suck on, which left little room for me to enjoy the sex. As the small pieces finally dissolved, I opened my mouth and sighed. Finally. “Here,” he said as he handed me two more. Son-of-a-bitch. I poked the two pieces of ice into my mouth with much reluctance. I considered chewing them and allowing him to spank me as punishment until his arm was too tired to swing the paddle, but opted to at least attempt to entertain him. As I sucked on the cubes and became all but hypnotized with his fingering of me, the sound of his belt unbuckling caused my eyes to widen slightly. I bit my lower lip in anticipation and pressed the ice against the roof of my mouth with my tongue. He pushed his finger downward, stretching my pussy open from the force. While I leaned forward, pressing my chest into the countertop and wondering just what the fuck he was doing, his cock slowly slid inside and joined his finger as an instrument of my pleasure. Now finger fucking me and shoving me full of cock at the same time, but on alternating cycles, his cock slid out as his finger slid in, and vice versa. With my mouth full of ice, and my mind trying to decide what in the hell was going on, I felt as if I was being fucked by at least two people at the same time.

After several strokes of preparation, he was now fucking me with full force, sliding his cock all the way out and slowly pushing it in until his hips pressed against my ass. His finger had been swapped with what I was pretty certain was his thumb, and the web of his hand was wreaking sexual havoc on my swollen clit. I swallowed the little remaining ice, and closed my eyes as I rested my head on the countertop, doing my best to focus on the fabulous feeling of having him fuck me. He leaned forward, pressing his chest against my back and forcing my boobs into the countertop. As I opened my eyes his hand gripped my jaw and turned my head to the side. “When you reach climax, I want you to scream. Is that understood?” he breathed into my ear. “Yes, Sir,” I responded through my tightening throat. He released my jaw, pressed his hand against my back, and slowly but rhythmically began to steadily fuck me into the edge of the countertop. Feeling his cock inside of me was so much different than anything I was used to, and although I wasn’t sure of the difference was purely from his increased girth, or if it was a result of me being more in tune with my feelings, I felt no real need to determine the answer. I simply enjoyed every minute that Jackson was fucking me. As every one of my muscles slowly tensed and my clit began to develop the itchy feeling, the sound of his hand in the bowl of ice shifted my focus for a split-second. After a second or so of no demand on his part for me to eat another piece of ice, I assumed he must have eaten it himself. I sighed lightly and attempted to focus on my quickly approaching climax. His cold fingers in between my butt cheeks startled me slightly, but the piece of ice he slid in my anus caused me to immediately inhale a choppy breath. Without any other indication of his action, he continued to fuck me while his thumb worked immediately below his throbbing shaft, and the web of his hand pounded against my clit. All things considered, it was just too much. The ice cube in my ass was an oddly satisfying sensation, but was one more thing demanding my focus, and prevented me from allowing myself to relax. I desperately wanted to concentrate on him fucking me, and, ultimately, reach climax. While he continued to slap his hips against my ass and force himself completely inside of me, the freezing sensation in my ass eventually subsided. Now completely focused on being fucked, I once again

clenched my eyes closed and relaxed onto the countertop. I opened my eyes slightly as his finger fumbled between my butt cheeks again. The freezing cold water dripping along my inner thigh was all the proof I needed that he was going to do it again. And he did. One ice cube in my ass, and another in my already full pussy… My freezing cold ass was soon forgotten as my pussy became my only focus. Everything he had done before continued, but the water from the melting ice worked against my natural lubricants, causing the act of fucking to become much more brutal, create far more friction, and in turn, arouse me even more. Incapable of even understanding all of what was happening, my mouth was agape and my mind was reeling. The sound of his hips slapping my ass echoed throughout the small kitchen, filling it with the sounds of nothing but sex. My eyes widened and I stared into the dining area searching for answers to my question of what was happening to me. His hand gripped my neck, forcing my head to the side. As his mouth pressed to mine, his hand grasped my neck tighter. Our tongues tangled together became yet one more thing my mind had to dissect, and it was beyond full of sensations, feelings, and his previous shallow demands. Kissing Jackson was beyond pleasurable, and almost incapable of putting into words. As he continued to kiss me deeply and squeeze my neck, my pussy began to throb from deep inside. It was coming. He clenched my neck a little tighter as he bit my upper lip. And that was it. I began to shudder from head to toe. I raised myself onto my tip-toes and moaned into his mouth. He released my lip from his teeth, turned my head to face forward, and growled into my ear. “Scream, you sexy little bitch. Let it out,” he growled into my ear as he thrust himself into me. “Whaaaaat…” “The…”

“Fuck…” I bellowed into the room as the equivalent of small electric shocks pulsated throughout my body. His hand still gripping my neck, he turned my head to the side and kissed me deeply. As I continued to have more slight mini-orgasms with almost each slowly decreasing stroke of his cock, he proceeded to kiss me. After a few more strokes, I was done. It was obvious he realized it, as he stopped fucking me at the exact time my pussy went into some hyper-sensitive state. As he flopped free of my throbbing muff, he leaned to the side and gazed into my eyes. As I did my utter best to force myself to smile, he picked me off of my feet and plopped me onto the countertop. And it was at that moment, while he stood directly in front of me gazing into my eyes, his body covered in sweat, muscles tensed, chest flaring from his heavy breathing, and his biceps still littered in the soil from our having planted flowers together, that I realized I wasn’t only being fucked by Jackson Shephard. I was deeply in love with him.

JACK August 7th, 2006 The time during the middle of the week that I typically spent riding alone or with whichever of the fellas was available quickly changed. If someone had asked me one year prior if my schedule would ever change, I would have laughed, knowing I would never make an adjustment to my daily pattern of living life. Now, spending time with Em was more important to me than spending time with anyone, my brothers in the club included. I didn’t think less of them, nor did my value or perception of the club change, but my way of living life clearly had. For the first time in my life, the club and my woman had equal shares of my attention, heart, and plans for the future. As we rode down the highway toward town, my mind was where it often went after a late evening ride on a beautiful summer night. The sun hadn’t set just yet, and it wasn’t quite dusk, but it was the few minutes of time immediately prior to it. Low western clouds shaded the last remaining rays of sun, and the sky off to our left side was glowing with pinks, purples, reds, and oranges. Gazing off in the distance, I didn’t pray, but I did something.

I filled so full with gratitude for what my life had become that something inside of me clicked, like a switch had been flipped, leaving me appreciative of simply being allowed to live life. As Em’s hands rested lightly against my thighs, I twisted the throttle and got one last run at freedom before slowing down to come into town. “It’s like being an angel,” Em said as we rode into the edge of town. “What?” I asked over my shoulder. “Riding. It’s like we’re angels,” she said. I nodded my head. “Something like that.” I felt her shift her weight as she leaned back and faced the sky. “I love it,” she screamed. Em had quickly become the perfect companion, lover, and friend. She possessed all of the qualities in a woman that I seemed to possess, short of the alpha male bravado bullshit. Her desire to be on the bike, sit quietly at home, and simply enjoy watching the world around her was equal to mine, something I had yet to find in any man or a woman other than myself. I glanced at the gas station on the side of the road, and tilted my head to the side. “Gas,” I said as I pointed off in the distance. I released the throttle, downshifted, and coasted until our speed had slowed considerably, the exhaust popping as the engine slowed the bike down to almost 30 miles per hour. As I leaned to the side and changed lanes, I noticed a lone bike at the gas pump. An older Harley Shovelhead which seemed to be in pretty damned good condition, the bike immediately caught my eye because it wasn’t something I would normally see on a daily basis. As we pulled in behind the bike at the adjacent pump, a man walked out of the gas station and into the parking lot. Immediately, he froze. Fuck. “Em, get off the bike and stand on the other side of the pump,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Em…” “Yes, Sir,” she said as she climbed off the bike. I reached down and lowered the kickstand as I maintained eye contact with the man. After a long pause, he began to slowly walk our direction. He had a little swagger to his step, expressing either confidence or stupidity, I couldn’t decide which. In his mid-thirties and muscular, but not as big as me, he seemed to be sizing me up as he walked toward his bike. I needed to see the back of his cut. His eyes locked on mine, and still taking the last few steps before he got on his bike, he turned his body to the right, but craned his neck over his shoulder to maintain eye contact. As he turned to the side I noticed his Shovelhead colors, but no lower rocker. Thank God. I exhaled, stepped over the seat, and reached for the pump. As I shifted my eyes toward his bike, he turned and spit in my direction. “Got something you need to say?” I asked. He spit toward me again, turned around, and reached for his ignition switch. The last thing I wanted to do was start a war with anyone. If the Shovelheads were going to stitch a lower rocker on their cut it was one thing, but they had every right to have their MC as long as they weren’t going to try and claim what was rightfully ours. Allowing a man to disrespect me, my Ol’ Lady, and my colors was another thing altogether. I relaxed my grip, dropped the gas pump, and glared at him. “Show respect, get respect, motherfucker,” I said as I took a step toward him. “Turn around and get back on that little softy of yours, Fury boy, or I’ll make your Ol’ Lady watch me whip your ass,” he said over his shoulder.

When it comes to fighting on the street, not many men have morals, rules, or a conscience. I had always prided myself in being the exact opposite, and never hit a man who didn’t have the ability to at least see it coming. “Don’t move,” I said over my shoulder, making certain Em didn’t get hurt in what was sure to be one hell of a fight. “Get off the bike,” I seethed as I turned around. He released the ignition, stepped off the side of the bike, and turned to face me. He was a little bigger than I had originally thought, and appeared to be wearing nothing under his cut. His muscular arms were covered in tattoos, and his hands were now raised and ready to fight, giving me the go-ahead to do the same. As he glared at me, he reached down, gripped the bottom of his cut, and pulled it off. I stood and stared in absolute shock as he hung it on the grip of his handlebars. A man’s cut is to be protected at all times, never fall into the hands of an outsider, and never hit the ground. For him to have placed it where he did, in my opinion, was a huge mistake and nothing short of an invitation. I stepped to him and all but lifted my chin, inviting him to take the first punch. He immediately fulfilled my request with an uppercut-cross combo. I leaned back and both punches swung past me, throwing him slightly off balance. This isn’t my first fight, you dip-shit. As he stumbled and attempted to regain his balance, I leaned in. “Get him, Jackson,” I heard Em holler. Don’t worry, babe, I’m going to. I swung a left uppercut, connecting with the right side of his jaw. As he stumbled to catch his footing I swung a right hook into his ribs, causing him to lean forward and at least attempt to grab his stomach. As his hands lowered, I pummeled his face with a series of straight right and left punches. As he fell against his bike, he extended his arms to the rear, attempting to break his fall. One of his hands became tangled in the handlebars and he - and the bike - fell to the concrete. I’d never received any formal medical training in my days on earth, but I didn’t have to be a doctor to see that he was

unconscious. I reached down, picked up his cut, and gazed down at his face. Not a single scar. Well, here’s your first, you disrespectful prick. I raised my boot, swung my leg to the rear, and kicked him in the cheek as hard as I could with the toe of my boot. Before my boot was back on the ground, a cut on his face opened up and began to bleed. “That’ll take a dozen stitches,” I said as I turned away. “He didn’t even hit you,” Em said as I stepped around the pump. “Most of ‘em don’t,” I responded. “What are you going to do with that?” she asked as she nodded her head toward the cut. “Hang it in the garage,” I said as I got on the bike. “Get on, we’re gonna get the fuck out of here before we get shot,” I said. I wasn’t so stupid that I believed all fights ended when a man hit the ground. I had enough gas to get home, and that was all that mattered. I folded the cut, placed it under my thigh, and started the bike. The ride home was a quiet one, and after we pulled into the garage and parked, I pulled the cut from beneath my leg. As I held it in the air and studied it, I was once again relieved there was no bottom rocker claiming territory. I proudly walked to my workbench, grabbed the hammer and four nails, and tacked the cut to the wall. After studying it for a moment, I walked to my cabinet, rifled through the cans of paint, and removed a half-full can of red paint. I shook the can in my hand, glanced at Em, and grinned. As I raised the can in the air and painted a big red “X” on the back of the cut, she gave her voice of approval. “I like it better now,” she said. “Me too,” I nodded.

I stood admiring the cut, knowing I wouldn’t tell anyone of the altercation if no one asked. I didn’t need the recognition, sure didn’t need to start a poll of opinions, and was never one to brag about fighting. What I had done had nothing to do with him being a Shovelhead, but it had everything to do with him being disrespectful. He’d have a nice scar to remember me by, and he’d have hell to pay for losing his cut. Me? I still had my pride and Em was unharmed. And that was all that mattered.

EMILY August 9th, 2006 In high school, Laura Mora was the envy of every other girl. In middle school she had been the recipient of all of the taunting, hatred, and pranks of her classmates, primarily because of her name. Children can be so insensitive, and because her name rhymed, she was an easy target. Laura Mora is a whore-a. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that chant, I would be a rich woman. I suspected the teasing and taunting caused her to be a little more cautious with her choice of boyfriends, and as a result, by the time we were in high school, she was far from the whore everyone claimed she was. Her boyfriend was the football quarterback, who was the stereotypical high school football quarterback. Vince Pegalli had dark hair, dark skin, and a lightly cleft chin. He was, by everyone’s admission, perfect. And he was Laura’s. I never teased her during middle school, and actually admired her for never losing her temper.

When we moved on to high school, I experienced my first real envy, and it was directed at her. And Vince. They were the perfect couple. He was popular, attractive, lettered in every sport, and his letter jacket was covered with medals. She was the captain of the cheerleading squad and the envy of every girl in school. During our senior year, someone put chicken guts in my locker as a joke. Although everyone told me it was Laura, I had a difficult time believing them, because I could not think of one thing that would cause her to want to do something so hateful. I carried a slight chip on my shoulder toward her for the rest of the year, and hoped one day I would be able to proudly walk past her with a Vince Pagalli of my own by my side. I rolled onto my side, gazed at Jackson, and grinned. I had no idea what ever happened to Laura, but I really didn’t care. If anyone had the ability to see through Jackson’s tough exterior and into his true being, they’d be jealous of me for sure. He shifted his eyes from the television, pushed the button on the remote, and placed it on the nightstand beside the bed. As he rolled onto his side and faced me, he grinned deep enough to produce his dimples. I smiled in return, and when I did, he pulled me onto his bare chest. A few light kisses turned into an all-out make out session, which left my head spinning and my pussy wet. Jackson didn’t disappoint me, in fact, he never did. He rolled me onto my back, pulled the comforter to the side, and began kissing my shoulders and neck. Kisses on my neck had always driven me crazy, and Jackson kissing me on the neck caused my sexual desire to peak at an all-time high. Hoping he’d continue, and having no real reason to believe he wouldn’t, I didn’t dare oppose him or complain. He moved his mouth along my neck, down to my shoulders, and along my upper chest, finally coming to a rest at my left nipple. As he playfully licked and kissed my nipple, I admired his muscular shoulders, arms, and chest. “Relax,” he breathed as he shifted his eyes to meet mine. I did my best. It wasn’t easy, but I fought not to squirm. He kissed and sucked each nipple, alternating back and forth, until I was an absolute mess. Moaning and chewing my bottom lip as I

wondered where his next place of focus would be, I watched him as he glanced around my body, kissing various spots, including my hips. Having reached a level of arousal that was difficult to hide, I continued to moan as his mouth cupped the top of my wet mound. His tongue immediately found my clit, and he began to tickle it with the tip of his tongue while he slowly slid his finger in and out of me. Lost in the sexual satisfaction Jackson provided me, I continued to bite my lip in an effort to remain quiet. He had not instructed me to do so, nor had he advised me of anything for that matter, but in the absence of his command to do otherwise, I always chose silence. As he continued to carefully and quietly lick my pussy, I raised my ass from the bed and arched my back. His hands cupped the bottom of my butt, holding me against his soft mouth. Being able to actually see him in the well-lit room was as much of a turn-on as anything, and seeing him do what he was doing was driving me insane. A few more seconds of his sucking and licking my clit, I released my lower lip and groaned into the open room. The orgasm continued for as long as he licked me, which was a period of time long enough for me to exhaust myself fully. As I collapsed onto the bed and sucked the air for my next breath, he glanced up and smiled. Still fighting against my heaving lungs, I looked down at him and wanted to say something, but realized doing so was going to be impossible. As I waited for my mind to return to the present, and my breathing to allow me to say what it was I wanted to say, he pulled himself upward and guided himself into me. Holding my shoulders in his hands, and without speaking, his every movement and continued gentle touch said everything his mouth did not. Slowly working his hips back and forth, he moved his thickness in and out with precision, kissing me on the lips and neck the entire time. Although having Jackson tie me up and fuck me gave me an all new level of excitement to look forward to, having him do what he was now doing elevated me to a different sexual platform altogether. One that wasn’t in the moment, but one that told me long after the sex was over, I would cling to the memories of the event, knowing it was not only special for some reason to him, but special in an equal manner to me. Dirty talk and the paddle were some of my favorite things on the rough side of sex, but this was something I had never really experienced. He continued to kiss my neck and shoulders, holding my butt in the air and grinding against me

slowly and passionately the entire time. As the sound of my wetness provided the music for his sexual dance to continue, he kissed and worked his hips in tune with my soul. In a matter of minutes, I sank my fingertips into his back, opened my mouth, and bit into the muscle on his shoulder. As I moaned into his flesh he proceeded to push me over the edge and into a place only he could push me. And I erupted into a heavenly state of being at the same time he erupted into me. When all of the moaning stopped, he collapsed onto my chest and kissed my neck lightly. As our presence in the bedroom somehow changed from two people making love to become one loving sexual being, I must have fallen asleep. And that night, in my dreams, I was the envy of every woman on earth.

JACK August 23, 2006 Although I had never been one to allow people I didn’t know or respect to have an influence my life, seeing what outsiders did or hearing their thoughts, and later considering them as an option wasn’t unheard of. More often than not, I dismissed the actions, thoughts, or opinions of others, and did whatever it was I thought was best or appropriate. “Some in the lifestyle look at it as an equivalent of marriage. Others see it as another level of commitment, a step higher on the ladder of commitment. I can’t be any more committed to you, Em, and I’m pretty fucking sure you can’t be any more committed to me, can you?” I asked. “No, I sure can’t,” she responded from behind me as she gazed down at the table in front of the bench where I was seated. “This isn’t a conventional collar. I don’t buy into all of that ‘owned by’ or ‘property of’ shit. You’re a woman, an individual, and you’ll never be property of mine. You and I have agreed to take this journey together, and I’m just as much yours as you are mine. Fuck, I don’t know, I just want something we can share.”

I glanced down at the two pieces of flat silver I had purchased. “You know, people get married and share rings as a gesture in commitment, right?” I shifted my eyes upward. She nodded her head. “Uh huh.” “Well, this will be kind of like that,” I explained. “And for as long as we are together, we’re never going to take ‘em off, understood?” “Yes, Sir,” she responded. “You make me happy, Em,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward the bench. “Thank you. You make me pretty fucking happy, too,” she said with a laugh. I slid the longer piece of silver in front of me, taped it to the steel table, and picked up the hammer. After selecting the appropriate letters from the uppercase steel stamps, I hammered the words and Roman numerals into the silver strap. I admired the craftsmanship for a moment, lifted the piece of freshly stamped metal from the bench, and stood from my seat. In the center, our anniversary and our names were clearly marked. There would be no doubt to anyone who had an opportunity to see it what it represented. I held the soon to be necklace in front of her and allowed her to accept it as hers. As she took it from my hands, she smiled. “I can’t wait to wear it,” she said softly. “How are you going to bend it?” “I’ll form it with a rubber hammer over that piece of scrap pipe I bought,” I said as I tilted my head toward the table. She glanced up and smiled. “I can’t wait.” “Let me make mine,” I said as I sat down on the bench. I hammered the same inscription on a one inch wide sterling silver strap I had purchased for me to wear as a cuff. I stood from the bench and stared down at the cuff admiringly.

JACKSON XI-XXI-MMVI EMILY I extended my hand, took the piece of steel from her, and laid both straps on the bench beside the pieces of pipe. After a few swings from the rubber mallet, the silver was bent perfectly to form the necklace and the bracelet they were intended to be. “Until our love for each other ends, and I pray it never does, don’t remove this for any reason,” I said as I opened the formed circle and stretched it around her neck. “I won’t,” she said as I bent the strap into place. I had purchased a half inch thick piece of sterling silver for her necklace and a one inch wide piece for my bracelet. The thickness of the metal made bending it by hand difficult, even for me. The quality of the jewelry was such that it would without a doubt last a lifetime “Here,” I said as I handed her the bracelet. “What?” she murmured. “Slide it onto my wrist, and just turn it to the side…” I said as I held my left arm in front of her. She slid the bracelet over my wrist, twisted it into place, and gazed down at it for a long moment. “You won’t remove this, either?” she asked. “I don’t intend to,” I said as I admired it. “Promise?” she asked. I cleared my throat. “I can’t promise it won’t come off, Em.” “Listen, I don’t ever make a promise I can’t keep. So I can only promise you I don’t intend to take it off or allow it to be removed, understand?” I said in a soft tone. Still gazing down at my wrist, she responded. “Yes, Sir.” As she glanced upward and her eyes met mine, a tear rolled down her cheek. It had been three months that we had been together, but I wasn’t counting. All I knew was how she made me feel, and as far as I was concerned, Em was the only woman on earth, and the only thing in my life that truly mattered.

My brothers in the club remained close, but the bond, the love, and the relationship was much different with Em. Having my MC Brothers in my life allowed me to exist and feel as if I had the family I never had a kid. Having Em in my life allowed me to begin, for the first time, truly living life. “I love you, Emily,” I said as I wiped the tear from her cheek. It was the first time I had told her I loved her. She inhaled a choppy breath, exhaled, and began to softly cry. “Well, you’re late,” she sobbed as she reached to wipe the tears from her face. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her into my chest, rubbing my hands along the small of her back as I held her in my arms. “What’s that?” I whispered, confused by her response. “You’re late,” she sobbed. “I’ve been loving you for a while now.” I held her in my arms for some time, almost afraid to let her go, and equally afraid to speak. As we rocked back and forth in each other’s arms, I realized even more clearly that living life without Em would be impossible. The gesture of the bracelet and necklace were more for her than they were for me. I knew how I felt, and leaving her would kill me. She allowed me to see for the first time that not only is love blind, but luck is even more so, and it was by mere luck that we happened upon each other. As we rocked back and forth in the center of the garage, our teetering soon turned into a slow dance step. And, as we danced to a song that wasn’t playing, on a dance floor that didn’t exist, I fell a little more in love with the woman I was certain I would spend every day of my life loving no less than I loved at that exact moment. I closed my eyes, pressed her head to my chest, and continued to dance as if it were my last day on earth. Yet, I felt as if it were my first.

EMILY September 13, 2006 I finally came to the realization I didn’t need to do anything but exist to keep Jackson happy with me. I really don’t recall if it came as an epiphany one day, or if it was something that happened over the course of our time together, but one day things in my mind changed. I’m sure Jackson didn’t see any changes, but at least in my mind, I saw significant changes in my perception of life, myself, and our relationship’s ability to go the distance without effort. Now simply doing what made me feel complete and whole left me believing satisfying Jackson required nothing more than allowing nature to take its course. As long as the world kept spinning, we were both extremely happy. But as happy as I was, I wanted just a little bit more. “Jesus, Em. I’m telling you. One of these days,” he said as he wagged his fork toward me. “You likey?” I grinned. “You know, I’ve heard of this stuff, but I’ve never eaten it,” he said as he shoved a forkful of the

eggs into his mouth. Seeing him so genuinely happy over something as simple as a meal satisfied me to no end. Cooking, in itself, satisfied me, and cooking for him satisfied me even more so. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for him to eat what I had prepared and dislike it, it actually had never happened. Some meals he seemed to like much more than others, and without a doubt, this was one of them. “So what’s in this sauce?” he asked. “You don’t want to know, you’ll probably never want them again,” I responded as I pressed my fork through the bottom of the English muffin. I felt no need to tell him making the hollandaise sauce was something that took several evenings of practice, ruining multiple batches before I figured out the perfect temperature, how to add the butter, and the need to stir in a few teaspoons of hot water when it got too thick. It was a time consuming process, and patience was key in the preparation. The repeated evenings of practice allowed me on this particular Saturday morning to make the perfect sauce for our eggs Benedict and look like a true professional. “Seriously, I want to know,” he said as he shook his egg filled fork over his plate. “Egg yolks, butter, Worchester sauce, lemon juice, white pepper, a little water, and a lot of time,” I responded. It really did taste good, and although I realized it wasn’t necessarily good for Jackson and his healthy diet, it was something we could enjoy together from time to time. “Add it to the list,” he said as he shoveled the last bite into his mouth. “Is there more?” he asked. I nodded my head as I stood from my seat. “Let me get it for you,” I said. “I’ll get it,” he said as he stood. “Just let me do it,” I said as I reached for his plate. “And what list?”

“For your restaurant, I’m telling you, this stuff would make a puppy pull a freight train. The fellas would kill someone for a plate of this shit,” he said as he followed me to the stove. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” I said as I placed the English muffins in the toaster. After preparing his plate, I handed it to him and followed him into the dining room. Walking in front of me, he picked up one of the English muffins and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, egg and all. As he licked the hollandaise sauce from his fingers, I shook my head in what I wanted him to see as disbelief, but was actually pride. Jackson made me feel good about myself. I had never been a woman who lacked self-esteem, and actually prided myself in being just the opposite, but how Jackson made me feel as a result of what he did, what he said, and how he treated me in and out of the bedroom made me feel like I was truly the most important person in his life. And I knew from knowing him that he wasn’t a man who was easily impressed. He continuously praised me, be it verbally or from something as ridiculous as shoving an entire English muffin, Canadian bacon slice, and a baked egg into his mouth all at once. His constant praise allowed me to understand just what I meant to him, and being that woman was all I ever wanted in life. Being that woman to him… Explaining how it made me feel was impossible. It was something that had to be experienced. I often felt sorry for the women I saw with men when I went shopping, or as we rode together in the poker runs, wondering just how they felt, knowing there was no way their man was as good as Jackson was. I felt blessed to have him in the capacity I had him, and thanked God each day for the place he had taken in my life. “We’ve talked about this a while back,” I said as I poked the last piece of my muffin with my fork. “What’s that?” he asked as he shoveled the breakfast into his mouth. “Well, summer’s leaving, and it’s almost October…” I said, pausing to allow him to pay attention to my request. He glanced up from his plate and grinned. “Your parents?” he asked.

I nodded my head, giddy that he remembered. My mother’s birthday was on October 8th, and I had planned on driving to Montana to see her and my father. Having Jackson go with me, meet my parents, and see where I grew up would mean the world to me. I mentioned it once, and feared bringing it up again, but felt if I didn’t he sure wasn’t going to. No differently than any other girl, I wanted all of my concerns and problems to simply take care of themselves, and never actually have to address them. In my mind, mentioning it once to Jackson was the same as begging him to go, and his not remembering the date, location of the city, or why we were going would indicate he had no desire to go, and his lack of mentioning it as the date approached would do nothing but prove it. But that wasn’t the case. He remembered. “October 8th, isn’t that when you said her birthday was?” he asked as he wiped the little remaining hollandaise sauce from his plate with his finger. “Holy crap, you remembered the date?” I gasped. “Well, you fucking told me. Jesus, Em, I’m not a fucking dumb ass,” he said. “Well, I didn’t think you’d remember,” I said. “Thanks, you little shit. Maybe after this breakfast settles, I’ll teach you a little lesson,” he said as he stood from his seat. “You done?” he asked. “I’ll get it,” I said as I pointed toward his chair. “I’ll get it. Hand me your plate,” he said. I handed him my plate, grinned, and did my best to relax. I was a little more excited than I expected I would be. The thought of him meeting my parents made me nervous, happy, and extremely content all at the same time. I had told my parents about him, and was completely truthful regarding who he was, and what he was like. Having parents who were not judgmental, open-minded, and ultimately sought only what was in

my best interest was a true blessing. As Jackson walked into the dining room, he stared down at his hand as he extended his fingers and counted. “8th is a Wednesday. We can leave on the Friday, Saturday, whatever you want,” he said as he sat down. “I love you,” I said. “Well, I fucking love you too. Just let me know when we’re going,” he said with a nod as he reached for his cup of coffee. “I work the Friday before. Maybe if I pack Saturday we could leave Sunday, there’ll be like no traffic at all,” I said. “Sunday sounds good, Em,” he responded. I stood from my seat, walked to where he sat, and wrapped my arms around his neck as I stood behind him. Nothing could make me happier than spending the rest of my life with him and I looked forward to what each day brought us. I now looked forward to the arrival of Thanksgiving and Christmas, and making a huge meal for him, his friends, and possibly even his sister. Although he spoke of his sister often, and went to see her from time to time, he was very protective of her. I hadn’t met her yet, but he assured me I would soon. I realized as she was the only family he ever had that he held her in a different place in his heart than most men held their sisters. In time, I was sure his sister and I would be the best of friends. “Now, I remembered about your mother’s birthday, did you remember about today?” he asked. I remembered nothing. I gazed into the kitchen, rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet, and held him in my arms. As I searched through my mind for any recollection of anything he had told me, he laughed and cleared his throat. “Got a club meeting about the Shovelheads, remember? Told ya I’d be gone most all afternoon, if not maybe into tonight,” he explained. “Oh, that. Yeah, I remembered,” I lied as I rested my chin against his shoulder

He reached around, grabbed the back of my neck in his hand, pulled me forward, and almost flipping me onto the table. He pressed his mouth against my ear and exhaled a long sigh. “You didn’t remember shit,” he whispered. “You’re right,” I admitted, finding slight humor in the irony of it all. “Well, I’m going to go change the oil in my sled. See if you can remember to be here when I get home tonight,” he said as he stood. I narrowed my gaze and pushed my hands against his chest. “I’ll always be here when you get home,” I said as I shoved him. “And eventually, I’ll always come home,” he said as he leaned forward and puckered his lips. Jackson wasn’t a man I had simply fallen in love with, he had become a part of my inner being. No differently than my lungs, heart, kidneys, and liver were all needed to keep me alive, Jackson was now a necessary part of my existence. Without him, I was certain to wither and die. With him in my life, I continued to grow, no differently than the rose bush we had planted; becoming slightly closer to heaven with each passing day. “Promise?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Promise.” And if there was one thing that I could always count on with Jackson, it was that he kept his promises. No matter what.

JACK September 13th, 2006 I rarely reached a point that I got drunk, and generally stopped drinking long before I had to worry about it. Not unlike anything else, there always seemed to be a time that whatever I held in my ‘yet bag’ eventually escaped, and the typical day turned into a not-so-typical one. This particular night was one of those nights. “Well, it’s pretty fuckin’ sad if you ask me. I ain’t liking it that we’re gonna have to make a stand against these pricks,” Sarge said as he pushed himself away from the bar. “We gotta do what we gotta do, Sarge,” I said. “I’m gonna piss and get the fuck out of here,” he muttered as he walked toward the bathroom. “Fuh…fuh…fuckers ain’t goh…goh…got no fuh…fucking respect, kah…kah…Killer,” Chili said as he finished his drink. “Sure don’t,” I agreed.

The entire MC had met at a bar to discuss the problems with the Shovelheads MC, who had been caught on three separate occasions flying a bottom rocker claiming our territory as theirs. It was undisputed that the territory was ours, and every other club in existence recognized it as such, and chose to set up shop somewhere else. Their blatant disrespect toward our club, my brothers, and our repeated requests to stand down had done the damage, and now it was time they pay the price. We voted to provide a final warning, and if they were seen again wearing a lower rocker on their cut, it was agreed we would be in an all-out war. When rival clubs declared war, and I hoped we didn’t reach that point, there were no rules. Upon being in each other’s presence, guns, knives, clubs, and chains took the place of fists, and generally a meeting by chance ended up in several deaths. I took an oath when I joined the club, and as the club had held up their end of the bargain, I felt I needed to hold up mine. As far as I was concerned, the oath was a promise, and I didn’t intend to ever break a promise. I would do whatever it took to keep my brothers in the club from harm, and to protect and preserve the colors I proudly wore as a fully patched in member of the MC. “I’m gonna guh…guh…get the fuh…fuh…fuck outta here,” Chili said as he stood from his seat. “Ain’t drunk yet for the night?” I asked, realizing after I had spoken it made very little sense. “Not yuh…yuh…yet.” He grinned as he slapped me on the back. “wuh…wuh…wouldn’t be stuh… stuh…stutterin’ if…I wuh…wuh…was.” I nodded my head and waved. As I gazed blankly at my beer, Sarge slapped his hands on the bar beside me, startling me slightly. As I spun around, he chuckled and slapped his hand against my back. “I’m rolling out. There’s a few of the fellas still here playin’ pool, you alright to ride?” he asked. “Not even close,” I said over my shoulder. “Well, sober up before you get outta here. If you need, there’s a hotel next door,” he said as he pointed toward the door. “I’ll sober up,” I said. “Gotta get home to for Em. Waiting…”

“What can I get you two?” the bartender asked. “I’m headin’ out, get him a coffee and a burger, no cheese,” Sarge said as he slapped his hand against my back. “Fear the act of no man…” he said as he walked toward the door. I raised my finger in the air as I swiveled my stool in his direction, “For the fury of hell is yours…” I sat at the bar for some time, and eventually, my coffee and burger arrived. As I reached for the burger, Lucky sat down beside me. I glanced over my left shoulder, recognized him, and exhaled a sigh of disgust as I lifted the burger from my plate. “So, Killer, what about them ‘heads? Fuckers gonna get what they deserve, huh?” he asked. I bit into my burger and shrugged my shoulders. He was part of the reason I was as drunk as I was. Over the course of the afternoon, someone continued to buy me shots of whiskey, and, upon realizing I was inebriated, I asked the bartender who my generous friend was. His response was to point at Lucky, which caused me to stop accepting the shots. The effects of the alcohol, however, continued to creep up on me. As did their provider. He had asked me no less than half a dozen times what I would do if I encountered one of the Shovelheads wearing a lower rocker claiming our territory. My response was the same each time; a shrug of my shoulders and a short stare. I figured if he had to ask, he sure didn’t need to know. “Lemme get a Budweiser for me and my buddy,” he said as he raised his hand in the air. “Ain’t drinking any more. I got to sober up and ride,” I said as I wiped my hands on my napkin. “Damn, I drank one to one with you on those shots, Killer. You tellin; me I can out drink ya?” he asked.

“Gimme that beer,” I said as I waved my hand at the bartender. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said as he slapped the edge of the bar with his open hand. “Fine, I’ll drink your beer,” I said, knowing there was no way I’d let him out drink me. I finished my burger with hope of it providing a little bit of a buffer between me and the drunkenness developing within me. As soon as the beer arrived, I tilted it toward him and drank half the bottle in one swallow. Lucky followed close behind, his mouth running every second it wasn’t swallowing beer. “So those fuckers wearing that rocker on their cut, it’s fucking on if we see ‘em, huh?’ he asked. I nodded my head and finished my beer. I glanced over my shoulder toward the pool table. A few of the members and one of the prospects stood by the table shooting a game of pool. “See them fuckers behind ya?” I asked. He turned around, gazed toward the pool table for a minute, and turned around. “Yeah,” he responded. “I’d take a bullet for any of ‘em, and I can’t even tell ya their names right now. That’s how I feel about it,” I said as I turned toward the bar. “But what about those fuckin’ Shovelheads?” he asked. “They’re askin’ for it by flyin’ that rocker, huh?” “Sure are,” I said. “Two more,” he barked at the bartender. “I need to quit,” I said, realizing the beer I had just finished was doing me no good whatsoever. He cocked one eyebrow and chuckled. “Don’t let me outdrink ya, Killer.” “Fuck it, bring it on,” I said as I waved my hand toward the bar.

“So, why they call ya Killer?” he asked. “Why not?” I said. “There’s got to be a story,” he said. “I wanna hear it.” “Well, I ain’t lookin’ to tell it, so you’ll just have to leave here mad,” I said. “Well, when you’re ready to tell it, I’m ready to hear it,” he responded. “Duly fuckin’ noted,” I nodded. The bartender placed two more beers in front of us. Disgusted at the thought of another drink, I stared at the bottle beside me as if it were poison. “So, what if we’re pulling out of here and we see one of them fuckers?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Shit, I’m gonna out drink the Killer,” Lucky said as he reached for his beer. I shook my head, reached for the beer and downed it in one gulp. After spinning my stool half way around, I slid off the edge and stumbled toward the bathroom. As I pissed and realized I was too drunk to even stand, I called Em and told her she could come join me in the hotel for the night, but riding home wasn’t an option. I stumbled back to the bar, sat down beside Lucky, and stared at the wall. Relieved my drunken night was coming to a close, and knowing a good night’s sleep would be enough to bring me back to my senses, I gazed down at my boots and hoped the Shovelheads had enough common sense to take Sarge’s final warning as what it was intended to be. The last straw. “So, seriously, what if one of them fuckers…” Lucky began. “Listen you little fucker,” I said as I spun around in my stool. “It’s no fucking secret I don’t like you. But if one of them fuckers came in here with a lower rocker claiming my MC’s territory on it, I’d take a bullet for you. And, if I had to, I’d kill one of ‘em, or all of ‘em for that matter. You know why?”

His Adam’s apple raised and lowered as he swallowed. “Why’s that?” he asked. “Because by wearing that rocker, they’re saying they’re willing to kill us. I don’t like it, and yeah, just like kids on the school yard, I wish we could all get along. But some people just don’t play well with others. And I got a few dozen brothers, a sister, and a good god damned Ol’ Lady who expect me to protect ‘em, and if that means taking out one of them cock suckers before they try to kill the ones I love, well so fuckin’ be it,” I growled. “Now kick fuckin’ rocks,” I said as I pointed to the door. He nodded his head as if he was satisfied my explanation was sufficient. After damned near falling off his barstool, he sauntered to the door, turned, waved, and gave me shitty little grin. After Em showed up, we rented a hotel room and shoved my bike in beside the bed. As I gazed at my bike and slowly fell off into a drunken sleep, I wondered just what the future for the club might hold, and prayed that the Shovelheads had enough common sense to do what they had to do to prevent any bloodshed. Wars are never won, they’re only fought. And personally, I preferred to only fight the fights I felt I could win.

EMILY October 4th, 2006 I stood at the stove cooking half a pound of sausage for what I had learned to be Jackson’s second favorite breakfast: a baked egg casserole. A combination of eggs, potatoes, cheese, sausage, mushrooms, onions, bell peppers, flour, and milk, the concoction after cooked was quite satisfying, and easy to eat. As far as he was concerned, it was a meal in itself, and he loved eating the leftovers. Only one day stood between us and hitting the road to see my parents. I hadn’t seen them in six months, and although it seemed like a short time, it was in that amount of time Jackson and I had become inseparable. I drained the grease from the skillet, added the sausage to the mixture, and poured it into the casserole dish. After placing it into the oven, I leaned over the kitchen sink to clean up what little mess I had made. Cleaning up as I cooked was a habit I more than likely inherited from my mother, who was always cooking and cleaning. As a little girl, regardless of what point I ever encountered her in the process of cooking, the kitchen was always clean. She made it a point to pick up after herself and clean as she cooked, never leaving a mess for anyone to see.

As I tidied up the kitchen, I wondered just how much of my mother was within me. She was more than likely an older submissive version of me. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, and waiting on my father hand and foot were common traits of hers, and far from typical of what I had seen of other mothers. As I gazed out the kitchen window at the rose bush we had planted, I laughed to myself at the thought of my mother and me being so much alike. Gazing blankly at the bush and sinking into a sense of love, family, and complete bliss, I thanked God for Jackson and everything he provided me. While I relished in my thoughts, a dozen men wearing military type gear and carrying rifles stormed into the back yard. Scared beyond belief, I opened my mouth and tried to scream. Petrified, and more than likely in complete shock, my tongue didn’t follow my brain’s instructions. I swallowed heavily as they continued to surround our home. “Jackson, people are in the yard!” I eventually screamed. “What?’ he yelled from the back room. I turned and ran toward the hallway. They looked like men in the military, and there were dozens of them, all armed with guns. I didn’t know what else to do, so I began screaming at the top of my lungs. “Help!” I screamed as I ran toward the back bedroom. Jackson met me in the middle of the hallway wide-eyed and wondering what had happened. As I attempted to catch my breath and explain, the windows began to break, the doors were kicked in, and everyone began screaming at once. “Get down, get down, get the fuck on the floor!” a man screamed at Jackson as he pointed a gun directly at his head. They were everywhere, screaming, pointing guns in front of them, and running in every direction. “Jackson,” I cried. “What’s happening?” “Get on the fucking floor!” a man demanded as he pointed a gun in my face. “You fucking touch her, and I’ll god damned kill you,” I heard Jackson scream. “Jackson!” I blubbered as I waved my hands at my sides.

I was scared, confused, and had no idea what to do. Jackson was on the floor beside me, down on his knees with a gun pressed against the back of his head. The man pushed his knee between Jackson’s shoulders and pulled his hands behind his back while another pointed a gun at his chest. “Stop it, you’re hurting him,” I cried. “Keep your fucking hands where I can see them,” another man screamed as he pointed a gun in my face. “Are there any weapons in the house?” A man asked Jackson. “Ma’am, get on the ground…” “Clear…” “Are there any weapons in the house?” “Ma’am, you need to get down on the ground. Do you have a weapon?” “Leave her alone, I’ll kill the entire lot of you if she’s even fucking touched,” Jackson bellowed. “Are there any weapons in the house?” “Clear…” “Ma’am, get on the god damned floor.” I watched as two men grabbed Jackson’s arms and lifted him from the floor. “Come on, Shephard.” “All clear…” “I want to exercise my right to remain silent, and I want an attorney,” Jackson said as they hoisted him to his feet. “Same goes for her,” he hollered as they dragged him toward the door.

“Don’t answer their questions, Em,” he yelled as another man pushed his way past Jackson and entered the house. “You little cock sucker, I knew it,” Jackson said as he kicked his foot toward the man. “If any one of you cock suckers touches a hair on her head, I’ll fucking kill you,” Jackson shouted as they dragged him through the door. “Ma’am, get down on the floor,” a man in front of me demanded. “I want to exercise my right to…uhhm…to remain silent. And I want to speak to an attorney,” I said, surprised at how calm I seemed to be. In hindsight, I was probably in shock. “Ma’am, I’m not going to tell you again, get down on the floor. Do you have any weapons in the home?” he asked. The tears began to roll down my cheeks. Everything I had dreamed of, everything I wanted, and the only man I had ever loved were all beginning to spin in my head, and I had no idea of what was truly happening. The sounds surrounding me became dull, distant, and impossible to comprehend. And, for some reason, I remembered nothing until two men were screaming questions in my face while I was handcuffed to a table in what I was told were the ATF offices. And I began to cry.

JACK October 4th, 2006 My entire world came crashing down in front of me as the ATF, US Marshalls, and the local SWAT team stormed into our home. Now, being questioned by a man I never liked, had a difficult time trusting, and rarely even spoke to was becoming harder and harder to accept as reality. “Mr. Shephard, I’m Special Agent Blackburn with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. For a few years, you’ve known me as Lucky. You, Sir, are in a world of shit,” he said as he paced back and forth in the small interrogation room. “I suggest you cooperate,” the other agent sighed as he stood from his seat. “Where’s Emily?” I asked. “She’s in the other interrogation room,” Blackburn responded. “They’re pounding on her right now. She’s going to give you, the club, and every one of your brothers up, women always do,” Blackburn chuckled.

“Meant what I said earlier, if any one of you pricks touches her, I’ll fucking kill you,” I hissed. “See that?” Blackburn said as he pointed up toward the center of the upper wall opposite of where I was seated. “That’s a camera. And it records sound. And you just threatened to kill and ATF agent. You’re double fucked, Shephard,” he said. I shook my head and pulled against the handcuffs. “Where’s my attorney?” I asked. “Must be stuck in traffic,” Blackburn shrugged. “Now, I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer them, understand?” he asked. I didn’t respond. Blackburn rested his hand on the leather badge holder that was clipped to his belt. With his free hand, he rubbed the stubble of a few days growth of beard as he paced back and forth. “You’ve been indicted for conspiring to commit murder, using a firearm in furtherance of a crime, making a terroristic threat, dealing firearms without a license, money laundering, and failure to file federal tax returns for the last five years. In short, Killer, you’re fucked. Now, you’re best bet will be to admit to your crimes, and Pratt and I will have a talk with the US Attorney and see if we can get a departure on your sentence. Right now, with the RICO Act, you’re looking at life.” He fixed his eyes on mine and glared. “I know it’s a difficult thing to grasp right now, but you need to think of how you want to proceed. You haven’t got much time, and our capacity to modify your sentence ends when this case is filed, right Pratt?” he said as he turned to face the other agent. Pratt nodded his head. “Right.” “So…” Blackburn turned to face me and cocked one eyebrow. “What are you thinking?” I did my best to shrug my shoulders, pulling against the handcuffs as I did so.

“Me? I’m thinking if you get Pratt here to uncuff me, I’ll beat your little ass. That’s what I’m thinking,” I said flatly. “We’ll give you some time to think,” Pratt said. “You need a drink or anything?” I shook my head. “No. I’m done letting ATF agents buy me drinks. It never ends well. Next time you two pricks come in here, an attorney better be with you. I’m done talking.” As they walked out of the room, everything began to make sense. Blackburn - aka Lucky - was an ATF agent, and he had spent the last two years trying to make a case against the MC. As I sat and gazed down at the table, I wondered how many of my brothers were handcuffed in various rooms in the building, and hoped no matter how many there were, that they had the ability to be as resistant as me to answer any questions. I closed my eyes, pulled against the handcuffs, and eventually relaxed, resting my forearms on the steel table in front of me. I prayed that Em was holding up well under the pressure they were sure to be putting on her, and that she would be able to understand what had truly happened and not hold it against me. Regardless of the long list of bullshit charges that Blackburn had blurted out, all I had done was express my willingness to protect the people in my life who were important to me. The men and two women who I loved enough to sacrifice myself to protect. I sighed heavily, glanced up at the camera, and extended my middle finger. As I raised my hand in the air as high as the handcuffs would allow, flying the universal sign of ‘fuck you’, I said. NWA said it best. Fuck the police.

EMILY October 28th, 2006 It had been two weeks since they arrested Jackson. Although they didn’t charge me with any crimes, they claimed they could have. At first I was terrified, but after talking to an attorney I was pretty confident they couldn’t charge me with any crimes whatsoever. It was now Sunday, the only day they allowed me to see Jackson. Seeing him in the Federal Holding Facility wasn’t an easy thing for me; glass separated us, and I wasn’t able to touch him. Seeing him wearing the orange suit seemed strange because he looked like a common criminal, and regardless of what they were saying about him, he was far from common, and he was not a criminal. “Good morning, Miss Stewart,” the guard said as I dropped my car keys and purse into the basket. “Good morning,” I responded, surprised that he’d remembered my name. “Just walk though slowly,” he said as he pointed to the metal detector. I held my arms to my sides and walked through the contraption, expecting it to beep. After passing

through without incident, I turned to face the guard and grinned. “Have a nice day,” he said as he handed me the basket. “Thank you,” I said. The guards at the facility were far more pleasant than the ATF agents who arrested us. I had always believed law enforcement officers were hired to serve and protect and not harass, ridicule and lie. The level of unprofessionalism I witnessed from the agents on the day we were arrested was beyond what most US citizens would even believe, and I expected not many realized just how arrogant and rude the ATF agents really were. As I walked down the long corridor I cringed at the thought of seeing Jackson while he was incarcerated. Although I fully realized I would wait for him as long as I had to, seeing him on the other side of the glass wall was difficult for me. Knowing I had no other choice was easy for me to understand, but not something I naturally accepted as being what was best for either of us. Jackson wasn’t someone I could ever replace. Not having him at home left me feeling empty, alone, and without purpose. I had spent the last two weeks cooking, cleaning, and crying. I hadn’t even returned to work, fearing I may have a breakdown if I even attempted to talk to anyone about what had happened. Strangely, none of Jackson’s brothers from the club came around or even asked about him, and from what little was reported in the newspaper, Jackson was the only man the ATF had arrested. Maybe it was some type of biker protocol, but if you asked me, I felt his brothers in the club were more like shitty friends or associates, and much less like the true brothers he believed them to be. “Shephard?” the guard asked as I opened the door into the visitation room. I nodded my head and attempted to force a smile. “Booth “A”,” the guard said as he pointed to the steel chair bolted to the floor in front of the glass partition. I sat down in the chair and gazed through the thick glass which was reinforced with strands of wire. After a few minutes of staring blankly into the opposite room, I saw Jackson approaching out of my

peripheral. I smiled and pressed my hand against the glass. As he sat down, he did the same. “How you holding up?” he asked. “Rock solid,” I responded, doing my best to hide the fact I was lying. “Yeah, me too,” he said. His beard was thicker than normal, and his hair was slightly longer than it had been on the previous week. Normally, he trimmed his beard every two or three days, leaving nothing but short stubble on his face. Now, his beard was fuller and resembled an actual beard, which seemed odd. Seeing the changes in his appearance provided affirmation that changes were taking place in his life as well as mine. “Is everyone leaving you alone?” I asked. “Babe, they’ve still got me in solitary confinement. I’m all alone. Probably best,” he said. I fought against the growing pressure in my throat and swallowed heavily. It was very difficult seeing him in this manner, and not anything I would ever become comfortable with. “Well, at least nobody’s messing with you,” I said. “I’ll be fine whenever they let me out into population, believe me,” he said. “Any of the fellas stop by?” he asked. My throat tightened. I wanted to lie and tell him they had all stopped by, worried about his wellbeing, and that they had been taking donations to assemble a legal team capable of crushing the charges against him, and that he’d be free in no time to speak of. Instead, the scared little girl in me surfaced, and my lower lip began to quiver. He gazed down at the floor and shook his head. “It ain’t easy for any of us,” he said as he shifted his eyes upward. “You get my cell phone and stuff?” he asked.

Still biting my lower lip, I nodded my head. “Any of ‘em text or call?” he asked. I remembered the items they provided me at the front desk after he was arrested: his cell phone, keys, wallet, and his silver cuff. As I shook my head from side-to-side, my lower lip freed itself from my teeth and I began to sob. I shook my head and wiped my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said as I tried desperately to keep from crying. “Em…” “Em…” “Emily.” I wiped my eyes, took a shallow breath, and glanced upward. “Yes, Sir?” “You got the key to the safe deposit box, right?” he asked. I nodded my head. “There’s about eighty grand in there in cash. I want you to use for whatever you need to. To survive through this,” he said. My eyes widened and my heart filled with a little more hope. “We could get you a real attorney, one who is mean, and tough, and…” I blurted excitedly. He slapped his hand against the glass. “No. Listen to me, Em. That money isn’t going to some fucking attorney. Do you understand me?” he said. “Yes, Sir,” I responded. “But…”

“But nothing, Em. But fucking nothing. I’ve got a court appointed attorney. I’ll be fine. I set that money aside for whenever I might need it. And now, I need it for you. Keep paying the rent, keep your spirits up, and this’ll be over before you know it, okay?” he said as he raised his hand to the glass. I raised my hand to the glass and situated it to meet the outline of his. “Okay,” I said. “Over before you know it,” he said. “Promise?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Promise.”

JACK November 20th, 2006 After filing a motion for a right to a speedy trial, the court date was set for the end of November. According to my attorney, it was a case of circumstantial evidence, primarily testimony, and a few recorded conversations. Strangely, the recording of the night I stated I was willing to kill a member of the Shovelheads wasn’t legible, and therefore wasn’t included in evidence. The remaining charges were dropped, and according to my attorney, were simply bullshit used to persuade me to plead guilty to the only offense they intended to charge me with. Conspiracy to commit murder. My attorney seemed confident without the recording, and without anyone to corroborate the story of the night in question, that the trial would be short, without any surprises, and I would be a free man when it was all over. Eager to get it all behind me, and disappointed at the US Attorney’s office for filing a motion to keep Em out of the courtroom, I sat through the trial alone, short of the presence of my sister. Surprised

very little by the lack of attendance on Hell’s Fury’s part, it still disappointed me greatly that the men I perceived as brothers were all absent when I felt I needed them the most. According to my attorney, the motion filed to keep Em out of the courtroom was done as a tactic to keep me agitated and therefore easier for the US Attorney to irritate on the witness stand. My irritated nature would then support their claim of my temper and state of mind as the killer they represented me as being. Claiming they may decide to have Em testify against me, as she wasn’t protected by the clause preventing wives from testifying against their husbands, she was prohibited from observing any of the testimony in the trial. After having sat through the trial laced with lies, lost recordings, and false accusations, I was grateful she wasn’t in attendance. “And when you questioned him, specifically what was asked, Special Agent Blackburn?” the US Attorney asked. “I made reference to the rival club, the Shovelheads, by simply mentioning there had been discussions regarding them wearing a lower rocker claiming territory,” Blackburn responded. “And the defendant turned to me and offered his resolution to the statement,” Blackburn continued. “And, according to your earlier testimony, the lower rocker as you called it, was nothing more than a piece of cloth with the Kansas embroidered on it. Is that correct?” the US Attorney asked. “That is correct,” Blackburn responded. “Continue. The defendant’s resolution to the rival club wearing a piece of cloth with the name of the state in which they resided was what?” the US Attorney asked. “That he would kill each and every one of them,” Blackburn responded. You worthless little bastard. “And how did you react?” the US Attorney asked. “Contrary to my training and instructions from the main office, I was actually in fear for my life, Sir. It was no secret his road name was Killer, and he was prepared to kill anyone who opposed him,”

Blackburn responded. I swear, if I ever get my hands on you… “Road name? Can you expand, and explain to the jury what that means?” the US Attorney asked. “Absolutely. When an individual prospects for an outlaw club, they are trying out for a spot, say, no differently than trying out for a football or baseball team, say, as a free agent. During that process, every move, reaction, personality trait, everything is observed by the club. In the end, if accepted as a member, the recruit is given his colors, or patch as it is referred to, and a club name. The name is called a road name, and it is indicative of the man who wears it,” Blackburn explained. “And his was Killer?” the US Attorney asked. “Yes, Sir,” Blackburn said with a nod. “And were you given a name? When you were patched in, as you said,” the US Attorney asked. “Yes, Sir, I was,” he responded. “And may I ask what it might have been?” “Lucky,” Blackburn responded. “Interesting. Would you care to share why that particular name was chosen?” the US Attorney asked. “One night at the clubhouse, while acting in the capacity as an undercover agent, and attempting to be accepted as a prospect, we were all playing poker. I had won no less than half a dozen hands, and everyone called me lucky. The name just stuck,” he responded. You lying little prick. You got that name after you wrecked that little Sportster, and made it out alive. I tapped my attorney on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. “He’s fucking lying,” I said. “What did you expect?” my attorney responded.

“So, based on your observation as a trained ATF agent, what would your testimony be regarding the earning of road names by a patched in member be?” the US Attorney asked. “Without a doubt, they are indicative of the who the man is, and what the club perceives him as being,” he responded. “An accurate description?” the US Attorney asked. “Yes, Sir,” he responded. “No further questions,” the US Attorney said. “Your witness,” the judge said. “No further questions, your honor,” my attorney stated. “You’re not going to ask him about the lies?” I whispered. “His testimony is made under oath. It is assumed everything he is saying is the truth, and I can’t question him regarding your opinion that it’s a lie. It’s for the jury to decide,” he responded. “My opinion? It isn’t a fucking opinion, he’s lying,” I said. “The United States rests, your honor,” the US Attorney said flatly. My attorney glared at me, stood from his seat, and made his statement. “The defense rests, your honor,” he said. Feeling cheated, and incapable of saying what I felt I needed to say in the manner I needed to say it, I was frustrated by the Federal Government’s procedures, policies, and the rules of law regarding how testimony was treated, accepted, and processed. After receiving instructions regarding decision making and the charges against me, the jury was excused to deliberate. And I faced life in prison if convicted of the crime. Negotiating for a lesser sentencing was not possible. Charged under the provisions of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, or RICO, I was fucked if convicted.

But I sat stone faced, somewhat confident that the United States of America would not convict one of its own citizens for making an idle comment in a drunken stupor one night in a bar. “They’ll take you back to your cell and after the jury decides we’ll assemble for the verdict,” my attorney said. “Any thoughts?” I asked. “Hard to say anything for sure, but I’m feeling pretty damned good. Now, I’ve got to run,” he responded as he reached for his leather bag full of files. I stood and placed my hands behind my back, all but inviting the US Marshall to handcuff me. After he did so, he led me to the holding facility. The walk was eerily quiet, and made me feel even less like the US citizen I had always believed was a title I was naturally able to claim. “Not supposed to say anything about the trial or give an opinion,” the Marshall said as he stopped outside the door leading into the holding facility. “Don’t expect you to,” I said. “Goes without saying, I didn’t say this,” he said. I nodded my head toward him and made note of his bronze name tag. L. R. Stone. “Blackburn’s a god damned liar,” he said. “Appreciate it,” I said in response. “Hope the best for you, son,” he said as he pressed the button on the wall, opening the door. Another guard led me to a meeting room where I waited in my slacks, jacket, and tie for the jury to reach a verdict. While I sat and considered what the future might hold, I prayed not for freedom, or for a favorable verdict, but for Em. I prayed she would have the strength to rise above all of this, regardless of the outcome, and proceed through life as if it never happened.

And I prayed for the ability to accept an unfavorable verdict, should it come to that, as the man I had always represented myself as being.

EMILY November 20th, 2006 Waiting for the court to decide Jackson’s fate wasn’t an easy thing for me. I was prohibited from seeing the trial, but now that it was over, I was allowed to go into the courtroom for his verdict to be read. I prayed all night, all morning, and even in the hallway for Jackson, and for me. I prayed that regardless of the verdict, we both would be provided the strength to continue living life loving each other and cherishing what we had the opportunity to share together. Life without Jackson was impossible for me to comprehend, and although I had made it the last two months without seeing him very often, it wasn’t easy for me at all. My heart felt empty, and I felt alone. Now walking into the courtroom, I felt as if my heart was a hollow shell, dangling ten feet behind me by a string as I made my way to my seat. “Are you Em?” a woman asked. She was small, cute, and very soft spoken. I nodded my head and forced a smile, something I had become quite good at in the last few

months. The gathering of ATF agents, many of which I remembered from the day of the raid stood beside her, all talking and laughing as if they didn’t have a worry in the world. I found it terribly wrong that if Jackson lost, he went to prison, and if the ATF lost, there was no punishment. In my opinion, if the government stood to lose the same as the citizens they tried to wrongly prosecute, they’d attempt to convict far fewer citizens. “I’m Sydney, Jackson’s sister,” she said. “Oh my God,” I gasped as I raised my hands to my face and covered my mouth. “I heard they prohibited you from seeing the trial,” she said as she shifted her eyes toward the ATF agents. I nodded my head. “They did. But I get to be here for this.” “Nice to meet you,” she said as the jury walked into the room. I stood and stared blankly into the courtroom, almost unaware of her or anyone else’s presence. As the US Marshall brought Jackson into the room, I admired his nicely trimmed beard, fancy clothes, and how he held his head high as he entered the room. “He looks good,” I said as I tilted my head toward him. “He does,” Sydney responded. “So, you were there the day they…” “All rise,” the bailiff bellowed. The courtroom all stood. The judge entered the courtroom from the back, undoubtedly from a secret place where no one could get to him. I shook my head the thought of the secrecy of it all. After he sat down, the bailiff barked out into the room. “You may be seated.” After shuffling some paperwork on his large wooden platform, the judge leaned toward the microphone. “In the matter of the United States versus Jackson Shephard have you reached a verdict? The judge

asked. “Yes, your honor, we have,” the juror responded. “And how do you find the defendant?” the judge asked. The man looked down at a sheet of paper he held as if he was uncertain of their finding. I crossed my fingers and began to pray as he read the verdict. “In the matter of the United States of America versus Jackson Shephard, we, the jury, find the defendant, guilty of conspiracy to commit murder,” the juror said. My stomach convulsed and I almost vomited. As the passageway in my throat constricted to a point making breathing difficult, I realized I was still standing. I fell to my seat and covered my face with my hands. This can’t be happening. As Sydney sat beside me sobbing and rubbing my back, loud cheers from the ATF agents erupted into the courtroom. “In the back!” the judge hollered. “There will be no outbursts in my courtroom. Cease or I will find you in contempt,” he demanded. The ATF agents became quiet, now laughing and chuckling in a dull roar. “Em…” I glanced upward. Jackson stood in front of me with his hands handcuffed behind his back, separated by the short wooden decorative wall standing between us. Still sobbing, I stood and stumbled to the wall. “Mr. Shephard, you need to come with us,” A Marshall said as he reached for Jackson’s arm. “Get your fucking hands off of me,” Jackson said. “I need to say something to her.” “Mr. Shephard…” he repeated. I hated seeing Jackson upset. As I began to plead with the Marshall, Jackson turned around,

scanned the courtroom, and shouted. “Marshall Stone!” he yelled. Another US Marshall quickly walked toward where we stood and talked to the first Marshall. “I can give you just a minute, Shephard,” he said. “Em, listen,” Jackson paused and cleared his throat. “Just let me go. Get your stuff out of the house, take the money, and go. Go open a restaurant, and start a new life somewhere…” “Stop talking like that,” I cried. “I love you…we just…” “Em, I love you, too,” he said, his voice carrying all of the emotion he was feeling. “But I’m not coming back. Now, take off that necklace and go somewhere…” “I’m never taking it off,” I interrupted. “Don’t leave like this,” I said as I attempted to find words to say all of the things that were running through my head. My entire world was crashing down around me and I had nothing to pick up the pieces. “Promise me. Promise me I’ll never see you again,” I blubbered between the sobbing and tears. “Em, I gotta go,” he said as the Marshall tugged against his arm. “Love you, Syd,” he said as he shifted his eyes toward his sister. He clenched his jaw, obviously fighting against his emotions. “And I love you, Em,” he said through his clenched teeth. “Promise me I’ll never see you again,” I said. “I gotta go, babe,” he said as he turned away. “Promise me,” I shouted as he walked away, peering over his shoulder as he took each step. And, as he walked away, he never said a word.

Not a single one.



JACK December 16, 2006 Do you have any regrets? Would you do anything differently if you could do it over? If you could turn back the clock Mr. Shephard, what, if anything… Each time someone asked me one of those questions, they got the same response as the person before them. Regret wasn’t something I had ever known. I lived life by my own set of rules, and I had never been ashamed of anything I chose to do in living it. Not always were my choices in line with the law, society’s belief, or what most considered to be moral or just; but that didn’t make my decisions - or me - wrong. Because of my personal opinions and my adherence to my own set of laws, I had always perceived myself as being a man of honor, and one with a purpose. It didn’t necessarily provide any assurance other people understood me or agreed with me, but changing my ways wasn’t an option. I realized in living my life I had made mistakes, I was no different than any other man; but acknowledging when I made them set me apart from most men. Recognizing my errors and realizing just what series of circumstances allowed them to come into play paved the way for me to always improve, making the days in my future fractionally better than the ones in my past.

Each new day in my life was always better than the one which preceded it. Always. He crossed his arms in what I had learned to be the standard prison Peckerwood pose, leaning to the side and studying me from head to toe as he did so. Standing six foot two and weighing roughly 220 pounds of solid muscle, Deuce would be intimidating to most men. No one, however, intimidated me. As he studied me I gazed around the cell, admiring the cleanliness. His cell was spotless and smelled like a hospital - at least what I remembered them smelling like when I was a kid. “You can’t just go knocking a motherfucker out in this joint, especially one of the blacks. You ever done federal time before?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Been in jail a few times. Never locked up like this, no.” He lifted his chin slightly and looked down his nose at me as he narrowed his gaze. “You bother to notice there’s segregation here? Cops don’t put blacks and whites in the same cell. Don’t mix whites and Mexicans either - or blacks and Mexicans for that matter. You notice at chow the blacks are on one side and the whites are on another? Same thing at the phones. Hell, look out on the run, they’ve even got their own place to post up. You notice that? Pretty hard to fucking miss.” I’d never considered myself to be a prejudiced man. As far as I was concerned, men were men, and placing one in a category of any kind prior to knowing who a man was or what he stood for was wrong. I understood prison was different, and would require adjustments on my part, but I didn’t have to agree with why it was the way it was. After a short glare for him having me redirected to his prison cell in the first place, I nodded my head once in affirmation. “Yeah, I noticed. Just what’s the fucking problem, Deuce? It’s Deuce, right?” I glanced over my shoulder toward the man who was slowly inching closer to where I was standing. “The problem is this. A white bustin’ the head of a black, especially the one you busted, can pop off a riot in here. You need to ask permission before you go thumpin’ another black,” he explained. As Deuce spoke, I noticed the man who shadowed him everywhere had moved half the distance between the cell door and where I stood. I immediately turned to face him and raised my hands into a defensive posture. “You wanting to fuck me or something?” I asked as I shifted my eyes along his lean muscular

frame. He was of average height, a little smaller than average size, and covered in an overabundance of prison tat’s, primarily swastikas and other white pride tattoos, including a 14/88 over his left eyebrow. I later learned 14 was the 14th letter in the alphabet, N, which represented the word Nazi, and 88 was the eight letter, H, twice, and stood for Hail Hitler. Dressed in white boxer shorts, white socks, no shirt, and his shower shoes, he looked like every other Peckerwood I’d seen, but the fact he was invading my bubble set him apart from the rest. His eyes widened as he stammered to form a response. “I was just…” “Well, you just better back the fuck up a few feet, little man. You rolling up on me like that is making me want to add you to the list of motherfuckers I’ve knocked out today,” I said. He leaned to the side and attempted to look around me - and toward Deuce - for answers. “Stand outside, Junior,” Deuce said from behind me. “I’m not fucking around,” I said as I turned to face Deuce. “You’re gonna have a tough life in here, Killer,” Deuce said. “You need to figure out how to do your time and keep your time from doing you.” I shook my head from side-to-side as I gazed down at the toilet blankly. After a moment of collecting my thoughts, I shifted my eyes toward Deuce and pursed my lips. As soon as he showed outward signs of being nervous, I relaxed, realizing he was no different than anyone else. Shot caller, my ass. “Doing time?” I said with a laugh. “I’m not doing time. I’ve got life in this place. Far as I’m concerned, this is my new home. I don’t let people disrespect me in my home, and I’m sure as fuck not going to let them do it here - and as far as I’m concerned the color of a man’s skin doesn’t protect him from shit.” He nodded his head and turned his palms upward. “In here it does.” “Got my own set of rules,” I seethed. He raised his right hand and extended his index finger. “If he disrespected you or the race, that’s

one thing. But you need to get permission. There’s always, what do you call it? Circumstances. God damn it I can’t think of it right now, but it’s a kind of circumstance that lets you, you know, kind of step away from what’s normally…” “Extenuating circumstances,” I interrupted. “Yep. Extenuating. Appreciate ya,” he said. “So I heard he called you a ‘Wood, and you started beatin’ on his black ass?” I shook my head. “Don’t know where you get your information, but that’s not even close. Here’s what went down, and I’ll tell you in advance, I don’t like repeating myself, and I’ve never been one to go over things and second guess my actions. Where I’m living doesn’t change that, so pay attention.” He widened his eyes as he knelt down and squatted, pressing his back to the wall as he did so. I’d seen many of the people relax like this in the five days I’d been in prison; it was almost as if they were sitting, but without the aid of a chair. “Have a seat,” he said as he tossed his head toward the toilet. The six foot by twelve foot cell was no different than the other 1800 cells in the prison. It had two steel beds on one wall, one over the other, a steel desk anchored to the wall, a one-piece steel toilet with a sink contoured into the top of it, a steel locker anchored to the wall, and a steel cell door with a hinged slot. After excluding the space taken by the beds, toilet, and desk, there wasn’t much room left. I glanced toward the toilet, shifted my eyes toward him, and shook my head. “No disrespect, but I’ll stand. So we were in the kitchen, in the dish room. He told me to work the back of the machine, grabbing the dishes as they came off the washer. I’d been working on the front of it for four hours, and I just got the hang of it, you know, I was kind of in a rhythm. So I told him to fuck off. I said ‘unless you’re a cop, you got no fucking business telling me what to do’. The motherfucker sized me up, pointed to the rear of the machine, and told me to ‘get back there, you punk ass bitch.” I waited for his reaction. “Those exact words? Called you a ‘punk ass bitch?’” he asked as he slowly rose from his seated position. I nodded my head. Calling someone a punk in prison, or a bitch for that matter, was about as disrespectful as one could be toward another man. Men will generally fight for honor, to protect those

they love, or to support their system of beliefs. It really was no different in prison. Calling someone a punk was indicating he’d let another man fuck him - and become his bitch. For a heterosexual man, the thought is unthinkable. To simply allow another man to do something like that would suggest he was weak and incapable of standing up for something he held sacred. And I was far from a weak man. “Those exact words. So, I busted the disrespectful fucker in the gut with all I had. When he was trying to figure out what planet he was on, I got his ass in a headlock and beat him until my arm got tired.” I shrugged my shoulders. “That’s pretty much it.” “Well, if that’s what he said, he deserved everything he got. I’ll go to the black shot caller and explain, so there’s no need to worry. But there’s one more thing.” He stepped within a few feet of where I stood. “He’s tellin’ all the blacks he beat your ass. Price you pay for not markin’ his ass up,” he said. Deuce had been locked up for eight years, and was the shot caller for the Peckerwoods, a white prison gang. The prison had many white gangs, and they all stood for the same thing, the belief their race was superior to any other. From my quick inventory of the gangs in the five days I had been imprisoned, I placed the Peckerwoods on the lower position on the totem pole, the highest being the most violent. The Aryan Brotherhood, Aryan Circle, Nazi Low Riders, Dirty White Boys, and Hammerskins seemed to be more violent - or at least more prone to it. “My understanding was that I didn’t want to mark him up. If I did, I thought we’d both go to the hole. I looked at it like I did the disrespectful fuck a favor. So he’s saying he whipped my ass?” I asked as I raised my hand to my chin. As I rubbed my jaw between my forefinger and thumb, he nodded his head. “I suppose there’s a price you pay for making him look like he got his ass whipped, and a price you pay for leaving him looking like he ain’t even been in a fight. Depends on which one you’re most comfortable with,” he said. “And you’re telling me I have to get permission to whip his ass?” I asked. He nodded once.

“Well, when you go talk to the shot caller, tell him what happened, and tell him I’m going to beat that motherfucker again, for GP. If this is my new home, I’m sure as fuck not going to get off on the wrong foot,” I said. “You’re a hard case, Killer,” he said with a laugh. “Too hard for the yard.” “And that’s another thing. Don’t call me that. Tell all the ‘Woods, hell, tell everyone in this joint. My name’s Jack. Nothing else,” I said. He clenched his fist and held it at arm’s length. I clenched mine and pounded it against his. “Bet,” he said. “Well, I’ll go tell Black what time it is,” he said as he peered through the cell door. “We got a half hour till lock down.” “It’ll take me about sixty seconds to do what I gotta do,” I narrowed my eyes slightly as I realized what he had said. “The black shot caller’s name is Black?” He nodded his head. “Ironic, huh?” I shrugged my shoulders and gazed out onto the cellblock as Deuce walked past me and made his way toward the other side of the run. A group of white men, - all shirtless, covered in tattoos, and sporting shaved heads - stood against the handrail as they watched a group of Hispanic men assembled across the run fifty feet away. As they noticed Deuce walking along the run, one of them nodded his head in Deuce’s direction. I shifted my eyes to the right. A group of black men stood talking, studying the white men intently. Tension was just about what I expected - high at all times. The prison reeked of sweat, dirty clothes, and adrenaline. The salty smell of the sweat was so thick I could taste it. I studied the group of black men as Deuce strutted past them, his chin high and his chest thrust forward. All eyes shifted to him as he walked past. I shifted my eyes to the Hispanics. One tossed his head toward Deuce as he stepped into the cell of who I expected was the black shot caller. As Deuce walked in, a thin black man emerged. Slowly, the group of Peckerwoods who were leaning against the handrail stepped away from it and backed against the wall. Without a word spoken, it was clear what was happening. News in prison traveled primarily through body language - and it traveled fast.

After a matter of seconds, Deuce walked out, gazed in my direction, and nodded his head once. I shifted my eyes around the cellblock. Batista, the man I had fought with earlier, stood against the wall with a group of four black men. As he noticed Deuce walking toward me, his gaze shifted to where I stood. Our eyes locked. I grinned and raised my clenched fists. “All clear, do what you gotta do, Killer,” Deuce said as he stepped between me and the open cell door. “Jack, god damn it,” I growled. The name Jackson reminded me of my sister and Em, and there was no provision in my heart or mind to allow anyone but those two refer to me by my given name. The name Killer reminded me of my trial, and I had no intention of hearing that road name in prison. The prison guards leaked my name to the prisoners from my file, or jacket as it’s referred to in prison. He coughed a laugh and shook his head. “You’re a hard motherfucker, ain’t ya? Do what you gotta do, Jack.” “How long they put us in segregation for fighting?” I asked. “Thirty days in the SHU,” he nodded. “See ya in thirty days,” I said as I turned away. As I walked down the run, I heard a whistle from behind me, similar to a bird chirping. Immediately following the sound, the group of Peckerwoods began walking toward where Batista stood. My eyes shifted around the commons area. The group of Dirty White Boys who were surrounding the phones along the far wall began walking in the same direction, and as they did, one whistled a similar sound. Immediately, white men emerged from their cells like ants from a mound and assembled along the walls. I’d always believed if a man couldn’t stand up for what he believed in, he must not believe in it with his heart. Fighting a man for suggesting I’d let another man fuck me might seem foolish to some, but as far as I was concerned, it was a matter of respect. If I was going to spend my life living in a place

where only the strong survived, I needed to be strong, or be perceived as being strong. Allowing a man to treat me disrespectfully in my first week would only open the door for others to follow. Although I may have been depicted differently by all who knew me, I doubt anyone ever described me as being weak. And, as far as I was concerned, thirty days in the hole, or Special Housing Unit, was a small price to pay for keeping my pride. Taking my pride in this particular circumstance would require another man whipping my ass. I didn’t know Batista - and really I didn’t have to - fighting was something I did extremely well. I started at an early age, growing up in the orphanage. The loss of both parents before I was a teen angered me, and my release of the anger was fighting. Although I wouldn’t describe myself as an angry adult, fighting was sometimes an evil necessity. “Telling the fellas you whipped my ass, huh?” I grunted as I worked my way through the crowd. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet like he was training for a boxing match. My mouth curled into a shitty little smirk as he pulled his clenched fists toward his chest. From what I could see, this was going to be easy. “Come and get it white boy,” he growled as he tucked his chin into his chest. Hell, I didn’t need an invitation, but it was nice of him to give one. As I positioned my feet and raised my hands, he swung a wild left hook toward my chin. I leaned back, and as his fist swung past me, I hit him with a hard right jab. The punch more than stunned him, and although I could have ended it right then and there, I felt I needed to make a better showing for the crowd who was gathered around watching. If they saw me knock him out with two punches, there was no doubt some might call it blind luck. If they saw what I was capable of, I suspected respect would be in order when I was released from the SHU. And respect was all I wanted to gain. I allowed him to regain his wits and come at me again. As he pulled his right arm back in recoil, I swung a hard left hook into his ribcage. He gasped for breath as his hands fell to his sides. Now standing before me a human punching bag, I viewed him as nothing more than an opportunity to earn my much deserved respect. A very well executed barrage of punches to his mid-section, followed by half a dozen more to his face - all in a matter of seconds - was all it took. As he fell to the concrete, bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose, one of the Peckerwoods behind me gasped his opinion of what he had seen.

“God damn, Killer’s got some hands on him.” “Boxer. Heard he was a professional boxer,” I heard another respond. The sound of jangling keys in the distance was unmistakable. In a matter of minutes, the equivalent of a SWAT team would be upon me. As one of the fast approaching officers screamed his command, bodies scattered like roaches. “Lockdown! Get to your cells!” the officer bellowed as the group of officers rushed into the cell block. “Inmate!” another screamed. “Get on the ground.” I gazed down at Batista. If I was going to get a reputation, I needed to make sure my message was clear. As the officers worked their way toward me, shields raised, I glanced over my shoulder. Deuce stood across the cell block, beside his cell door. Many others stood outside their cell watching the commotion. As Batista attempted to raise himself onto his elbows, the entire cell block was focused on where I stood. I swung my right leg back and kicked him in the face as hard as I could. More screaming and the clanking of keys from behind me reminded me I was soon going to be in worse shape than Batista if I didn’t stop. But I had a point to make. If I was going to spend life in prison, I was going to do so being respected by all men. I really didn’t give two fucks if they liked me, but respect me they must. “Don’t move, inmate!” an officer in front of me shouted. I gazed over my shoulder. Behind me, a wall of federal officers with riot gear stood at the ready. I turned toward my right. Another line of officers with riot shields and helmets stood in front of me. For lack of a more accurate term, I was surrounded. I sighed and gazed down at Batista. “Inmate…do not move…get on the ground!” the officer demanded. I swung my leg to the rear and kicked him with all my might one more time. Cheers erupted from the entire cell block. I did it again. More cheering erupted. I fully realized the majority of the men witnessing the beating viewed it as a racial incident. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. I beat Batista because he was disrespectful to me in a manner that was contrary to my survival in prison -

and for no other reason. I gazed around the cellblock and raised my hands in the air as if I had just won the World Championship Heavyweight fight. Screaming, cheering, and beating on the steel cell doors echoed throughout the cellblock. Although I received a beating from the guards much worse than the one I gave Batista, I did win something on that day, and it wasn’t the championship fight. It was respect. And that was all I needed to survive.

JACK June 6, 2015 The changes a man’s mind goes through in prison, adapting to the differences between being free and being confined can’t be forced. Naturally, over time, the mind makes adjustments, eventually accepting confinement as being a way of life. I suspect no differently than animals adjusting to their surroundings in the wild, man adjusts to his surroundings in prison. The adaptation, at least for me, took roughly a year. I had accepted prison as being my home, realizing there was no way I could change the situation to be something it wasn’t. Accepting it, however, didn’t change my mind’s inability to process the change. Living in a room the size of a child’s bedroom closet with another man, and never having so much as a moment’s privacy wasn’t easy to adapt to. Initially, the days seemed as if they were hundreds of hours long. The weeks passed like months, and each year resembled living a complete lifetime. I convinced myself with the slow passage of time I was destined to live the equivalent of many lives in prison, watching the clock spin at a rate much slower than it did in the free world. After a year, something within me changed. In hindsight, I believe although I had become comfortable with being incarcerated, my mind had not. Now, after almost nine years had passed, my surroundings had not changed one bit, but my mind accepted my new home as being the only option I had.

Although many men find God in prison, often praying for change, acceptance, or protection from harm, I was not one of them. God had been in my life, my way of living, and my heart since I was a child. I doubted many people looked at me and categorized me as Christian, but I was and had always been. When I was free, my family consisted of my younger sister Sydney and the men in the motorcycle club I rode with. Although I had written off the club at the very beginning of my incarceration as being nothing more than a group of men who like to drink beer and fight, casting my sister aside was a difficult decision. I loved Sydney in a manner differently than most brothers would love their sisters. Growing up, I acted as her best friend, brother, father, and family. We had very little as children, and went from foster family to foster family after the death of our parents. Eventually landing in a foster home where we remained until adulthood, I did my best to protect her from any and all things that would possibly cause her harm. Sydney was the world to me, and losing her had proven to be far more difficult than I could have ever imagined. But it was necessary. My only love was also cast aside, which provided her the freedom to live life beyond the walls of the prison I was condemned to spend my life inside. Tying Em to me would have been beyond selfish on my part, and releasing her was not only the hardest thing I had ever done, but something I struggled with each and every day for the eight and a half years I had been incarcerated. As much as I loved Emily I decided early in my incarceration I must to cut all ties to her. I chose to remove her from my mailing list, visiting list, and force her to proceed living a life without me in it. Asking someone else in the free world to be incarcerated by proxy wasn’t something I could bring myself to do. I was required to spend the remaining portion of my life in prison, and from what I could imagine life would be like for her, allowing her to become part of the living hell I was in would have killed me. I didn’t abandon her out of anything but the deepest of love. I loved her then, and I continued to love her more than I was ever capable of loving myself. Separating myself from Em and my sister allowed them to live life without any attachment to me, and forced them to accept the loss of me from their lives - no differently than if I were dead - and proceed living without the day to day sorrow from having the man they desperately and completely loved dying a slow death in prison. My only tie to the outside world was the box of letters I had saved from my early years of being

incarcerated. I cherished them and read, reread, and read again their contents, reliving the stories and memories they depicted. “Step out of the cell, Shephard,” the officer barked. I folded the letter, slid it into the envelope, and carefully placed it into the shoe box of letters. After positioning the box under the bottom bunk, I walked out of the cell and turned to face the guard. “Another fucking shakedown?” I asked as I stepped out onto the run. “Cell inspection. The new AW wants shit tightened up around here. He thinks your houses look like shit,” Officer Turner responded. The new Associate Warden was an anal retentive prick. He had been relocated from a minimum security prison camp to the maximum security prison I was housed in. Immediately, he changed rules and regulations regarding paint, floor polish, cleaning supplies, and cleaning procedures. As much as he tried, he couldn’t change the fact he was in an actual prison and not in a prison camp that resembled a college dorm. I was quite certain his mind was adapting to the changes no differently than mine did. “You’re going to need to get your shoeboxes of letters put up or toss them in the trash, Shephard. Same thing for your cellie. If it can’t fit in your locker, it’s trash,” Officer Matting said as he emerged from the cell. “You know good and god damned well those boxes won’t fit in my fucking locker. Shit, I can’t fit my fucking clothes in the little fucker,” I paused and gazed past him at the two boxes of letters Sydney and Em had written me. “Sorry, Boss, but I’m not tossing my letters, they’re all I’ve got.” “Having a surprise cell inspection on Monday. Your cell can’t have anything on the floor. That’s the AW’s new rule,” Matting said. I turned around and placed my hands behind my back. “Cuff me and take my ass to the SHU now. I’ll take my letters with me. Fuck the AW.” “I’m not taking you anywhere, Shephard. Just get all your shit off the floor,” Matting said. I turned around and focused on Turner. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned. I shifted my eyes to Matting. He shrugged and tossed his head toward the next cell. “Step out of the cell, Newman,” Matting said as he leaned into the cell beside me.

I glanced down at the boxes of letters. They were all I had to remind me that there was a world outside of prison, and my only means of communicating - even if my communication was limited to reading letters I had never responded to. To toss them in the trash would be to walk out on what little life I had left. The letters kept me sane and provided me hope that Sydney and Em would continue living the life I would never be able to. In some respects, I lived vicariously through my thoughts of them. And, although I hadn’t written Sydney in over four years, and Emily in almost eight, the letters continued to come, one a week, for eight years. All of which I refused to accept, open, or acknowledge. The prison simply provided a letter refused chit, stating I refused another letter, and the name of the person who attempted to send it. “Time for store,” Newman said as he stepped beside my cell door. I nodded my head as I grabbed my mesh laundry bag from on top of my bunk. “Big order this week, soap and Batteries,” I said as I buttoned up my shirt. Earning $0.23 an hour wasn’t the wages I suspected I’d retire on, but there was no changing the work system in prison. Working 6 hours a day in prison earned me $6.90 a week to spend. With a bar of Dial soap costing $1.00, and a granola bar costing $3.00, my priorities quickly became the necessities, and nothing more. I treated myself once a month to a treat of some sort from the store, typically a candy bar. The order from the Commissary went in by filling out a request several days in advance, checking the appropriate box beside the item requested. The inmate placed his prison ID number on the request, and signed his name. The order was then waiting for him at the Commissary, and the money was removed from his ‘books’ or account to pay for the items purchased. As Newman and I stepped into our place in line, I gazed down the ranks of men. In my time at Big Sandy, I’d seen men come in, leave, be transferred, and get killed. Although one would suspect someone like me would have no worries after doing eight years, the opposite was true. In prison, a man must always be on guard and attentive to his surroundings at all times. A new inmate attempting to make a name for himself, or someone trying to get his patch with one of the gangs was always a threat. As I studied the men, their movements, and listened to the faint whispers, I relaxed slightly, feeling minimal tension amongst the crowd. “No talking during movements,” the guard bellowed. After being escorted to the store and waiting in line for my turn, I stepped up to the window and held my ID up for the officer to see.

“Shephard,” I said. “Double A’s and Dial?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Sounds about right.” He handed me the items and printed a receipt. As he handed me the receipt, he nodded his head toward the piece of paper. I glanced down to see my balance, but based on his gesture, I figured my funds had diminished beyond my previous calculations. $2,542.36 I gazed down at the paper for a moment, wadded it up, and placed it into my pocket. “You saying that’s what I got on my books?” I asked. He nodded his head once. “Next!” he bellowed as he peered past me. I slapped my hand against the counter. “Gimme a jar of motherfucking peanut butter.” “Shephard, you know there’s no substitutions. Get it next week. Next!” he hollered. “Where’s my order sheet?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “In the trash by now, why?” “Had a peanut butter on it. All I got was batteries and soap. Need that peanut butter, Boss,” I responded. He shook his head and grinned. “Missed a jar of peanut butter for Shephard,” he barked over his shoulder. The inmate working in the commissary walked up and handed the officer a jar of peanut butter. The officer printed a new ticket and handed me the jar. “Next!” he hollered.

I stepped aside, peered down along the ranks of men, toward the guard, and twisted the lid from the jar. As I studied the guard, I shoved two fingers into the jar of peanut butter and slid them into my mouth. I found it odd something as simple as a jar of peanut butter was able to provide tremendous satisfaction to an inmate in federal prison, and be nothing more than a snack to someone in the free world. All of the things I had taken for granted on the outside were now viewed as luxuries. Being touched affectionately. Listening to a bird chirping. Turning a doorknob and opening a door. Deciding what to wear. Petting a dog. Sitting at a stoplight. Deciding what to eat. Taking a shit without an audience. These were simple things I would never do again. I dropped the peanut butter into my laundry bag and reached into my pocket. After stepping to the side and away from the watchful eyes of the other inmates, I removed the wadded receipt and stared down at the balance. $2,542.36 Many people over the years had made a promise to place money on my books, but very few ever delivered. Most deposits into my account were in the first few years, and after that, nothing ever came. I had no idea who sent the recent money, but whoever had just changed my way of living, and for that I was grateful. “You must have long money on your books, buying peanut butter and shit,” Newman said as he tilted his head toward my bag. “Living the dream,” I responded. And for the time being, the statement was true. I was living the dream. One scoop at a time.

JACK July 1, 2015 After almost a decade of incarceration, a person loses all hope for any change to take place. During the first several months, everyone tells themselves they were wrongfully convicted, they hope for an appeal, or they believe someone or something can or will eventually save them from the unthinkable remaining in prison. But the appeal never comes, and no one ever emerges to save them from anything. Acceptance of life in prison is difficult, but necessary. Hope, to a prisoner, is like a cancer. Hope eats at your ability to accept life as being what it is. Hope will make a strong man weak, and a weak man dead. In prison, there is no hope. “Mail call!” the officer barked from the end of the run. I stood at the cell door and watched the men gather around the officer. As he pulled the mail from the basket, he shouted the names of the respective inmates. After a few minutes, my gaze became more of a blank stare, and my mind faded to thoughts of Sydney and me as children. Newman hollered at me, snapping me out of the shallow daydream. “Mail,” he shouted.

“Last call, legal mail, Shephard, Jackson!” the guard yelled. Legal mail? “Shephard, right here,” I hollered as I walked toward the guard. He handed me the letter over his shoulder. I gazed down at the envelope and studied the addresses to make certain it was mine. I glanced around the cellblock and turned toward my cell. After walking into the cell, I opened the envelope carefully and removed the letter. After unfolding it, I began to read the typed words. Jackson, You don’t know me, but my name is Avery. I’m a friend of your sister, Sydney. I work for a law firm in Wichita, and I was initially intrigued by your case when hearing of the ATF and their persistent requests for you to admit to wanting to kill a member of a rival club. After having my first two letters I had written to you rejected and returned, I decided to write you an official legal letter, as this matter is now officially official (sorry, but I laughed when I wrote that). I’m the Ol’ Lady of the President of the Selected Sinners, a Kansas based 1% club. The club is thirty strong in Wichita, and has chapters in Oklahoma and Texas as well. Overall, they’re a tight knit bunch of brothers who would do anything for each other, or for the cause. I’m far too excited to go very long without just getting to the point I would like to make, but for the sake of safety, I’ll request you take the time to sit if you aren’t already sitting. Now, I’ll assume you’re sitting and I will continue with my announcement. I paused, peered over my shoulder, and into the cellblock. After reassuring myself no one was watching, I gazed down at the desk and continued. I filed an appeal on your case based on your having been provided an attorney who was incapable of sufficiently defending you, and secondly on your being entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime in question. The appellate court accepted the appeal, and has responded. I really hope you’re sitting down right now. Jackson, they’ve accepted your appeal. You’re going to have a new trial, and if they find you were entrapped, you’ll go free. For what it’s worth, the attorney taking your case will be my boss, and

he has never (yes, I said never, as in NEVER) lost a federal case. The cost of the trial, the fees, and the paying of the attorney has all been done in advance, and will be of no cost to you. Mr. Shephard, breathe easily. Your life is in very capable hands. I can’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through, or what you go through on a daily basis, but I have a favor to ask of you. The club placed some money in your account, so I know you can afford to do it. I’ve done a lot for you, and I want something in return. It will cost less than a dollar, and will take only an hour’s time. Write your sister a letter. Her address has changed and I have attached it in the next page of addresses. She loves you dearly, and would love to hear from you. That’s all. Well, I can’t wait to meet you in court, and Sydney’s looking forward to seeing you as well. She’s the Ol’ Lady of the club’s SAA, Toad. All of the fellas send their best, and Axton (my Ol’ Man) made it mandatory for the club to attend the trial, so you’ll have the support of the entire club and you won’t go through this alone. I know it’s been a long time, but do your best to recall everything that happened through the course of the investigation. We’ll have almost no time to prepare, so anything you can remember will be used in your favor. All my best. Avery (the bad-ass bitch who got you a new fucking trial) I dropped the letter onto the desk and gazed down at the neatly typed pages. As my mind swirled into a whirlwind of emotion, the unthinkable happened. My heart filled with hope.

JACK Present day I felt odd sitting in the courtroom. The memories of my initial trial were not good ones, and I believed at the time that I was railroaded through the system and sent to prison on a bullshit charge. Although I accepted it as being part of life and realized I wasn’t capable of changing it, I didn’t like it then and I didn’t like it now. The attorney appointed to my case was an extremely aggressive man, and was much better prepared than my original attorney. As he asked the questions, I did my best to answer in a manner I expected he wanted me to. “Did you know agent Blackburn was an ATF agent at this time?” I leaned toward the microphone and spoke clearly. “No, Sir.” “Did you view the members of your club as brothers?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Yes, Sir, I sure did.” “Family?” he asked. “Yes, Sir, I did. They were my family.”

“Mr. Shephard, where is your mother today?” he asked. I hoped he knew the answer, and it seemed odd he would ask even if he didn’t know, but as much as I was offended by the question, I suspected somehow it must have had merit. “She’s dead, Sir. She passed away when I was a very young boy,” I responded. “I’m sorry to hear that. And your father?” he asked. “The same, Sir. He passed at the same time. I grew up in orphanages and eventually in a foster home with my only sibling, my sister,” I responded. “I’m sorry for your losses,” he responded as he turned toward the jury and appeared to be wiping tears from his eyes. Oh, this motherfucker’s good. “Would it suffice to say the club and your MC Brothers were the only family you had?” he asked. I nodded my head toward Sydney and responded. “Yes, Sir, them and my sister.” “And you perceived agent Blackburn as a brother?” he asked. I glanced toward the prosecuting attorney’s table. Blackburn sat at the table with a shitty grin on his face. The cocksucker had infiltrated our club, and had lied to become a fully patched in member. To me, even though I disliked him, he was a brother, and no differently than I told him on the night in question, I would have taken a bullet for him. Now, I wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. In my mind, he was marked for death, and living on borrowed time. “Yes, Sir, I did,” I responded. “To the best of your knowledge, were the Shovelheads MC a 1%er club?” he asked. “Yes, Sir, they were,” I responded. My attorney walked away from his post and slowly approached the witness stand. He looked confused. As he rubbed his jaw in his hand and glanced toward the jury, he spoke, “And Hell’s Fury was also a 1%er club?”

“Yes, Sir, we were,” I responded. “When a 1% club who has claimed territory - for this sake I’ll call them the parent club -has another club ride into the territory without permission, wearing their colors including a lower rocker claiming the same territory, how does the parent club perceive this trespass?” “As disrespectful, it’s considered a threat,” I responded. He widened his eyes as his mouth fell open comically. “A threat?” I nodded my head and leaned toward the microphone. “Yes, Sir.” “And when a 1% club makes a threat, what might that threat include, generally speaking?” Oh, I see where you’re going… “Violence,” I responded. “Violence. I see. Let me back up a little bit, to where we were before. This club, the Hell’s Fury, these fellas were your family, is that correct?” “Yes, Sir,” I responded. “I see. And when agent Blackburn asked you what you’d do if they came into your territory, wearing a lower rocker claiming Kansas as if it their own, what was your fear, if any?” “They were a rival club, always causing problems and talking…” I turned toward the judge. I knew what I wanted to say, but had no idea if I would be allowed to. “Can I cuss?” I whispered to the judge. “Yes, son, you can,” he responded. I leaned toward the microphone and continued. “Talking shit. Saying they were going to do this, and do that. If they rode in wearing their colors, I guess my fear was that they’d probably kill us, or at least try.” “So, your eventual response to ATF agent Blackburn was one more of protection than of aggression, was it not?”

“Objection, your honor. He’s leading the witness,” the prosecuting attorney complained. “Granted. Rephrase your question,” the judge instructed my attorney. “Why did you eventually respond in the manner you did to the ATF agent? Agreeing that you’d kill members of the Shovelheads if they came to town?” I’m trying to stay with you, brother. You’re shocking the shit out of me. See what you think of this. “I didn’t realize he was an agent. At the time, he was a brother, you know, part of my family. My fear was that the Shovelheads MC might hurt him or some of my other brothers. My thoughts at the time were that I needed to protect my family,” I responded. “Your only family?” “Yes, Sir, my only family,” I responded. “No further questions for this witness, your honor,” Kurt said flatly. I left the witness stand feeling good about my case and the new trial. Win or lose, at least I was being allowed to have my sister, her new friends, and the jury hear the truth. In my first trial I was not asked many questions, and the information projected to the jury was one-sided and left me feeling as if I did something wrong, all the while knowing all I did was respond to a question in a half-drunken stupor. After a short recess, my attorney began questioning the ATF agent. The questioning was difficult for me to listen to, as his responses reminded me of the ‘lost recordings’ and what I expected to be bullshit answers - primarily lies - prepared to insure my case was lost and I went back to prison. I really didn’t expect anything less. I leaned back, gazed toward the witness stand, and studied agent Blackburn. If I get out of here, I’m going to hunt you down and make you pay, you cock sucker. “How long was your investigation of the Hell’s Fury?” “Two years and one month,” Blackburn responded.

“And in that time, twenty-five months, how many arrests were made?” One, you piece of shit… Me. “One,” Blackburn responded. “One? A twenty-five month long investigation of an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, and it only produced one arrest?” “Yes,” Blackburn snapped back. “Did the ATF make a decision not to prosecute the other cases?” “There were no other cases,” Blackburn responded. “Let me get this straight. You successfully infiltrated an outlaw gang of motorcycle thugs for twenty-five months, and produced this as your only case? Seems more like they were a group of good old boys, not an OMG…” my attorney stated. “Your honor, I object. It appears the defense counsel has chosen to provide his own testimony,” the prosecutor howled. The judge turned toward the jury and raised his index finger in the air. “I’ll ask the jury to strike the last statement made by the prosecutor. Counsel, you have been warned.” “In discovery, I requested the voice recording of the conversation on the night of the instant offense. I was advised it did not exist in legible format. Are you aware of the lack of availability of said recording?” “Yes, Sir, I am. Unfortunately, the recording device did not work properly on that evening, and background noise made the recording worthless,” Blackburn responded. “I was provided recorded conversations before and after the date in question. In fact, I have a few hundred hours of recorded conversations. Almost four hundred hours if memory serves me correctly. Now, my question to you is as follows…” Kurt paused and turned toward the jury.

“Agent Blackburn, how many conversations through the course of the investigation were unintelligible, to the best of your knowledge, that is?” he asked as he continued to face the jury. “One,” Blackburn breathed in response. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your response. Can you speak into the microphone?” Fuck yes, make him repeat it ten times. Blackburn leaned forward and responded. “One.” “Only one missing, and it just so happens it’s the critical one,” my attorney seethed. “Strike that last statement. So, agent Blackburn, I’m curious. During your infiltration of the group of outlaw bikers, did you give them your actual name?” he asked. “No,” Blackburn laughed. Sure as fuck didn’t, you chicken-shit. “Did you make one up?” “Yes, I did,” Blackburn responded. “Did you give them an accurate history of who you were?” “No Sir, I provided fictitious information. Information believed to be more acceptable to the type of people I was investigating,” Blackburn responded. “So you lied. You told lies to the bikers to get them to either like you or accept you, is that correct?” God damned right, he lied. “I object!” the prosecutor yelled. “Your honor, the witness stated he provided inaccurate information to the group during his investigation. I’m simply…” He shook his head in clear frustration. “I’ll rephrase the question.”

“Was the information you provided the bikers regarding your background and your name the truth?” he asked. “No,” Blackburn snapped. “Was it a lie?” he asked. “Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor hollered. “I’ll allow it, but you shall make your point in a timely manner, counsel,” the judge stated. “Yes,” Blackburn said. “Explain your thought process to me on lying to these men during the investigation. Why would you feel compelled to tell them lies?” “To preserve the investigation, we are taught to give either limited information, or false information. It provides protection to the bureau and to the agent,” Blackburn responded. “You’re taught to lie during your investigations?” Kurt asked. Blackburn glanced toward the judge. The judge nodded his head. “Yes,” Blackburn muttered. “So, through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?” “Objection, your honor, asked and answered,” the prosecutor hollered. “I’ll allow it,” the judge said. I studied Blackburn. This was an interesting approach, making him out to be a liar. “I’ll ask the question again. Through the course of your work, you may tell a lie, but it’s not necessarily a lie in a conventional sense, because you’re working, correct?” “Correct, we’re often required to lie, as you say, to preserve the investigation,” Blackburn responded.

“Do you only lie during the course of work?” “Yes, during the course of my work, and when required for my work,” Blackburn responded. “Are you being paid for your testimony today, agent Blackburn?” I locked eyes with him and waited for him to respond. He sat motionless with his lips pursed. “You must not have heard me. You testified that you told lies through the course of your work to preserve the investigation. My question was this: Are you being paid for your testimony today? Are you working?” “Yes, I am,” Blackburn murmured. My attorney raised his finger in the air and spoke. “No further questions, your honor.” Fuck yes, you lying son-of-a-bitch. After the prosecution rested, both attorneys gave their closing arguments and we were released while the jury went to deliberate. Having no idea whether it was going to take hours, days, or a week, I was thrilled to be taken to the county jail and not back to the USP at Big Sandy - at least not yet. The new scenery and different living quarters might have been temporary, but it was a welcomed change. As the US Marshall loaded me onto the elevator, he pressed his hand to his earpiece as if he was receiving a message. “Looks like you’re going back to court,” he said as he released the earpiece and reached for the button to open the door. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Jury reached a decision,” he said as the elevator doors opened. “In ten minutes? That can’t be good,” I said. He shook his head. “Hard saying. Might be good, might be bad.” In a slight state of shock, I followed him into the courtroom. After finding my seat beside my attorney, I gazed around the courtroom and eventually fixed my eyes on Sydney and her friends. Win, lose, or draw, I appreciated all they had done for me. If nothing else, Avery had secured Sydney a spot in my

life as a pen pal forever. “Counsel, please stand,” the judge said into the microphone. My attorney and I stood. He turned his head to face me and whispered. “No matter what the outcome, hold your head high,” he said. I swallowed heavily and nodded my head once. “I will.” The judge cleared his throat and gazed out into the courtroom as he spoke. “I want it understood there will be no outbursts in my courtroom, regardless of the verdict.” The judge turned toward the jury. “Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked. The foreman nodded his head. “Yes, your honor, we have.” “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States of America, what say you?” the judge asked. I gazed down at the floor. Your will, not mine, Lord. “In the matter of Jackson Shephard versus the United States, we the jury, find him not guilty; as he was entrapped by the ATF to commit the crime listed in the indictment, your honor,” the foreperson responded. Not guilty? Not? I glanced over my left shoulder. Sydney sat between a man and a woman with her hands covering her mouth, crying. I shifted my eyes toward my attorney. They said ‘not guilty’. Not.

Guilty. I swallowed the apple sized lump in my throat and tried my best to appear to be level-headed. “So now what? Back to Big Sandy for a bit? Another appeal on their part?” I asked. He shook his head and grinned as he patted me on the shoulder. “In the court’s eyes, the government forced you to commit a crime. They entrapped you. You’re not guilty, you’re a free man, Mr. Shephard,” he responded as he reached toward the mound of paperwork in front of him. My throat constricted. I stood and stared blankly beyond him as the jury walked away. My eyes welled with tears. I gazed down at the floor and stared for a few seconds. Finally, I swallowed heavily and shifted my tear filled eyes upward. “Free?” I asked. “It’s over? That’s it?” “Free to do whatever you want. As a matter of law, you’ve never been convicted of a felony. Congratulations,” he said. There was really only one thing I wanted. Well, two, but only one I could take care of immediately. “Can I go hug my sis?” I asked. “You can do whatever you want, Mr. Shephard, you’re a free man,” he responded. Free? How free? I turned and attempted to stay standing on my shaking legs. Although I fully expected to be tackled and handcuffed by US Marshall’s if I continued, I took a few steps toward Sydney. Nothing happened. I continued to walk toward her. She stood beside a man crying. He stood an easy six foot six and seemed to be solid muscle. I wondered if he was her boyfriend. Slowly, I continued walking in her direction, peering over my shoulder as I approached, expecting a guard to stop me before I got to where she stood. I bit my lower lip and continued until I had walked all the way across the courtroom. This can’t be happening.

I released my quivering lip, opened my arms, and grinned. Somehow, I managed to speak. “Gimme a hug, sis,” I said. She vaulted herself over the handrail and onto the floor beside me, almost tackling me as she did so. As she held me in her arms, she blubbered into my shoulder. Half embarrassed by my emotional state, I leaned into her and wiped my eyes on the shoulders of her jacket. After a few minutes of sobbing, she collected herself and looked up into my eyes. “We’ve got a place for you to stay for as long as you want. You’ll have your own room. And Cambio’s got a bike you can ride. His old Softail, he said you can have it. He said you won’t be truly free until you can ride,” she said excitedly, wiping tears from her face as she spoke. I glanced to her left. A man wearing a cut with the Sergeant-At-Arms ribbon stood at her side. His patch read Toad. I cleared my throat and extended my hand. “You Syd’s man?” He nodded his head as he reached for my hand. “Toad.” “Jack,” I said as I shook his hand. “Well, you ready to get out of this shit-hole?” he asked. I glanced around the courtroom. With the exception of us, the room was empty. As hard as it was to believe, it appeared I truly was a free man. The thought of not going back to prison still hadn’t quite sank in. I turned toward Toad, realized I probably shouldn’t try and speak, and chose to simply nod my head once. “You up for a ride?” he asked. I nodded my head again in agreement. The man standing behind him raised his hand in the air. “Saddle up,” he said. Saddle up. I never thought I’d hear those words again.

Sydney stood beside me, grinning and crying softly. I glanced around the courtroom as all of the fellas began walking toward the door. Normally, hearing my little sis cry would cause me pain, but at that moment it was music to my ears. I still didn’t feel free, and as awkward as it seemed as I walked out of the courtroom, a certain comfort washed over me. I had a second chance to live my life. And I intended to do just that. Live my life.

JACK Very few men were provided a second chance in life. Having an opportunity to make changes in life, once the time has passed, is procedurally and physically impossible. For some reason, however, I was being given a chance to do so. And, I intended to make it count. “So you’re telling me I can ride that little softie anywhere I want?” I asked. Toad glanced up from polishing the tank on his bagger. “Sure can,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.” “It’s yours, and as soon as I get a few things taken care of, I’ll pay you for it. Just really needing to know if I can take it out on the road alone,” I asked as I pushed the plug into the top of the oil tank. “You can do anything you want with it. I realize it’s not as road worthy as a bagger, but it’ll have to do,” he said over his shoulder. “No disrespect, I see you and a few of the other fellas ride baggers, but I never had much use for

‘em. Riding a house on wheels isn’t riding as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I’ve ridden from one coast to the other on a Softail. Anything I need can be strapped down or worn. I’ll strap a bedroll to the ape hangers and wash my clothes in a river. That’s fucking riding,” I said. “That’s old school as fuck,” he said with a laugh. “So, you ain’t gonna trip if I take it for a day or so?” I asked, realizing I was still talking in prison speak. “Take it wherever you want,” he said. “I mean it. Consider it yours.” “Appreciate ya,” I said with a nod as I turned away. I walked to the workbench and picked up a clean rag. After several minutes of wiping the dust from areas that seemed to have never been cleaned, I stood back and admired the bike. It was black, covered in chrome, and actually just as nice as the bike I had ridden for most of my life. Many men felt a need to upgrade, buy accessories, and add useless pieces of attached shit to their motorcycles. I, on the other hand, had always felt less was more; leaving my motorcycle as stripped down as possible. Having only what I needed and nothing more allowed me to truly feel free when I rode. There was never a feeling of need on my part for creature comforts on a motorcycle. A CD player, cruise control, a windshield, and hard saddle bags would cause me to feel no differently than if I was riding in a car, and as far as I was concerned, cages were reserved for my ride to my final destination. The cemetery. And I was far from dying. “Good looking little sled,” I said as I admired the bike. Toad nodded his head and grinned. “It’s alright.” He was a man of few words, but from everything I could see, and what little I had heard, he was rock solid. After hearing the story of how he stepped in front of a man who was trying to shoot one of his former Marine brethren, I realized I wasn’t the only one who took protecting the ones I loved as a way of life and not a choice. He explained he didn’t make a decision to step in front of the gun and get shot, but that it was his natural reaction to a potentially violent situation. Something inside of him caused him to naturally react. No differently, from what he said, than swatting at a mosquito or scratching an itch. In the

end, he was shot in the chest, and hospitalized with a collapsed lung, broken collar bone, and comatose. By the grace of God he pulled out of the coma and recovered fully. He, not unlike me, was given a second chance. “It’s fucking perfect, is what it is,” I stated. “Well, brother, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” he said over his shoulder. Almost immediately I felt closer to him than I had ever felt to any of my brothers in Hell’s Fury, partially because he reminded me of me. His suffering from PTSD and the fact he was provided with what I perceived to be another chance at living life made me more comfortable accepting him than most of the other men I had met, because I realized I also suffered from PTSD, and I was given a second chance. Damned near a decade in prison would cause even the most stable of souls to suffer. I felt I was accepting Toad as more of an actual brother - the one I never had growing up - than a brother in the MC sense. My sister was happy with him, engaged to be married, and so deeply in love that it was almost difficult for me to witness. Each and every time I saw their expressed love for each other, and it was quite frequent, it reminded me of my loss. “Syd’s cooking dinner, should be ready in a few,” he said as he wiped his hands on a rag. I shook my head. “Love to stay, but I have a few things I got to take care of. Might be a day or two, but I’ll be back.” He lifted his chin slightly and locked his eyes on mine. “Need someone to roll with ya?” I shifted my gaze down to my feet. “No. Just have a few things I need to take care of,” I said. I missed Em deeply. A hollow shell of my former self, I wondered if it would even be possible that I would one day return to the loving, caring man I had once been. Expressing emotion in prison made a man an easy target, and over time, all prisoners became hardened and not only less willing, but less capable of feeling anything at all. In prison, letting go of the ability to feel emotion was the only thing that allowed a man to truly survive. Now, trying to remember how to allow emotion to become a part of my day-to-day activities

wasn’t difficult, it was proving to be impossible. Although I didn’t share my thoughts with anyone regarding my feelings of being insensitive, I hoped one day I would be able to return to the living. “Sure you don’t want to eat first?” he asked. “Get something on the road,” I responded. “Tell Sydney I’ll see her in a couple days,” I said. “Tell her yourself?” he asked, his voice filled with a slight bit of hope. I shifted my eyes up from the bike and stared at him for a short time. “Alright. Well, be safe, brother,” he said. I rolled the pair of jeans, clean boxers, and a few wife beaters I had brought into the garage in a blanket and strapped the roll to the handlebars. As he stood and studied me, I started the bike, backed it out of the garage, and offered a nod of my head as I released the clutch and pointed the bike north. My only hope was that I didn’t get pulled over by the police, because one thing I didn’t have was a driver’s license; something on my list, but far from a priority. The Selected Sinners had all but immediately voted to make me a fully patched member, providing me with a sense of family, brotherhood, and self-worth. For reasons I wasn’t able to explain, I hadn’t quite accepted brotherhood as being something I was quite ready for. I accepted the patch and the responsibility that came along with it, but accepting a group of men as necessary part of my life wasn’t something that was coming to me naturally. For now, physically, I was somewhat of a loner. And emotionally, I was alone.



JACK After a ninety mile ride, I rolled into town feeling alone, nervous, and for the first time I could ever remember, scared. Rolling along so slowly the motorcycle barely stayed upright, I turned each corner without thought. The town had changed very little, no differently than I expected. Finally, I turned the last corner, and came down the small hill. The car in the driveway was my first hint. The perfectly manicured lawn was my second. As I rolled closer, the sound of the exhaust popping behind me, the name on the mailbox provided all of the confirmation I needed. I killed the ignition, rolled to a stop, and swept the kickstand down with the heel of my boot. I attempted to swallow, almost choked, and stepped over the seat. The last time I had seen the outside of the house, I was being dragged into a government Suburban by two ATF agents. The memories were more than I was prepared to deal with, and although the majority of them were good ones, it seemed like the life was being choked out of me as I gazed at the front porch. I inhaled a deep breath, tilted my head to the sky, and exhaled. As I sauntered up the sidewalk toward the front door, my heart began to race in anticipation of what I expected was sure to come. I rang the doorbell and stepped back two steps. After a moment, the door opened. “Can I help you?” she asked.

I bit my lower lip, nodded my head, and attempted to maintain my composure. “Yes, ma’am…I uhhm…I used to live here. It’s been a bit, say almost ten years, but I was uhhm…I was…I was shipped out in kind of a hurry, and I left someone here. Her name was Emily Stewart. Would you have any idea of where she might have gone?” I asked, fighting against the emotion that boiled within me as I spoke. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I moved in last October. It’s just a place I’m renting while I’m working out at the airport. Sorry,” she responded. I shifted my eyes up from the toes of my boots, and nodded my head. As I pointed toward the back yard, I tried to explain my other need. “I uhhm,” I murmured as I wagged my finger toward the fence. Her eyes widened slightly and she stood waiting patiently for me to continue. “Yes?” she said, attempting to get me to continue. I shook my head and lowered my hand to my side. “Nevermind,” I said. “Thank you for your time.” “The library has internet. You might try, maybe you can find something about her there,” she said as I turned away. I glanced over my shoulder and tried my best to smile. “Thank you.” The time I had spent in prison, away from any means of technology had left my mind - and me - in the stone ages. Something as simple and common as the internet had escaped me as even being a possibility. I hadn’t stroked the keys on a computer in almost ten years, and as far as I knew, they didn’t even exist. Her very kind and sure to be useful suggestion had me feeling like a complete fool. I sat on the bike and watched as she shut the door. After starting the engine and riding half way around the block, I pulled over, parked, and removed my leather gloves from the bedroll. I pulled the gloves onto my hands, clenched my fists a few times, and walked up the driveway of a home I didn’t immediately recognize.

After jumping over their fence and into their yard, I walked confidently to the far side of the fence and lifted myself over it and into the easement. A few more steps and I climbed over the wooden security fence and into the adjoining yard. I stood and stared. Right where I had planted it, it remained. Now three times larger than when I had last seen it, the rose bush completely covering the trellis. I glanced around the yard, stooped down, and walked immediately behind it for cover. After gripping the base of the bush with my gloved hands, I pulled for all I was worth. Although it moved slightly, it didn’t uproot itself at all. I bent at the knees, gripped a little tighter, and thought of the day they were screaming at Emily in the living room, guns drawn and acting like the jack-booted thugs they really were. I straightened my knees, pulled with every ounce of muscle I had worked ten years to develop, and growled from deep within my lungs. Slowly, the bush lifted from the earth and snapped free of the soil. I set the large ball of roots to the side, leaned down, and dug in the soft soil of the large void. After a few seconds, the green plastic of the box I had buried was right below the tips of my fingers. After I brushed the dirt free of the box, I lifted it from the hole, hoping the rubber-gasketed weather-proof box was as good in real-life as the advertisements claimed. I tucked the box under my arm, walked to the fence, and tossed it over into the easement. After climbing over the two remaining fences, I walked to my bike and removed the tool kit from under the seat. I carefully worked the screwdriver against the dirt-covered latches for a few minutes, and they eventually popped free. Eager to look inside, I shoved the screwdriver into my front pocket, opened the box, and peered inside. Just the same as the day I left it. I grinned, glanced up and down the block, and pulled the pistol from the box. It appeared to be as perfect as the day I placed it in the box, which was surprising considering the weather and the amount of time that had passed. I nodded my head in appreciation of the quality of the box I had chosen. I leaned forward and shoved the pistol into the center of the bedroll, removed the magazine, ammunition, and money from the box, and dropped the empty box beside the curb where I was parked.

Realizing I needed to move before I drew any more attention to myself than I already had, I started the bike, pulled from the curb, and twisted the throttle back. Two more stops, and I’d be ready to hit the open road.

JACK After a knock on the door produced nothing, I rode to the only other place I knew to go. As the building came into view, my heartbeat increased, and I was filled with all of the emotion which had been absent for the last ten years. As the sound of my motorcycle wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, I didn’t expect to raise any suspicion, so I pulled alongside the building and parked. I pressed the pistol into the front of my jeans, pulled my cut down to cover it, and walked around the side of the building and into the parking lot. As I walked up the drive and toward the open door of the shop, eyes widened and jaws began to drop. “Killer, I heard you were out, the President of the Selected Sinners called and talked to …” “Shut the fuck up, Bart,” I demanded. Sarge locked eyes with me. Each member who surrounded him immediately stood to the side, exposing him to my approach without any obstructions. Naturally, his hand slowly hovered over the knife he carried underneath his cut. “Don’t bother,” I said as I lifted my cut slightly, showing him the H&K pistol I carried.

“Listen, Brother…” he began. “Don’t call me a brother,” I said as I took the remaining steps which separated us. “You abandoned me,” I yelled, “Each and every one of you worthless pricks abandoned me.” I glanced around the half a dozen members who stood with wide eyes and quickly shifted my gaze to meet Sarge’s. “Not a fucking goodbye, good luck, not a dollar on my books, and none of you pieces of shit took care of my Ol’ Lady. Shit, you motherfuckers…” I inhaled a deep breath and realized I was angrier than I could ever remember being. As I exhaled, I leaned forward and swung an uppercut into the bottom of Sarge’s chin. The punch connected perfectly, and sent him back on his heels. As he stumbled and reached for his cut, I slapped his hand away and swung a left hook into his ribs. He leaned forward and coughed as he tried to catch his breath. Two more carefully positioned punches into his face while he was bent over were all it took. He fell to the floor of the garage like the piece of shit he truly was. I shifted my eyes to the men, back toward Sarge, and bent over him as he groaned and attempted to get up. As I pulled the knife from his belt, I hissed my request in his ear. “Don’t ever let my name pass your lips or I’ll come back and kill the entire bunch of you pricks. Not a threat, you fat prick, it’s a promise. You hear me? A fucking promise,” I seethed. As I stood up and shoved the knife into my back pocket, I noticed Chili standing wide-eyes and chewing his bottom lip. “Not a fucking word, you aren’t any better than the rest of these pricks,” I growled. “Suh…suh…suh…awwe, shit, Killer…I sent…muh…muh…money. Fuh…fuh…four or fuh…five times. Buh…but…it was huh…huh…hard. The A…A…ATF told us if wuh…wuh…we…muh…muh… made contact…” I waved my hand in his direction and turned away. Part of me felt sorry for him, yet a bigger part felt disgust. I didn’t want excuses or explanations, I wanted satisfaction, and although it might have

seemed like a simple solution, I received it. Chili was one of them, and to me, they were dead. I walked to my bike without turning around. Where I had been for the last ten years, this was the ultimate disgrace. Walking away from a man who challenged you in prison without so much as taking a second glance was perceived as one of the most disrespectful things you could do. It sent a clear message you had not one ounce of fear regarding his ability to harm you. Although neither Sarge nor the men would understand, I felt satisfied I had said all there was to say. I started my bike, tossed Sarge’s knife in the weeds beside the shop, and pulled out onto the road. As I twisted the throttle back, I grinned into the wind. It felt great to release my tension. I glanced at my right hand and gazed blankly past it as the wind blew the blood back along the back side of my clenched hand. I twisted the throttle a little further and smiled a smile I hadn’t smiled in years. It felt good. And I only had one more stop.

JACK I pressed the tips of my fingers against the keys of the keyboard and pressed ‘enter’. It seemed awkward using a computer and I felt an odd guilt, checking over my shoulder as I waited for Google to produce the results of my search. The search of ‘Emily Stewart’ produced page after page of people, men and women, but none of which were the Emily was searching for. After feeling like an idiot, I narrowed my search with a more specific request. Emily Stewart restaurant. Again, Google produced pages and pages of worthless articles, documents, and web pages. I sighed, stared down at the keyboard for a moment, and grinned as I had a revelation. I pecked at the keyboard, making an even more specific search, placing the quotation marks before and after the phrase I was searching for. “Emily Stewart’s Restaurant” My heartbeat increased to steadily as the page opened with the results. I clicked the first option,

and fought against every emotion within me as the new page I had opened revealed a photo of Em. I glanced over my shoulder into the empty library, and upon satisfying myself I wasn’t going to get into trouble for proceeding, turned toward the computer. My throat clenched as I read the article, and breathing became almost impossible. As I listened to my choppy breathing while attempting to keep from losing my complete composure, I read the article. Albuquerque Sentinel “Is something wrong?” my lunch companion asked as we sat together enjoying our first visit at Albuquerque’s newly opened Jackson’s, a restaurant owned by a rather eccentric Emily Stewart. The establishment, a fine family dining experience with a few strange twists, sits at the corner of Candelaria Road NE and Highway 85. I was elsewhere, floating above the clouds, my mouth filled with Dijon mustard infused rosemary-sprinkled chicken unlike anything I had ever had the opportunity to experience. Yes, experience. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he chuckled. In many respects, he was right. Emily had just happened by, checking on us, wearing a white apron secured to her waist by a white belt tied in a simple knot. Atop her head, a white chef ’s hat with the name “Em” embroidered on the front, she could have passed for a ghost. I pointed down at my plate, and quickly realized I had all but offered him to sample my food. As his eyes did their very best to focus on my plate, I quickly pulled it away and covered it with my forearm. “What’s wrong?” he asked. I shook my head and carefully selected my next bite, a small sautéed whole new potato. “Do you find it odd she serves the salads last?” he asked as he placed the menu beside his plate. Incapable of response, and having had witnessed the establishment’s signature dish first-hand prior to him even attempting to begin his meal, I now knew better than to dismiss anything the breathtakingly beautiful owner chose to do as odd. I reached for my glass of water… My heart racing, and filled with pride for Em, I eagerly scanned through the article to see the conclusion of the review. Determining the tone for a new restaurant can be complicated. As construction expenses increase and ambitions continue to rise, so do the complications. The tone, however, at Jackson’s reveals the ambitious nature of the owner and chef very well.

A meal not to be tasted, but experienced. Five forks up. My eyes were welled with tears. I gazed around the library, read the article once more, and stood from the leather chair. Albuquerque was roughly 650 miles away, and would take ten hours on the bike. Growing up as an orphan, I had never anxiously waited for a birthday or Christmas as a child, and, as a result, waiting had never been a strength of mine. In my former life, waiting ten hours would have killed me. Having just spent the last ten years in prison, however, provided me with much more patience than I had ever believed I was capable of possessing. The ten hour ride would be a blessing. And maybe, just maybe, the ten hours of hot summer wind blowing past my face would dry the tears of pride which were beginning to roll down my cheeks.

JACK As I exited highway 85 on Candelaria road NE, my heart sank. The only restaurant at the intersection was clearly marked Ruby’s. I sat at the traffic light, exhausted, hot, disappointed, and still slightly hopeful. As the red light switched to green, I released the clutch and rode along the access road and into the parking lot. I parked the bike, stretched my legs and admired the scenery. In the bottom of a valley, Albuquerque sat at the base of the mountains surrounding the city, and from where I was standing, was quite beautiful. I found it as no wonder Emily had chosen the area for her restaurant. As I walked toward the restaurant, it dawned on me that although I had made no advancements in my life, the clock in the world of the civilians had continued to tick at the same pace the entire time I was away. Emily had lived a life of almost ten years, and it was quite possible anything could have happened in her life; marriage and children included. Prepared for any and all things I exposed myself to, I opened the door and walked inside. I was immediately met by a Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties wearing a colorful apron and a huge grin. “One?” she asked. I began to speak, and instead changed my mind and nodded my head. “Yes, one.” I glanced around the rather small and extremely colorful restaurant and tried to imagine Emily gracefully walking about, her brown hair confined inside a hair net, wearing a chef’s hat and feeling as proud as a peacock. “Follow me,” she said as she grabbed a menu and turned away. “Sit anywhere you like,” she said as she waved her hand toward the empty restaurant. My stomach told me it was time to eat, but my watch confirmed it was only 10:30 am, certainly not a time most people were prepared to eat lunch. I graciously accepted the menu, ordered a glass of

water, and began to scan the menu for something I recognized. After a few moments, she returned with a small pad of paper and a pen. “Ready?” she asked, her voice carrying not so much of a hint of accent from her ancestry. As I began to wonder if she may be American Indian, she grinned and shook her head. “Not ready?” “What do you recommend?” I asked. “Tacos al pastor are really good. The molcajete is good, the…” “Sounds good, bring me one of each,” I said. She gazed at me as if I was on fire, staring at my extremely dark and rather sunburnt skin, dirty sweat-stained wife beater, and raccoon-like eyes from wearing my sunglasses for what ended up being twelve hours on the road. “You want the tacos, and the molcajete bowl?” she asked with wide eyes. “Sure,” I responded as I handed her the menu. “Okay…” she said as she turned away. After a short wait, she brought a bowl fashioned from volcanic rock filled with a tomato soup based dish of shrimp, vegetables, and pieces of hominy. She slid another plate with three tacos filled with small diced pieces of pork beside the large bowl. “Anything else?” she asked. I raised my finger in the air. “There is one thing. Wasn’t this place called something else a while back? Jackson’s or something like that?” She nodded her head. “We’ve been here almost two years.” Show respect, get respect. “She had a pretty good chicken dish, but I bet it’s nothing like this,” I said as I nodded my head toward the bowl of soup. “You have your work cut out for you. You’re big, I hope you’re hungry,” she said with a smile. “Just passing through again. Been on the road for twelve hours, so yeah, I’m hungry,” I said as I reached for my spoon. As she turned to walk away, I continued. “Do you know what happened to it? The other place?” I asked as I dipped my spoon into the bowl. “She moved to Sante Fe and opened a new place,” she responded. “Ahhh,” I said as I lifted the spoon to my mouth.

I knew little about New Mexico, but I was well aware Sante Fe was north of the city; I had passed it an hour or so before reaching the restaurant. As excited as I was to try to find Emily, I figured the least I could do was finish my meal. I never really cared much for Mexican food, but the lava rock bowl filled with soup and my empty stomach were quickly changing my mind. After enjoying each and every drop of the soup, I ate the three tacos and all of the garnishments spread artistically around the plate. As I relaxed in the booth and slowly slipped into a light sleep, the sound of a set of car keys jingling caused me to jump from my seat. I glanced around the restaurant, muscles tense, prepared to run. A lone Hispanic man with a cowboy hat sauntered in and sat at the bar. A sound I doubted I’d ever again become accustomed to, keys jingling were the tell-tale sign of being approached by the guards in prison. Partially worn on the utility belt as an audible warning of their approach, and more than likely used as a deterrent to violence, the keys rattled with each step the guard took toward the cellblock, warning the inmates to run like roaches and return to acceptable behavior before the arrival of the prison’s only policing force. I wiped the sweat from my face and gazed around the restaurant. The waitress grinned as she walked toward me with a pitcher of water. “Sleepy man,” she said. “Guess so,” I responded as I moved my empty glass toward the edge of the table. “You done, or you want more?” she asked. “Done,” I said. “How long you been out?” she asked. I wrinkled my nose and stared. “Excuse me?” “Out of the joint. How long you been out?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Ten days? How’d you know, the shitty tattoos?” She shook her head. “The way you ate, like someone was going to take it from you. And when Emilio came in, you jumped out of your skin. The keys, huh?” I nodded my head and chuckled lightly. “You a part-time cop?” “No, my brothers are locked up more than they’re home. Well, good luck,” she said as she placed the ticket on the table. “Appreciate it,” I said. I paid the tab in cash, and left a healthy tip. As I walked out to the bike, I realized that nothing more than an hour’s time separated me from seeing Em, but as eager as I was, I needed to be presentable

when we met, regardless of her marital status. I gazed across the street at the motel and decided to pay whatever I had to for a shower, use of their washing machine, and a short nap. And then I would make my appearance.

JACK “Well, some say she went to New York City, and others said Los Angeles, so I can’t rightly answer for sure,” he said. “A year you said?” I asked. “Give or take,” he responded as he tugged against the brow of his straw hat. He was thin, approximately sixty-five years old, and wore faded jeans, a cotton pearl snap shirt, worn leather boots, and a cowboy hat. Emily’s restaurant had been beside his jewelry store in a long strip of businesses which lined the streets in a part of Sante Fe reserved more for the tourists than the local residents. “She had the best damned chicken I ever ate,” he said as he extended his hand. “Earl.” “Jack,” I said as I shook his hand. He cocked one eyebrow slightly and shifted his eyes up and down my frame. “Jack, huh?” he asked. “Yes, Sir,” I responded, disappointed that Emily had gone, but excited that he knew at least a little bit about her. “Hmmph,” he huffed as he studied me for a moment. “But not Jackson?” I swallowed heavily and nodded my head. “It’s…uhhm…yeah, I’m Jackson.” He lifted the brim of his hat over his wrinkled forehead, looked down his nose at me for a long moment, and studied me as if I were a ghost. “The Jackson?” he asked as he continued to push against the underside of the brim with the tip of his thumb, lifting his hat even more.

I nodded my head, wanting to know what he knew, but not wanted to make him uncomfortable. He seemed to be slightly more skittish than me, and I had my doubts that he just got out of prison. “Yes, Sir, I suppose so,” I responded. “Doubt that,” he said as he turned away. “What do you know about Em?” I asked excitedly as I stutter-stepped toward him. He stopped, turned around fully, and took off his hat. As he ran his hand over the top of his head and pressed the thinning gray hair against the tanned skin of his scalp, he pursed his lips and inhaled through his nose. As a wheezing sound emitted from his nose, he coughed a few times and pulled his hat down, covering his brow fully. “I ain’t tellin’ you a damned thing about that little girl unless you’re him, Jackson Shephard, that is. Show me your driver’s license,” he demanded as he pointed toward my pocket. As my heart raced, I reached for my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and before I even opened it, realized I would come up short if I did. “I don’t have one,” I coughed. “What’d she tell you about me?” “I ain’t tellin’ you shit,” he said. “Men all the time was a coming by and tryin’ to get that poor girl’s money.” “I’m Jackson Shephard, I really am,” I said. “I’m not after money, I just need to find her.” “Did she describe me?” I asked, realizing if she had left only a year prior, and had taken the time to tell him about me - including my name - there was still hope. “You look like every other biker who passes through these parts,” he responded. “She’s five foot six, brown hair, the deepest brown eyes, and the cutest little hands you’ve ever seen…” I said. “When’s your anniversary?” he asked, interrupting me as I spoke. “Excuse me?” I coughed as my knees went weak. I shoved my wallet into my back pocket, grinned, and realized my lower lip was shaking from nothing more than sheer excitement. For him to even ask such a question meant that Em had at least told him about us, and was proud enough of the fact that we were once together to tell him when our anniversary was. Either that or she still wore the necklace. My mind began to race as I fought to come with something to say. One thing I felt I had to know was whether or not she was still single. “Is she still single?” I asked as I rubbed my palms against the thighs of my jeans. He turned away, and began to walk behind the glass jewelry display case. I realized in the excitement I hadn’t answered his question about our anniversary.

“June 21st , 2006,” I responded. “And if she ever showed you the necklace I made her, it’s a…it’s a hand-stamped piece of sterling silver…the uhhm…the letters are all upper case…the date is in Roman… in Roman numerals,” I stammered as he walked away. He stopped in his tracks and turned around. “Well I’ll be go to hell,” he said as he lifted the brim of his hat. “And show it to me? Shit, son, she wore that damned thing every day. Never took it off. Ask me, I think it looked down right stupid, but she sure liked it. You know, she swore one day you’d reappear, in fact she was adamant about it. Drove most men crazy that she went on and on about ya the way she did, but I never minded much. Just never really knew if she believed you was coming back one day, or if she just said ‘cause she wanted to believe it. I figured it mighta been because she just wanted the locals to leave her be.” he said as he tugged against the brim of his hat. “In fact, I found the entire mess to be pretty damned interesting. Now how’s a man, if you don’t mind me askin’, go about breakin’ out of a federal penitentiary?” I shook my head and looked for a place to sit. Feeling like I was undoubtedly on the verge of a heart attack, I gazed down at my shaking hands. “It’s a long story, but I won an appeal. I’m a free man,” I responded. “I’ll be dipped in shit,” he said flatly. “Is that a fact?” I nodded my head proudly. “Yes, Sir.” “Telephone number. You got her telephone number?” I asked. He shook his head as he slowly shuffled toward me. “Strange thing about her. She didn’t have one. Hell, in this day and age, everyone has one, but not her. Damned girl hated the government for what they did to ya, and was afraid they’d come after her someday. Had some odd notion they’d track her through the phone or somethin’. Might be why she moved around so much, hell, who knows?” he said. “New York or Los Angeles, huh?” I asked as I wiped the sweat from my brow. “Sorry I can’t be of much help,” he said as he shook his head and lifted his hat. “You’ve been a great help. I’ll find her. Somehow, some way…” I said as I gazed around his shop. “I’m sure you will, son,” he said as he reached out and patted me on the shoulder. I gazed out the storefront window toward my motorcycle. There was little in my life that meant much to me, but my Em was sure at the top of the list. By the time I got home, I’d have been gone three days, and if I was going to find her, I would no doubt need some help. From what the fellas had said, the Selected Sinners gun business went without any harassment by law enforcement because Slice had the

local police on his payroll. If anyone could find Em, a cop would sure be that person. And my only way to get a cop to help me would be through Slice. “Sorry, I gotta go,” I said. “Alrighty, then,” he said with a laugh. I extended my hand. “Thank you.” “Good luck,” he said as he shook my hand. If Emily didn’t have a phone, and didn’t believe in them, finding her would take more than luck, it would take determination. And that was something I knew a lot about.

JACK “Goes without saying, and no disrespect intended, Boss, but as far as I’m concerned, I really don’t want anyone knowing about this but you and me,” I said. “No shame in loving a woman,” he growled. “Didn’t say I was in love,” I said. He leaned back in his seat and tilted it up on the rear legs as he studied me. “Didn’t have to,” he said, his mouth curling into a smirk as he spoke. I nodded my head once and stared past him as my mind slowly drifted to thoughts of Em. As he began to speak again, I shifted my eyes to meet his. “Listen. The decisions we make in life that we don’t have to think about? They’re always the right decisions. And the decisions we contemplate, mull over, and ask the opinions of others?” He dropped his chair onto the floor, and leaned forward. “There are two rules I try to live by. Well, actually there’s a whole fucking book of ‘em, but I like these two the most. One, don’t ask a question if you already know the answer. Two, go with your gut.” I nodded my head in acknowledgement. “You go with your gut on this?” he asked. I pursed my lips, clenched my jaw, and nodded my head again. “Well, your decision’s the right one. Plain and simple. I’ll keep it to myself; you have my word on that. Sure as fuck not much to go on, but let me see what I can find out. Might take a while,” he said as he stood from his seat. I stood, nodded my head once, and gave my parting remarks. “Appreciate anything you can do.”

“Before you get out of here, let me ask you something. You alright?” he asked. “I’m solid, Boss,” I responded as I turned around. He locked eyes with me and glared. “I know you’re solid. There’s no doubt you’re one stand up motherfucker, Jack, but I want to know if you’re alright. Toad says you barely sleep, and I can vouch for the fact you’re pretty fucking skittish around some of the fellas. Just making sure you don’t need anything.” Having a president like Axton was much different than having Sarge as a president. Having never been in another club, and really having no exposure to other presidents and not knowing how they acted, I always assumed Sarge was as good as a man could be. Seeing how Axton handed his men and knowing he perceived their problems as his problems made me feel like I had finally found a place I could truly call home. “Just hard to adjust,” I responded with a shrug of my shoulders. “You know, I wasn’t locked up for a year or two; I damned near did a dime.” He glared at me for a moment, making me slightly nervous that maybe he didn’t care for my response. Axton was a hard man to read, and rarely showed any expression short of angry. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “Good point. Corn Dog did a nickel in state, but that damned sure doesn’t come close to dime in the Pen. If you need anything, you come to me, understand? And I mean anything,” he said. “I’ll let you know, Boss,” I said. I started to turn away, and paused. “Got one more thing, Boss,” I said as I turned to face him. “Let’s hear it,” he said. I gazed down at my boots and tried to decide if what I was going to ask would be perceived as disrespectful. I’d already asked who put the money on my books, and thanked Biscuit for doing so. I had not found out who paid for the attorney fees, and after giving some serious thought to the matter, decided someone had to, especially after I reread the letter Avery sent me while I was locked up. “Well, I got a box of stuff from the joint the other day, and I was digging through it. Read that letter your Ol’ Lady sent me about my trial again. Then I read it again. Guess what I wanna know is this: who paid all of the fees and shit associated with my trial?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest as I waited for his response. “He’d rather remain anonymous,” Axton said flatly. “Any promises made?” I asked. “What?” he snapped back as if I had no right to ask.

“Any of the fellas give their word they’d keep their mouth shut about it, or is it just something the Good Samaritan would rather I didn’t find out?” I asked. “More the latter,” he responded. I gazed down at my boots, held it for a short time, and shifted my eyes upward. “Well, we’ve all got our pride, and it’s hard for me to keep from swallowing mine with all of these people helping me out. Fuck, I’m riding that Softy outside and it ain’t even mine,” I complained. “I’d appreciate if you’d tell me, so I can thank him and try and pay him back. It’d sure help me out. You know, about that skittish shit you were talking about earlier. Might help me deal with coming back to the free world, Boss,” I said. “Well, I can tell you right now, he won’t accept a cent in return. Don’t know the man real well myself, but your soon to be brother-in-law does, and I know of him well enough to say he won’t be interested in your money,” he said as he rubbed the stubble on his face with his fingertips. “Let’s say this. How about you agree to thank him in private, they’ll be up here in a month on a little visit. They’re heading up to a rally in Wisconsin,” he said. “Agreed,” I said. “Who is he?” “He’s actually the Heavyweight Champion of the World in boxing. Shane Dekkar. His Marine buddy is the one that Toad took a bullet for down in Austin. The Marine is originally from here, and him and the rest of his ratty little do-gooder MC will be riding up to a rally in Wisconsin next month. They’re stopping in to see Toad, should be about month give or take a day or two. I’ll keep you posted, how’s that?” he asked. “Heavyweight Champion, no shit, huh?” I asked. “One strange motherfucker, but tough as fuck,” he said with a nod. “I’m guessing you didn’t keep up on that shit in prison?” I shook my head and laughed. “Didn’t let us watch fights, said they’d evoke a riot.” “Figures,” he said. “That it?” I nodded my head and extended my hand. He shook my hand and hugged me, which made me feel a little more comfortable about everything. It made me nervous speaking to Axton without someone there to witness our conversation, but I knew I had to talk to him alone - at least about this particular subject. Still stuck in my prison way of thinking, I feared talking to anyone of authority without a witness. In prison, any time an inmate talked to a cop about anything, another inmate would be asked to witness it. If an inmate went alone, it was automatically assumed his conversation was a secret, and he was labeled a snitch. I walked out through the shop, glanced around for any of the fellas, and after seeing no one, started

my bike and rode home. With Sydney at work and Toad gone doing whatever it was he did all day, I went into my bedroom and pulled my box of letters out from under my bed. Within a few minutes, I had all of them spread out on the floor. My life, so to speak, for the last ten years, was in front of me in a pile. It seemed strange now that I was out of prison, but ten years of my life was able to fit in two shoe boxes. And I felt empty.

JACK I stood in the shop nervously sipping my beer. It had been two weeks, and I hadn’t heard a word about Em. I’d spent considerable time on the internet searching for her name and any association with a restaurant named Jackson’s and all I was able to find was the restaurant in Albuquerque. All but convinced she had moved away to some secluded area with a man, I recalled that I never got a response from the old man regarding whether or not she was single. I began to feel weak from my feeling of necessity. After doing a reasonable amount of reading on the internet about being released from prison, I decided I was institutionalized, and no differently than any other prisoner, had to focus on something to keep my mind under the false belief that I had a routine. I had been taken to breakfast, lunch, and dinner for ten years at the exact same time every day. We were locked down for count at the same exact time every day and locked down at night at the exact same time every night. Lights out at the same time, every night, for ten years. In prison, my entire life was a routine. I didn’t have to think, all I had to do was survive. And now, living in the free world, I was obsessed with finding Em. Partially, I suspected, because I needed to focus on something. And more so because I was truly in love with her and would never be able to live my life fully unless she was in it. If I had never met her, things would have been totally different. But having had her in my life and realizing what love actually was prevented me from living every moment without yearning to have that feeling again. A feeling that only Em could provide. As Toad and Otis stood and talked, I stared blankly at the floor and tried to assemble a routine to provide my day with a little structure. I was already working out with weights for an hour and a half a day, and almost an hour and a half was taken up with meals, leaving sixteen hours of unscheduled activity

in my day after my five hours sleep. A set of keys on the shop floor beside a Wide Glide caught my attention. After glancing around the shop nervously, I bent down and picked them up. A short study of the keys made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I glanced around the shop, studied each of the men individually, and didn’t recognize anyone. I tossed the keys right back where they were. “We need to go talk to the boss,” I said, interrupting their conversation. “Alright, gimme a minute,” Otis said. I shook my head. “Right now.” “Well, just go in there if you need him right now,” Toad said. “Need someone with me. So both of you want to go in there with me?” Toad glanced at Otis, shifted his eyes to me, and shrugged. “If you really think we need to.” I swallowed heavily and nodded my head. “Same as going to talk to the cops in the joint far as I’m concerned. You never go alone to talk to the man. Always go in pairs, that way nobody can start the he said she said shit. I just want witnesses.” Otis tossed his head toward the office. “Come on.” I followed them in the office and as they sat down, I began pacing the floor, half afraid to say anything, but more afraid not to. Part of me wanted to hop on my bike and ride to a secluded place where no one would ever find me, but I’d never avoided a good fight in my life and I didn’t think now was a time to start. As I stared at the floor and paced back and forth, Axton’s voice caused me to glance up. “You alright, Big Jack?” he asked. “Be fine, Boss. Just thinking,” I responded. I pulled out a chair and sat down. I locked eyes with Axton and spoke. “Permission to speak candidly?” Axton broke my gaze, shifted his eyes to Toad, then Otis, and back “What the fuck’s going on?” Axton asked as he stood from his seat.

I stood nervously. “Sit the fuck down, you pricks are making me nervous. What the fuck’s going on here?” he asked. “Sure, whatever. Speak freely,” he snapped. I inhaled a deep breath, exhaled, and said what I had to. “Think we’ve got a cop in the club, Boss,” I said flatly. Axton narrowed his eyes and glared. “What the fuck are you talking about? There ain’t a cop patched in in this MC, I can guarantee you that much. Now why the fuck are you saying this, you nervous motherfucker? What the fuck happened?” I stood from his seat and began pacing. “Sit the fuck down,” Axton demanded. “Sorry, Boss. I got to stand. Hear me out, okay?” “Fuck it, I guess you can walk. And I’m fucking listening,” he said. “Well, when I was in the joint, we had cops that took us to the hole in the elevator when we got a write up. They had this special key, it looks like one of them round keys for a soda machine, but it’s about half inch longer. Elevator repairmen have ‘em too, but that’s about it. It lets you stick the key in the elevator, turn on an override, and make it go to the roof or the basement or whatever. Now when I was in court the first time, and the second time for that matter, I saw the same thing. The US Marshall and the ATF fellas that took me to court in the beginning, and again the other day, they both had ‘em. They had to put ‘em in the elevator to get down to the basement to their cars. There are only a couple of elevator manufacturers, Dover and Otis. Most of the keys say one of those two names on ‘em…” “God damn it, Big Jack, get to the point,” Axton interrupted. “That fella they call Gunner, Boss. He’s got one of them keys on his key ring. It says Dover on it for sure, I looked at it. And unless he’s repairing elevators on the side, he’s probably a fed or a prison guard,” I said. Toad jumped up from his seat, clenched his jaw, and began to walk toward the door. “I fucking knew it. Phony ass piece of lying shit. Motherfucker says he was in the shit, I never trusted his phony ass.”

“Sit the fuck down, Toad. God fucking damn,” Axton bellowed. “Hell, he’s been here for years, he can’t be a cop. Who vouched him in the club?” “Don’t need the book, Slice. I can tell you who vouched him in,” Otis said. “Who?” “Hollywood,” Otis said. “Fuck!” Axton screamed as he kicked the table. Axton exchanged glances with each of us, sighed, and kicked the table again. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he seethed as he turned around. “Who’s that cock sucker run with?” “Ran with ‘Wood. Well, till ‘Wood committed suicide,” Toad said. “Fuck!” Axton screamed. He turned around and locked eyes with me. “You God damned one fucking hundred percent sure he’s got an elevator override key? One fucking hundred, not ninety-nine. You sure?” “Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, Boss. Hundred percent,” I responded, thinking of the keyring with the name Gunner stamped on a brass tag. “Fuck!” Axton shouted. “Let’s talk about this, what are we going to do?” Otis asked. “Torture his ass, get him to admit it, and kill the fucker. Pretty simple shit,” Axton responded. “I’ll do it,” Toad growled. Axton shook his head. “I’ll fucking do it.” “Hold up, Boss,” I said. “You kill this fucker now or you even kill him later, fed’s will be on this club like shit on a shoe. Whoever sent him knows he’s here. He comes up missing or turns up dead, we’re fucked.” “Well, what the fuck do you suggest?” he growled.

“I say we kill the prick,” Otis suggested. “ATF will be here in a quick minute,” I said as I shook my head. “What’s the answer?” Axton asked. I responded slowly, thinking as I spoke. “Well, he’s gonna be wearing a wire, you can bet on that. So we need to get him where we can talk to him and the wire ain’t any good. Won’t be easy, him being a cop and all, but we’ll have to do it. Anybody got a swimming pool?” “A what? A fucking swimming pool?” Axton snarled. “Yeah a pool. Make his ass get in the pool. Water will ruin the wire. Only way I know for sure, other than stripping him down, and then you still don’t know. Fucking things can be in their hair, ears, hell some of the fellas in the joint said they even had ‘em sewn into their clothes. So if you make him strip, and he tosses his clothes in a pile beside him, he can still be listening,” I responded. “Biscuit’s got a pool,” Otis said. “Alright. I’ll get with Biscuit. We’ll need to get Gunner over there without making him nervous. How in the absolute fuck are we going to do that?” Axton asked. “Have Biscuit tell him we’ve got some pussy over there?” I said. “But don’t tell him there’s a pool, fed’s hate being around fucking pools. He’ll know what’s up for sure and he’ll call in the troops.” “I hope you’re wrong,” Axton said as he fixed his eyes on me. “Ain’t wrong Boss,” I assured him. “You fellas go out in the shop and act like nothing happened. Is the fucker out there now?” Axton asked. “Was a minute ago,” I responded. “Fuck!” Axton growled as he kicked the table so hard he almost tipped it over. “Where’s Biscuit?” Axton asked. “Fucking the girl from the bar,” Otis said.

“Alright, I’ll call him. Stay out in the shop, and just follow my lead. I’ll be out in a minute,” Axton said. The thought of an ATF agent or a cop in the club made me nervous about even being in a MC, but I knew I had no other choice. The MC way of life was my only shot at ever having a family, and what little I’d seen of the Sinners, their way of doing things was right in line with what I believed to be best. “Big Jack?” Axton said as Otis opened the door. “Yeah Boss?” I responded over my shoulder. “Your cut looks good on ya, and this is damned sure where you belong. And about this…” He shifted his eyes to meet my gaze. “Good lookin’ out, Jack. Good lookin’ out.” “Just doin’ my job, Boss,” I responded as I stepped through the door. As far as I was concerned, I had an obligation, and the men in the club expected me to fulfill it no differently than I expected them to do the same. Backing away from a situation like this one wasn’t an option, and as much as I hated the thought of an ATF agent or any kind of cop infiltrating the club, I had a responsibility to stand up and do everything in my power to protect the men in the club from going through what I went through. Even if it meant I’d have to do it all over again.

JACK Being right all the time is impossible. I made it a point to never give my word on something unless I was convinced I was right, or at least that I believed deep down inside that I was standing up for something I believed in with all my heart. Obtaining confirmation on my belief was always something that made me feel as if I was receiving a pat on the back from the man upstairs. “You’ve been my field assignment for two and almost one half years. There’s no one else on this investigation. I swear to you. I had a meeting a few weeks ago with the director, and he’s pissed because I claimed I wasn’t ready to testify before a Federal Grand Jury…” Gunner stammered as he tried to keep his head above water. We had been at Biscuit’s pool for some time, and Axton was interrogating Gunner, waving a gun in his face the entire time. Participating in the fiasco was satisfying in many respects; knowing I was right about Gunner being a cop wasn’t necessarily all I wanted, but it was all I needed. This was Axton’s club, and his decision, regardless of what it was, would be supported by me. “What in the fuck does this have to do with anything? Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like cops. You’re a fucking cop. If I took a vote right now, at least four of these fellas would agree to kill you. My math skills aren’t too damned shabby, and that’s eighty fucking percent, excluding you. Damned sure a

majority,” Axton growled. “Look,” Gunner pleaded as he tried to continue to tread water. “I started investigating the Sinners on guns. In the last two years, you really haven’t done anything contrary to law. Might be a stretch, but possibly selling guns to a prohibited person is all I can come up with. To indict you, I need to testify and turn in my reports. Reports come first. If I don’t, there’s no case. Period. End of story. I’ll agree to not testify, how’s that?” he begged. Biscuit stood beside the swimming pool with a long aluminum pole. As soon as Gunner spoke, he swung the end of into his head, cutting his face alongside his nose. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ shittin’ me…” Biscuit grunted as the pole came down on Gunner’s head. “You no good son-of-a-fuckin’-cop-bitch,” Biscuit howled as he raised the pole again, “I’ll just beat you to death if they won’t let me shoot you.” Axton raised his hands in the air and screamed. “God fucking damn it, Biscuit. Put the pole down.” “Ain’t happenin’, Slice. These fuckin’ cops, you can’t trust ‘em. Probably got a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum shoved up his ass as a backup piece. I’m keepin’ the pole,” Biscuit responded as he held the pole over his head, ready to strike again. “Well, don’t hit him with the fucker again unless I tell you to,” Axton said, laughing as he spoke. Axton shifted his eyes to where Gunner was treading water in the pool. “I don’t trust you any further than I can throw you, you fat son-of-a-bitch. Don’t think I can agree to that.” “You’ve got two options,” Gunner explained. “Kill me, or let me go. That’s it.” “Fuck this motherfucker, Slice. He’s tryin’ that cop psycho-babble mind game shit on us,” Biscuit grunted. Axton raised his hand in the air. “Put it down, God damn it, Biscuit.” “Man’s got a point, Boss,” I said. “We’ve only got two fucking options. Kill him, or let him go.” “Well, what the fuck do you four fuckers want to do?” Axton growled as he tossed his hands in the

air. “Kill him,” Biscuit snapped back. “Same. I say we kill him,” Toad agreed. I exhaled and nodded my head as I turned to face Axton. “Want to kill him, Boss, but it ain’t too practical. Soon as he doesn’t report in, they’ll come to the clubhouse.” “Hand me the gun,” Otis said. “We need to talk about this, my fucking head’s spinning,” Axton said as tossed his hands in the air, still holding the gun in one hand. “Hand me the fucking gun,” Otis demanded. Axton took a step back and narrowed his gaze. Otis shook his head in apparent disgust, walked to the table where Gunner’s gun was sitting, grabbed it, and stomped to the end of the pool. “Shut the fuck up. Every fucking one of you. Just shut the fuck up, especially you,” Otis yelled as he pointed the gun at Gunner. “God damn it, Otis,” Axton bellowed. “Shoot the motherfucker!” Biscuit hollered. “Otis!” Axton growled. “Every god damned one of you, shut the fuck up!” Otis yelled. Otis jumped in the pool, grabbed Gunners head in one hand, and pushed the barrel of the pistol in his eye with the other. “Listen to me, motherfucker, and listen good. I’m not like these other four fuckers. I’m the quiet one you need to worry about. You’ve been here two and a half years, so you know I’m the protector of this fucking MC, regardless of who wears the SAA patch,” Otis seethed. “You’ve got one opportunity to answer each question I ask. One. If you don’t, I’ll pull this fucking trigger.” “Otis!” Axton yelled.

Otis didn’t flinch. I hadn’t had much exposure to Otis other than a few drinks in the bar, but from what I was seeing, he was a no nonsense type of fella. Immediately, regardless of the outcome of the fucked up situation, I had more respect for him. “What’s your God given name?” Otis asked through his teeth. “Allen. Allen Pintler,” Gunner murmured. “Current place of residence?” “Wichita. Right here in Wichita,” Gunner responded. “Got a wife and kids?” “Uhhm. I uhhm, yeah. I have a family,” he cried. Otis nodded his head and pushed the pistol deep into Gunner’s eye socket. “You’ve got one option and one option only, and I’m going to explain it to you. You’re going to get out of this pool, dry off, get dressed in some of Biscuit’s clothes, and you and I are going to go to your house in Biscuit’s truck. You’re going to prove to me that it’s your house by showing me your fucking mail, pictures of you with your fucking wife, and pictures of you with your kids. Your kids old enough to have laptops?” What the fuck? “What? Laptops?” Gunner muttered. “Easy question, motherfucker. Do your fucking kids have laptops?” “Yeah, they both do,” he responded. “Alright, again, listen carefully,” Otis explained. “You’re going to allow us access to their laptops, and we’re going to put a LoJack on them, just to make sure you don’t try and run anywhere. We’ll track your kid’s whereabouts, and we’re going to put one on your bike and your personal car as well. And we’ll track you. You either refuse to testify to the Grand Jury, or I’m going to kill your wife and kids. It’s that simple. This isn’t a threat, it’s a solemn promise. If I’m going to spend life in prison, it isn’t going to be on your terms, it’s going to be on mine. You agree to these conditions?”

“Don’t hurt my kids, just don’t hurt my kids,” Gunner cried. As I saw the fear in Gunner’s eyes, it was pretty obvious Otis had hit a soft spot with him in regard to his kids. Something he undoubtedly held sacred, the one thing he loved more than he loved himself. To him, his kids were what Em was to me. I nodded my head in an understanding manner, satisfied Otis was going to get exactly what he wanted from Gunner. Good work, Otis. If there was a way to stop Gunner from proceeding with his investigation, and, in turn, prevent anyone from going through the hell I was forced to live in through my arrest, incarceration, trial, and prison, I was all for it. If Gunner crossed the line by getting one of the Sinners drunk, begging them to say something, and arresting him for doing so, I would vote his fate be much different. As I gazed down into the pool, I thought of agent Blackburn and what his fate should be now that I was available to administer the punishment I felt fit his crime. The only sufficient punishment was a decade in prison, and as that wasn’t going to happen, I felt killing him was the only real option. “It’s all up to you, Special Agent Allen Pintler. It’s all up to you,” Otis said as he extended his arm over his shoulder, handing Axton the pistol. Otis climbed from the pool and turned toward Axton. “Sorry, Slice. It was the only thing I could think of.” Axton shook his head. “LoJack’s? Where the fuck did you come up with that?” “Got one on my car and another on my laptop. They work pretty damned good, you can track them in real time on the internet,” Otis said. One more thing I must have missed in the last ten years… “Get out of the pool,” Axton demanded as he nodded toward Gunner. “Toad’s going with you. Toad, if he tries anything, and I mean anything, do whatever a war torn Marine thinks is best,” Axton explained. “You got it, Slice,” Toad responded. I turned to face Axton. He reached out and patted me on the shoulder. After a short hesitation he

extended his hand. I reached for it, shook his hand, and as I did, he pulled me into him, and hugged me. As he held me, he whispered words that meant more to me than anything I’d heard in years. “Love ya, brother,” he said. “Just doing my job, Boss,” I responded. And I meant every word I said.

A-TRAIN Once a Marine, always a Marine. I had said it before and I would undoubtedly say again: I took an oath to protect the citizens of the United States of America from terrorists on our soil and abroad. The oath had no expiration date, and I’ve never had as much as an ounce of admiration for a man who couldn’t keep his promises. Terrorists come in all shapes, sizes, ages, colors, creeds, nationalities, and religions. A master of what they do, they’re often camouflaged so well that an untrained eye isn’t able to identify them. I, on the other hand, have years of experience, and believe my ability to recognize a terrorist for who he is and what he represents is second to no man’s, and therefore have no reservation acting on my instinct in providing my continued protection to the men and women I took an oath to protect. I am not so shallow that I believed all police or factions of the police were assembled only by men who were corrupt. As with all men in general, there were good cops, and there were bad cops. When an officer who gave an oath similar to the one I gave, and then chose to abuse his power, manipulate the system, and lie to convict an honest citizen of a crime that was never committed, he quickly identified himself as the enemy. The camouflage, so to speak, was removed, and who he truly was stood exposed for all to see.

He becomes a terrorist. And my solemn duty was to the men and women of this United States, which I had sworn to protect, who relied on me and those like me to prevent them from being preyed upon. I leveled the rifle on the parapet of the roof and slowed my breathing. From my short study, I had less than five minutes before he would be walking across the street. The distance of 600 yards was almost half a mile, an extremely long range for most men to shoot something the size of a Boeing 747, but for me it was a walk in the park. I realized the report from the rifle would be heard from anyone within earshot, but the area I had chosen was surrounded by homeless people, and at least for the time being, I looked no differently than they did. As my training and experience required, I blended into my environment well. The target stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green. With the early evening sun at my back, I peered through the scope, inhaled, exhaled slowly, and squeezed the trigger. The 660 grain bullet traveled the distance in less than a second, but, no differently than any of the other similar shots I had taken, seemed to travel in slow motion, providing sufficient time for me to recover from the recoil and see what I needed to see. There was no doubt the target was eliminated. Mission accomplished. I quickly disassembled the rifle, placed the components in my backpack, then pulled my wool jacket over my shoulders and my hood over my head. After picking up the can of beer I had placed beside the pack, I opened it and took a drink. I gargled the warm beer, poured my hand full, and splashed a little on my jeans. I dumped the remaining beer on the hot roof and placed the empty can in my pack, and slipped my arms through the straps. Now, I would smell to anyone who passed my on the street no differently than the hordes of homeless gathered below. I walked across the roof to the fire escape of the abandoned building and climbed down and onto the sidewalk. Within five minutes, I was a block away, amidst a dozen homeless. In five more, I was on my bagger traveling a comfortable 65 miles per hour down the interstate. And the world was a better place to live in.

JACK I watched in amazement as the man balanced on ice skates while he pummeled the man in front of him. With his left hand holding the jersey of his opponent, and his chin tucked to his chest, he swung wildly but effectively, hitting the other man in the face with no less than half his punches. The referees stood to the side and watched as the two players fought until completely exhausted. As the man getting hit the most finally fell to the ice, the referees skated in between them and stopped the fight. “Can you fuckin’ imagine if they let ‘em fight in baseball? Motherfuckin’ first base coach kickin’ the shit outta the umpire for a bad call. Whippin’ the piss outta him until one of ‘em fell on the ground? Gotta love a fuckin’ hockey game,” Ripp growled as he stood and clapped. I clapped my hands and cheered. I’d never been to a hockey game, and as much as I protested going, the fellas from Austin all but demanded it. Now that I was actually experiencing it, I was glad I agreed to attend. The thought of hockey always fascinated me, but going reminded me of Em, as she always spoke of her love of following the playoffs. It was the least I could do to repay the man who paid for my freedom. On my left, the heavyweight

Champion of the World sat quietly and humbly, probably hoping no one would notice him. A few had, and it was pretty exciting to me to be sitting with a true celebrity. Having an entire career of undefeated matches was not only an accomplishment, but spoke clearly of what type of a man Shane Dekkar was when it came to devotion. “Sit down, Ripp,” Shane said as he shook his head. “Fuck, Dekk. Did you see that shit? Put some skates on your ass and see how long you keep the title. These motherfuckers are brawlers. I need to get me some skates and practice up. We got a team in Austin?” Ripp asked as he lowered his oversized self into the small plastic seat. Shane nodded his head. “Texas Stars in Cedar Park. I’ll buy the skates if you’ll try out.” “Soon as we get back,” Ripp said over his shoulder. Otis leaned forward and got my attention. “Look at the goalie. He’s going to slap the shit out of number 22. Each time he skates by, he slashes at him with his stick.” I shifted my eyes to the goalie. As soon as 22 skated around the goal, he swung his stick, slapping it against the back of the skater’s legs. I knew very little about the fast-paced game, but it sure appeared the goalie was off-limits when it came to people making contact with him, and 22 had been coming close all night. The previous fight was all because the other skater had knocked the goalie over when trying to rush in for a goal. As I did my best to pay attention to everyone skating back and forth, the buzzer sounded, ending the period. “Holy shit, fellas, this is some exciting shit,” I said as I glanced to my left and then my right. Toad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and peered past Otis and Ripp. “One more period, then it’s over. Fucks me up how they count the time backwards on the clock. I think when they let those two out of the box, they’ll go at it again,” he said. I nodded my head. “Hope so, pretty fucking exciting shit.” Being at the game allowed me to enjoy myself for the first time since I had been out of prison. I had not thought about anything but what was in front of me since we arrived at the game, and spending time with the fellas from Austin was pretty damned entertaining. Ripp was a comical fucker, always talking shit to Shane, and joking about everything he found amusing. Personally, I’d put him up against the MC’s practical joker, Biscuit as far as story telling abilities go. Shane was quiet, and although he kept to himself, was extremely respectful and quite humble. A-Train was the Marine who served in the entire war with Toad, and saved his life during one of his many tours. Toad, while in Austin, returned the favor by taking a bullet intended for his Marine

brother. Although so far I wasn’t able to spend much time with A-Train, he was a man who immediately made me comfortable to be around. He listened far more than he talked, but when he took time to talk, he didn’t do it for attention or recognition. He spoke because it was necessary. Immediately, and without thought, I admired him for it. They had been in town for almost a week, and were scheduled to leave in the morning, going back to Austin after their trip to Wisconsin for a rally. Disappointed that A-Train wasn’t able to make the game, but grateful that he provided me the ticket, I sat anxiously waiting for it to continue. “What do you think they pay that dumb fuck to drive that deal on the ice and polish it?” Ripp asked. “Five bucks an hour?” I said. He wrinkled his nose and stared. “How long was you locked up? They pay a motherfucker at McDonalds eight bucks.” “Shit, I don’t know, eight bucks then,” I said. “And ten years. I was locked up for ten fucking years.” “God damn, brother. Better man than me. I woulda hung myself,” he said as he shook his head. Although I saw a few people commit suicide in prison, the thought never crossed my mind. For some reason, suicide never seemed to be an option for me. I felt my only way of leaving this earth would be the same as my entry, one God decided, not me. When I was sixteen, Johnny Kilgore was seventeen. He and his twin brother, Jacob, spent almost every waking hour together, and were friends first, and brothers second. One weekend, while on a date, Johnny was driving on a county road, and attempted to cross an unmarked railroad track. The investigation produced very little information from what I could recall, but there was no alcohol involved, nor were there any drugs present in either his or his girlfriend’s bloodstream. The train hit his truck broadside, and when it did, the truck exploded. It didn’t explode into a fiery ball of flames, it disintegrated. The dismantling of the truck was immediate, and parts of it were strewn along the track for a mile. Both Johnny and his girlfriend were killed immediately. It was the second time in my life I had to deal with death, but the first, my parents, was when I was too young to understand it fully. One thing I will never forget was that there was pair of shoes dangling from the telephone line thirty feet in the air above the crash site. Although some viewed it as a hoax, and others truly believed they were Johnny’s girlfriend’s shoes, I never really thought it mattered. The shoes hung from the line for a year as a symbol of what happened, and just how immediate death can be. Every time I passed that intersection, I saw the shoes before anything. I always looked both ways

before I crossed, which was something I hadn’t always done in the past. I perceived the shoes as somewhat of a warning or maybe even a reminder of the permanency of death. Jacob wandered around town in a fog for roughly a year before he took his own life one day. He did so at the crossing where his brother had died, shooting himself in the head with his father’s pistol. It was the third time I had to deal with death, but my first suicide. Something inside of me broke that day, and I always believed it was a result of witnessing someone so young who was once full of life decide to take his own life. The decision wasn’t something that could be reversed later, nor was it something he could recover from. At his funeral, I made a decision. I spent an entire Saturday afternoon shooting at the shoes with a friend’s .22 caliber rifle until I literally cut the shoe strings in two, causing the shoes to fall to the ground. Although I had reservations at first, feeling almost as if the shoes were sacred, I eventually walked over and picked them up. I later took them to the grave of Johnny’s girlfriend and placed them in front of her headstone. A few weeks later, they added a warning light at the intersection. A little too late to save the lives lost, it was my first experience with the indecisive nature of a bureaucracy and how it could - and would have an effect on society. “Well, if I woulda taken that option, I wouldn’t be here watching this, would I?” I asked as I jumped from my seat. Number 22 was in an all-out brawl in front of the goalie. The player from the penalty box had immediately skated toward him and challenged him to a fight as soon as he was released. As we stood and cheered until one man hit the ice, I was grateful for a lot of things in my life. And the first was that I was alive and well. “Well, glad you didn’t,” Ripp said as he slapped my shoulder, damned near knocking me down the rows of seats. I initially glared at him, and then fully realized that he didn’t mean it. He was just big, strong, and full of life himself. As he screamed at the referee and eventually threw his remaining cup of beer into the rink when the referee kicked the player out for instigating a fight, I slapped him on the shoulder equally as hard. “Me too,” I said. Me too.

JACK Toad called me in to see the news, which left me feeling slightly relieved, and, at least initially, a little scared. Agent Blackburn was executed while walking to his office from court late Friday, at approximately 7:10 p.m., the result of a sniper’s .50 caliber bullet. The shot, according to authorities and ballistics experts with the bureau, was taken from approximately a mile away, a distance that made and will continue to make apprehension of the suspect or suspects difficult at best. Agent Blackburn, who had been with the bureau for 18 years, was best known for spearheading the case against an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang, and later writing a book about his experiences while in the gang, which was entitled The Eagle’s Nest. Our thoughts and prayers go to the family of the deceased. Jim? I stared at the television. “That your guy?” Toad asked as he turned down the volume. I swallowed the lump which had risen in my throat. Although I fully intended on paying Blackburn a visit, it felt odd knowing that he was dead, and not by my own doing. It appeared I wasn’t the only one who viewed him as an enemy and a threat to society. I pursed my lips and nodded my head. “Probably a good thing you were at that hockey game last night,” A-Train said as he turned to face me. I stared blankly, eventually shrugging my shoulders.

“They said it happened at 7:10. Hell, you’ve got a rock-solid alibi. Plenty of witnesses, one a damned celebrity,” A-Train paused and tilted his head toward Shane, who stood a few feet away. “And from what I can recall, that new arena is full of cameras; probably got you dumb fucks on film. It’s a shame about that agent, though. Well, if nothing else, it’ll make sure you don’t go right back to the joint for doing something stupid,” he said. I stood and stared, partially in shock, but not enough so that my mind wasn’t working overtime to digest what had happened. We were all scheduled to ride out of town with the group, seeing them to the state line, and returning to the shop afterward for a small party of our own. Toad’s home was filled with men, Axton and Otis included. “Got a minute?” I asked A-Train as I tossed my head toward the door leading to the garage. “Got a lifetime,” he responded as he turned toward the garage. As he followed me into the garage, my mind attempted to assemble the pieces of the previous day. I never considered myself a stupid man, but I also hated to make assumptions. But as men often did, my MC brothers had told stories of A-Train before his arrival, many of which were stories of war, his life in Austin, and some tales of the time when he lived in Wichita. One thing each of the stories had in common was a body. A dead body. Never a witness, and from what they said, he never admitted to anything. But I couldn’t help but wonder. As we stepped down the stairs and into the garage, I glanced around at the various the motorcycles. I felt slightly nervous, but not so much that I was afraid to speak. I suspected part of my apprehensive nature was a result of Blackburn actually being dead and my mind attempting to place that piece of my puzzle aside. “So, where were you last night?” I asked. He gazed toward me, but it was as if he was looking through me, or maybe even into me. As I stood, feeling as if he was peering into my very soul, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. As he flicked the Zippo lighter closed against the leg of his jeans, he took a long drag from the cigarette, and answered as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “With an old friend. A local doctor,” he responded. “Why?” “Just wondering,” I responded. I gazed down at my boots for a moment, glanced up, and hesitated. As I stood wondering how to proceed, he exhaled another cloud of smoke, lifted his cigarette even with his face, and studied the

smoking tip. “Something you need to say?” he asked. “I don’t know for sure, I was just wondering…” He clenched the butt of the cigarette between his teeth, closed one eye to protect it from the rising smoke, and while peering at me with his open eye, began to speak. “What’s on your mind, Big Jack?” he asked as he pursed his lips around the cigarette. The end glowed as he took another long drag. Standing there talking to him didn’t make me nervous, but I was far from being in my comfort zone. He seemed different. Distant. His eyes looked like they were deeper in his skull, and they seemed almost three dimensional in color, like a hologram. In short, he seemed like a walking ghost. “I uhhm…” “You want to know if I killed that man?” he asked. My constricting throat prevented me from responding. I nodded my head as I fought to swallow. “Ask me,” he said as he opened his mouth and dropped the cigarette to the floor. As he pressed against it with the tip of his boot, I did just that. “Did you?” I asked. “Let me ask you this. If I told you yes, would you shake my hand, or would you turn around and walk away?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.” He shook his head, bent down, and picked up the cigarette butt. As he pushed it into the pocket of his jeans, he continued. “Never ask a question unless you’re fully prepared for the repercussions of the response,” he said as he slapped his hand against the side of my shoulder. As he turned and began to go up the steps, I responded truthfully. I lifted my chin slightly and focused on his rising shoulders. “I’d shake your hand.” He stopped, turned to face me, and after a short study of my eyes… He extended his hand.

JACK “Shit, okay. I appreciate it,” Axton said as he scribbled on the note pad he carried with him at all times. He glanced toward me, nodded his head, and continued. “I’ll make a fucking donation to the Fraternal Order as soon as I get back to town. We’re stopping for a beer. Appreciate the call.” He shoved the phone into his front pocket, pulled the sheet from his pad, folded it, and handed it to me. “What’s this?” I asked as I glanced at the sheet of folded paper. He glanced over each shoulder, and leaned toward me. “Your girl. That’s her address, and the address of her new restaurant,” he said. “Said she just opened it, like she just opened it. And he said for what it’s worth, he’s sorry it took so long. She was a tough one to find. Said she doesn’t even use fucking credit cards.” I could feel my pulse beating in my ears. He glanced at Avery and after studying her for a moment, shifted his eyes toward me, studied my shaking hands, and grinned. “Just go. I’ll tell ‘em something,” he said as he opened his arms. We embraced like brothers. As much as I had to say, and as deeply as I appreciated all that he had done, I couldn’t speak. It had been almost a month since he called in the favor, and I had all but began to lose hope. As I released him and gazed into the bar my eyes began to itch. “Hit the road, Jack,” he chuckled.

I nodded my head and lifted the sheet of paper slightly. “Devil looks after his own,” he said as I walked away. As I walked to my bike, clenching the paper in my hand, I realized Axton and the Selected Sinners were right. The Devil does look after his own.

EMILY “Miss Stewart, does the name of the restaurant have anything to do with the roman numerals on your necklace,” she asked. I nodded my head and smiled as I reached for the necklace. “Call me Em, please, and yes, it’s got everything to do with it,” I responded. I had named my new restaurant Six Twenty-One. I liked the name much more than Jackson’s and the other name I had used, J&E’s. Both names brought too many questions, and over time it became much too difficult to continue to tell the stories over and over. Each time I told them I filled with pride, but later, when I was home and alone again, my nights seemed to last a lifetime. “Care to share? And call me Tina,” she said, her fork still hovering over the plate. “Finish your meal, I’ll come back in a few minutes and check on you,” I said as I pushed myself from the table. “I’m finished,” she said as she lowered her fork to her plate and picked up the napkin. I felt offended. I paid more for a month’s lease on my restaurant than she probably paid for her Mercedes-Benz. Las Vegas wasn’t a place many people were able to succeed in, but I was determined to do so, and I needed her review to establish myself early. I turned to face her and relaxed. As I did my best to bite my respective lip, I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose, opened my mouth slightly, and exhaled. “Was there something wrong?” I asked as I nodded my head toward her plate. “You’re from the Midwest, aren’t you?” she asked. You fucking bitch. You didn’t have to come here.

I forced a smile and did my best to add a little Midwest accent with my response. “Yes ma’am,” I said with a slight note of sarcasm. “Your voice,” she said with a light laugh, “It reminds me of my mother’s sister, my aunt. She is from Nebraska, and she sounds just like you.” I nodded my head and glanced down at her half-eaten meal. She leaned forward and smiled, “I rarely do this, but I’m far too excited not to. My review will be posted in the Las Vegas Review Journal, the Time Out publication, and the little magazines you see in all of the casinos, well, at least the ones owned by MGM Grand. It will be a few weeks before it’s in the magazines, but it will be in the newspaper next week. Friday.” She paused as she glanced over each shoulder. “Five stars. Tell me, Em, how do you do it?” she asked. My heart raced. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants and fought not to cry. This was it. I had finally made it to the big leagues. With her favorable reviews, I would be noticed by each and every person who frequented the Las Vegas Strip. “Thank you,” I whispered. “And I don’t know. Passion, I suppose.” “Now, the name, I’d love to include something about it,” she said as she reached for my hand. We were seated on the patio facing the strip. The front side of the restaurant had large glass doors similar to garage doors which were open, leaving the restaurant open to the outside and the patio open to the restaurant. I sat facing the restaurant, and she faced the strip. The evening was warm, but it was late enough in the season that it wasn’t ridiculously hot. I leaned back in my chair, inhaled a deep breath, and gazed beyond her at the palm trees lining the street. “Ever been in love?” I asked. She nodded her head and grinned. Still cupping the top of my hand in hers, she responded. “Frank. He passed two years ago June. But, to answer your question, yes. And very much so, I might add,” she said. She was in her mid-sixties, very well-dressed, and adorable. Dressed in a light blue pants suit, and with perfectly placed short gray sprigs of product-infused hair, she could have easily doubled for a retired movie star. I closed my eyes and thought of the day Jackson kissed me the first time, at the coffee shop. “Well, I don’t know if Frank was a kisser, but Jackson is. And the first time he kissed me…well, let’s just say it was one of those kisses that made me go weak in the knees, lose my hearing, and realize without a doubt, all at the same time.”

I opened my eyes. “That he was the one. There would never be another soul to challenge him, take his place, or fill the void he left when he was gone. God graced me with his presence,” I said as I reached for the necklace. “The date is our anniversary,” I said. “Oh how sweet,” she said as she released my hand. “And his name?” she asked. The sound of a passing motorcycle caused me to pause, but it seemed they always did. My choice for the previous two restaurants was based primarily on the lack of motorcycle traffic alone. It was one thing I certainly wouldn’t be able to change about the Las Vegas strip, and would take some getting used to, but a sacrifice I told myself I was willing to make. “Jackson,” I said. “The name of your first restaurant,” she said. I nodded my head and fought to smile. After an apology, she scribbled a few notes onto her pad, and sighed lightly as she finally finished. As she shifted her eyes upward, I gazed past her. As I studied the inside of the restaurant from the outdoor patio, focusing on anything proved to be difficult. The interior of the establishment appeared to be much darker when looking in from the outside, but I watched curiously as a man who had entered resembled Jackson so much it caused me to shiver. After I forced myself to tear my eyes away from him, I turned my head slightly to the side and shifted my gaze to meet hers. She sighed again and smiled. I glanced once again toward the restaurant. He stood staring back at me. I felt guilty for returning the stare; it was almost as if I was cheating on Jackson. And that was something I would never do. I tried desperately to force myself to look away, but I wasn’t able to do so. For a moment I simply wanted to admire him, all the while telling myself it was Jackson, and not some stranger. As my eyes went in and out of focus and my mind drifted into a distant past, he began to walk my direction. I blinked and forced my eyes to focus. It appeared he was crying. He walked onto the patio. Dressed in dark jeans, a black button down shirt, and black dress boots, he could have passed for Jackson’s twin. My eyes filled with tears. Embarrassed, I turned away and faced the street. “Em,” Tina said.

I turned to face her as I wiped the tears from my eyes, fully realizing I was being rude. “Em…” the man’s voice was filled with emotion, but unmistakable. I glanced upward and attempted to stand as I responded in an almost inaudible tone. The response took no thought whatsoever, but was something I had not said to a man in almost a decade. “Yes, Sir?” I squeaked as I stood. Our eyes met. My legs didn’t go weak, they collapsed. As I fell, it was as if I was caught by an angel, and in looking back on it, I really was. As he lifted me into his arms and held me against him, my heart raced, my eyes filled with tears, and I even questioned my sanity. But he was real. He was holding me. And he finally came home. “I love you so much,” he said. Tears ran down his cheeks. “I love you,” I said, my mouth forming the words, but my voice incapable of making a sound. He lifted me by my waist and held me in front of him. He looked no differently than the day he left, and as he absorbed me with his eyes, his mouth curled into a smile revealing the dimples I yearned to see. And, as ridiculous as it sounds saying it now, I knew one day he’d return. Because he made me a promise that he’d eventually always come home. And Jackson Shephard never breaks a promise.



Money Shot Scott Hildreth



DEDICATION No matter how old I get or how many children I have of my own, I will always be a little boy. My mother’s little boy. Mom, this one is for you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.

COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. Money Shot 1st Edition Copyright © 2015 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth

PROLOGUE June 6th, 2013 I believe there comes a time in every man’s life when he questions the loyalty of his wife or girlfriend. Right or wrong, it eventually happens. A pattern of strange disagreements, her taste in music changing drastically, and a constant need to stay late at the office had raised my eyebrows, but it was when she cut her hair that I actually knew. Her long blonde hair had been her trademark since we met, and as many times as I asked her to change it, the answer was always the same. After ten years, I stopped asking. Roughly five years since I had last asked, she came home with her hair cut well above her shoulders and colored bright red. I remember standing there admiring her as she walked in, wondering what had changed. As she walked past me and turned toward the bedroom with a bag of new clothes swinging from her elbow, it hit me like a ton of bricks. She hadn’t done it for me. She had done it for him. Now, standing in his driveway glaring at him through the window of his truck as he fumbled to find what I was sure to be his gun, I felt incompetent, incapable, useless, and half sick at my stomach. I lowered my chin slightly and shook my head. “If I were you, I wouldn’t.” “Look, I uhhm,” he said as he shifted his eyes toward me. “I told you once, get out of the truck, Motherfucker. Just get out, and don’t reach for that console again. I ain’t planning on killing you, but I sure as fuck will if I have to,” I said flatly. I could have brought a few of the fellas, or the entire MC for that matter, but as far as I was concerned, my soon to be ex-wife’s lover wasn’t club business, it was personal. As much as I loved my club brothers, and as much as I trusted them to watch my back, I also knew the importance of keeping my personal life just that, personal. He glanced down at my clenched fists and did his best to reason with me. “Look I don’t want to…”

I had never been a patient man. Even as a kid, I would peel the wrapping paper away from the Christmas presents and see if I could get a peek at what was underneath long before the day arrived to unwrap them. Often, while sitting on my motorcycle at a stoplight, I lose my ability to sit and wait, and simply ride through the red light. My mother always said I lacked tolerance. I couldn’t agree more. I pulled his truck door open with one hand and grabbed a fistful of his hair with the other. Although I had a reasonable amount of practice pulling men from their vehicles by their hair, attempting to pull him out by his provided an entirely new experience altogether. As his head followed the force of my hand pulling him toward the open door, his eyes widened and he began to scream. A short second later, and I had his entire head of hair in my hand, and he sat free of my grasp in the seat of his truck. And he was as bald as billiard ball. Quite confused at what had happened, I gazed at my hair-filled hand and tried to make sense of it all. The amount of time it took my mind to understand I was holding his hair hat and he had become a free man was just enough for him to do what I had clearly told him not to. I tossed his toupee toward my bike, leaned inside his truck, and reached for his right arm. As I squeezed his wrist with my left hand, preventing him from reaching for the open console, I began to punch him in the face repeatedly with my right hand, all the while continuing to pull him from the truck and explain why I was doing what I was doing. I felt fifteen years of my life had been wasted, and that I had been devoted – and loyal – to a lie. With every ounce of frustration packed into each swing of my fist, I continued to pummel him until he was a bloody mess. When I finally released him from my grasp he fell to the ground. Covered in blood and with both eyes swollen almost shut, he was still conscious. I stared down at him, wiped my knuckles on my jeans, and drew a long, slow breath. Looking back on the events of my past, there seemed to always be things that I had done in fits of rage or in a moment of desperation that I later regretted. I’d always referred to them as brain farts, and I

had plenty of ‘em in my days. Several of the fellas would later claim that this night produced a brain fart, but I didn’t agree with them. I believed my actions were justified, considering I was married to the woman for fifteen years. If nothing else, I felt it would cause her to remember me for who I believed I was. A very loyal man with an extremely short temper. As I gazed down at him, I reached for my pocket, pulled out my knife, and flicked the blade open. As he continued to moan and attempted to roll on his side, I pressed my boot down onto his shoulder and held him in place. “Hold on, Motherfucker, I’m not done with you. Just a little reminder of who was here,” I growled. After glancing over each shoulder, I knelt down, pulled up his bloody tee shirt, and carved a very distinct “V” down from each of his nipples to his belly button. With his screams of pain echoing into the night, I wiped the blade of my knife against the thigh of my jeans, folded it, and clipped it in place in my pocket. I needed a fucking cigarette, but I’d almost given up on the habit of smoking. Almost. After leaning into the truck and taking his gun from the console, I shoved it into the waist of my jeans and walked to my bike as if what had just happened was a common occurrence. But it wasn’t. Natalie and I had been together since we were in high school. Although I never would have guessed we would have grown apart, it happened, and now I was forced to deal with the thought of her being with someone else. I coughed a light laugh as I tossed my leg over the seat of my bike. Brain fart or not, I liked the end result of my actions. Her new man had my initial carved in his chest. She had always liked seeing me with my shirt off, but my guess was that she was going to have the new guy leave his on in the future. I released the clutch lever and twisted the throttle back. A thirty minute ride and I’d be back at the

clubhouse; one day wiser, and with one less woman in my life. With the street lights rushing past me, and the warm summer air pressing my cut against my chest, I thought of what my life had become; and what I felt I had thrown away with Natalie. Fifteen fucking years. The only relationship I had ever been in. I knew one thing, and I knew it for sure. The next woman, if there ever was another, would have one hell of a time proving herself to me.

SIENNA June 8th, 2014 With my heart beating out of my chest and my mind racing in ten different directions, I brushed my hand across the face of the screen anxiously. The page didn’t move. I carefully pressed my finger against the screen and flipped the page in the other direction. After a quick study, and confirming it was the page I had previously read, I swept my finger across the screen again and stared at the end of what appeared to be the last page. There was no doubt. I had reached the end of the book. “Are you fucking serious? A cliffie? You bitch!” I screamed as I tossed my Kindle across the room and into the wall. My favorite author had just become a worthless heap of steaming shit. After falling deeply in love despite all of their differences, being torn apart and then reunited, the hero proposed marriage; and I was prepared for a wedding. Instead, in the last chapter, out of the fucking blue, the hero was arrested for

murder. Who in the fuck would end a story in such a place, leaving the reader to wait anxiously with knots in her stomach for the next book? A fucking idiot, that’s who. Although I generally tried to give myself twelve hours to digest a book before writing a review, I rolled off the edge of my bed, grabbed my glass of wine, and commenced to downing it as I walked over to my desk. As I waited for the computer to go through its startup procedure, I walked to the kitchen with my empty glass and grabbed the remaining bottle of Madeira. After roughly two seconds of considering how much wine I should pour into the glass, I uncorked the bottle, raised it to my lips, and took a much needed drink. I tossed the cork on the counter beside my empty glass and stomped toward my bedroom with the bottle dangling from my loosely clenched fist. I walked into the room, sat down, slammed the bottle against the desk, and began to type. *Kindle throwing alert* I’ll be taking donations from anyone wishing to fund a new Kindle purchase, because after reading this book, my Kindle is in a thousand pieces. Can you imagine the story Cinderella ending with the prince finding Cinderella’s glass slipper, but not searching for – or finding – her? Or maybe in The Notebook, the story ending with Allie receiving Noah’s letters from her mother, but not acting on her feelings? You can’t, can you? Neither can I. The reason I can’t imagine it, and I’m sure you’ll agree, is because most authors follow a proven pattern in the crafting of their stories for romance novels. They have a hero and heroine meet, fall in love, and eventually some type of conflict tears them apart. We frantically flip through the pages, saddened by their separation, and jump with joy when they eventually reunite. At some point the book ends, alluding to them living happily ever after. I reached for the wine, drank a quarter of what remained, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I slid the bottle beside my monitor, inhaled a shallow breath, and turned on Bruce Springsteen’s

“Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.” After a few minutes of bobbing my head to the music, I commenced typing. That, my friends and followers, is not the case in this book. Not at all. The author seems to have misplaced the memo explaining the necessity on not only writing a novel, but completing it. When I reached the point where the book stopped (I refuse to call it an ending)… I stopped typing, searched through my files, and inserted a .gif of a wide-eyed woman’s head exploding. After laughing to myself for a few long seconds, I took another drink of wine and continued. I realized the author must have run out of time. Maybe she needed to meet a deadline, and decided finishing the book would push her past her date or time. Who knows? But what I do know is this… She sure as fuck didn’t finish writing it. Now, for the beginning of the book, and what transpired between that point and when the book simply stopped? I loved it. As I read through this book, I was relieved that it had it all. A hero I could sink my teeth into. A heroine I wanted to sit down and have a glass of wine with. Scorching hot love scenes, more scorching hot love scenes, and conflict I saw coming, but hoped never came to fruition. After a hundred or so well-written angst-filled pages, the H and h were reunited, and then… Something ridiculous happened and the book just fucking ended. Up until the last chapter, this was a five star read for me. After reading all the way to the point she ran out of desire to finish it, I’ll have to give it one and a half stars. And I’m only doing that because I’m half-drunk and a hell of a lot happier than I was when I started this review.

I inserted a .gif of an obviously drunken woman sitting on the edge of her bed in her underwear with a bottle of wine between her legs. As I read the review, I finished the bottle of wine. After rereading it, I wished I had another bottle, but knew I had no business driving to get one. Hoping a search of my kitchen would produce a bottle, but knowing damned good and well I had drank my last one, I published the review, excited at the thought of all of the comments I was sure to have when I woke up. I glanced up and stared blankly at the small hole in the wall, and slowly filled with drunken regret for throwing my Kindle. After a few insanely long alcohol induced seconds of lusting over my newest book boyfriend while Bruce Springsteen’s “Merry Christmas Baby” played, my doorbell rang. The sound startled me, causing me to jump from my seat and almost pee in the process. As my mind filled with thoughts of some mass murderer going door to door in search of his next victim, I tossed my glasses on my desk and ran to the window to get a peek at the scum. I carefully pulled the blinds away from the window frame and peered outside. Dear God. A big, rough, muscular, tattooed biker stood on my porch in his leather vest, jeans, and biker boots. It was like Christmas in June. I rubbed my drunken eyes with the tips of my index fingers, blinked a few times, and continued to admire him from the privacy of my bedroom. He got more handsome with each passing second. He pushed his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and slowly turned around. His bare arms were covered in tattoos and muscles. Even his muscles had muscles. After a few seconds of watching him walk toward the street, my curiosity – and the fact I was sexually deprived – got the best of me. I released the blinds and made it to the bathroom in three quick strides. I glanced in my mirror, attempted to fix my hair, and ran toward the front door. Dressed in a reasonably clean pair of Victoria’s Secret’s best sweats, I looked pretty presentable – at least for a late Sunday night. After clearing my throat and second guessing my thoughts for a few seconds, I yanked the door open and did my best to look sleep deprived. In my half-drunken state, it wasn’t much of a stretch.

“Hello,” I said in what I hoped to be a sensual whisper. The words escaped my lips as a raspy drunken cough. Half way to his motorcycle, but fully illuminated by the security light in my driveway, he paused and turned around. Holy fucking shit. He looked like no other biker I had ever actually seen, but exactly like the ones I had developed in my head from the MC Romance novels I had spent so much time reading. If it wasn’t for the warm and extremely humid summer air blowing in my face and making me half nauseous, I would have thought I was dreaming. As he walked in my direction and spoke, my heart began to beat rapidly and my palms began to sweat. As the low rumble of his voice explained the situation he was in, my mouth fell open and I stared at him as if he was being offered to me by the God of sorrow. “Listen, this is going to sound like complete bullshit, but I ran out of gas and this is where I ended up,” he said as he waved his hand toward the motorcycle parked by the curb. I glanced at the vintage Harley, shifted my eyes to where he was standing, and stared. Common sense, which was something I often seemed to lack, should have caused me to turn toward the house, go inside, and lock the door. Instead, I stepped from the house onto the porch and asked for more details. After clearing my throat of the sweet wine that still heavily coated it, I widened my eyes at the sight of him. In an effort to look cute, but more to lure him a little closer, I tossed my hair over my shoulder. The move threw me off-balance, causing my drunken ass to almost fall flat on my face. “So, you need a ride?” I asked in a fractionally more sultry tone. He took a few steps toward me, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and sighed heavily. “Well, not exactly,” he said. “I don’t want to leave the bike here.” I turned my palms up and shook my head from side to side. “I don’t have any gas. The maintenance men cut the grass and stuff, so I don’t have any need for it. But…” I paused and studied him as I considered what else to say. He rocked back and forth nervously on the balls of his feet as he seemed to consider leaving his motorcycle in the street. He looked rough, but not

in a homeless unkempt way. He seemed to be, at least by his appearance, stature, and stance to be a guy no one would ever want to cross, and I suspected very few had successfully done so. His hair was dark, short, and as close as I could tell in the dark, well-cut. His face was covered in a day or two of beard growth, and it complimented him quite well. His bare arms were nothing but muscle, and were covered with various tattoos. All things considered, he was perfect. I’m sure most women would have offered very little, if anything, to help him. A biker running out of gas in an upscale residential neighborhood on a Sunday night in the summer wasn’t a common occurrence, and by most people’s standards, wouldn’t warrant much assistance. After what seemed to be an eternity of admiring him and thinking, I blurted out what must have been a subconscious thought. “What? You don’t have a phone?” I asked. “Like I said when I walked up, I knew it would sound like bullshit, but it’s the truth. I was riding down Central, and I ran out of gas. I wanted to coast off the main street and get under a street light. So, I kicked it into neutral and coasted as far as I could. That got me to there,” he said as he turned and pointed at his motorcycle. “And no, I don’t have a phone. Long story,” he said as he turned to face me. I nodded my head and grinned as if I understood. Half-drunk from my wine induced book review, and half-horny from the shitty romance novel without an ending, I gazed at the sexy biker and gave him my best resolution to his problem. “Tell you what. Push your bike into my garage and we can lock it up all safe and happy and then we’ll go get gas in my car. Will that work?” I asked. “Safe and happy,” he said with a laugh. “Just wait until I get the car out before you try and shove your bike in,” I said. Still facing me, he nodded his head in apparent appreciation. Proud of my pearly whites, I smiled a tooth-revealing smile and nodded my head in return. The expression on his face reminded me that my teeth probably weren’t white, but wine soaked. The halfbottle of Madeira I had guzzled while reviewing the book undoubtedly had my teeth looking like I’d just

finished eating a raw steak. “I appreciate it,” he said as he turned away. “I’ll owe you one.” I turned toward the house and did my best to wipe my teeth clean with my index finger as he walked away. After carefully backing my car out into the driveway, I got out in enough time to watch him push the Harley into the garage. He situated it perfectly against the inside wall of the garage, studied it for a moment, and turned to face the car. As he walked toward me, I made note of the fact he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but I doubted many of his type did, even if they were married. “This is your car?” he asked as he walked around it with his hand on his chin and his eyes glued to the flawless black paint. “Only one I got, yep,” I said proudly. “1966 or ’67?” he asked. I shook my head. “It’s a 1965. Year my dad was born. He left it to me when he died.” “Well, it’s a damned fine looking Continental, that’s for sure. And I’m sorry about your pop,” he said as he opened the door. He carefully got into the car, fastened the seat belt, and looked around the interior as I got inside and situated myself. His expressed appreciation of the car and his careful manner of opening the door and getting inside led me to believe he wasn’t only a big tough biker. At least a small part of him was kind and considerate, and it was apparent. “I’m Sienna,” I said as I turned the key and started the car. He coughed a laugh and grinned as he turned his head in my direction. “Call me Vince. And I’m guessing this fucker ain’t stock?” The rumble from the exhaust made sneaking around in the car almost impossible. My father had built it as a show car, and planned on using it as a trophy of sorts, only driving it on special occasions. He had a 521 cubic inch 600 horsepower motor built by a local professional shop, and I helped him install it right before he died. His instructions to me upon his passing were clear.

Drive the car, Sienna. Drive it and enjoy it. And if you ever decide to sell it, don’t sell it because you want something different; sell it because you don’t love it anymore. And only sell it to someone who does. He had the car as long as I was alive, and actually had purchased it a few years before I was born. His entire life had been spent making the car perfect, and perfect was how I intended to keep it. “521 cubic inches of earth shaking Big Block Ford, six hundred horsepower to be exact,” I bragged as I backed out of the driveway. “No shit?” he said with a grin. “You know your cars, huh?” “I’m an only child, and a daddy’s girl. The only time I spent with him was in the garage,” I said. “So, I know a little about cars, and a lot about this car.” He nodded his head as he glanced around the interior of the car admiringly. “So where were you going?” I asked as I shifted the car into drive. “You know, when you ran out of gas.” “Nowhere, just riding. I go out on Sunday nights and just ride, it clears my mind before starting a new week. Had a poker run yesterday, and as that fucker started spittin’ and sputterin’, I remembered I forgot to fill it up after. I can get two hundred miles on a full tank, and not a mile more. Runnin’ out is the price I pay for not keeping track of my miles, I guess,” he said. “Well, the station up on Douglas will loan us a gas can. Just remember, two hundred miles,” I said with a grin. He stared at me for a moment, narrowed his upper lip, and revealed his teeth. As I gazed back at him rather confused, he narrowed his eyes and pointed to his teeth with his index finger. “You’ve got a big piece of meat or something in your front teeth. Sorry, but it’s driving me nuts,” he said as he tapped the tip of his finger against his tooth. I glanced in the rearview mirror and curled my lip upward. The side of one of my two front teeth was as red as a ruby. I had obviously wiped the other tooth clean with my finger on the front porch, but missed whatever wine-soaked matter was stuck between my other teeth. “Shit, sorry,” I said as I alternated glances between the road and the mirror.

He shook his head and grinned. “I was eating crackers and cheese and drinking wine. Typical Sunday night at my house,” I said as I turned into the gas station. I pulled in front of the store and after a few seconds of the engine running, decided to shut it off. The sound of the motor running while parked against a brick building became rather annoying very quickly, the low rumble from the high performance camshaft made the car sound like an old school race car. “This fucker was shaking the windows,” he said as he opened the door. “You got to love the sound of all that power.” I grinned, proud of what my father and I had built. He pushed the door open slightly and paused. Time seemed to stand still as he fixed his eyes on me and cleared his throat. “Need anything?” he asked. I had no idea of who this man was, but on the outside he was everything I wanted in a man. I may have licked my lips before I responded, but if I did, he didn’t seem to notice or care. After a few seconds of admiring his muscles and handsome looks, I shook my head from side to side and shrugged. “A toothbrush,” I laughed. “Be right back,” he said as he stepped out of the car. After carefully closing the door, he walked into the gas station, talked to the guy at the register, and turned toward the back of the building. In the well illuminated store, I could see every detail of what he was wearing. The back of his leather vest had a patch of a winged skull with two crossed rifles sewn on it, and had a “Kansas” rocker. I’d read enough books about bikers that I recognized the diamond shaped one percenter patch, and considering he was wearing a cut with the patch and rockers, there was no doubt he was a fully patched member of the club. Selected Sinners. I’d seen a few of the members of the club from time to time over the years, riding down the road or in a bar in Old Town. For a one percent club, they sure seemed to have their shit together, and never made the news for doing anything stupid, at least not that I’d seen. As I sat in the car and watched him

walk toward the gas pumps, I recalled seeing on the news that one of their members had donated gold coins to the Salvation Army during Christmas time. I glanced in the rearview mirror and admired his reflection. He was far too handsome to be standing there alone. I opened the door of the car and shuffled toward the gas pump. With each well thought out step, I realized although I was far from sober, I was not as drunk as I needed to be to offer myself to him. I was single, lonely, and really needed to be fucked, but I was far from a slut. The thought of being ravished by a biker was always something lingering in the back of my mind, but actually allowing him to do it was a different thing altogether. “So, one of your guys donated a bunch of gold on Christmas a while back. Right after he got back from the war. He was some special forces guy or something,” I said as I walked up to the gas pump. “Sure did,” he responded. I shrugged my shoulders as he placed the nozzle back into the pump. “Not the kind of thing most people think of bikers doing.” “Probably not,” he responded. Wow. Don’t feel like talking? I stared down at my flip-flops and realized my toes were in desperate need of polish. Half embarrassed, I turned toward the car as he began to step past me. As I glanced up from my toes, I noticed a man standing beside my car with his hand on the front fender. Before I had a chance to say anything, Vince barked out a demand in a tone of voice that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. “Step away from the car, Motherfucker,” he growled as the pace of his steps quickened. The man, obviously drunk, turned his head toward Vince and all but fell into the fender of my car. After taking a few more steps, Vince placed the gas can beside the car, walked up to the man, and gently pushed him to the side by pressing his left forearm against the man’s chest. As the man stumbled backward, Vince stepped between him and my car. “Expensive paint job, Brother. Just want you to be careful,” he said.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the man howled. In a split-second, the man produced a knife and began swinging it toward Vince. Immediately, it was apparent Vince was no stranger to fighting, protecting himself, or disarming a knife wielding drunk. Kick his fucking ass, Vince. As the man grunted and lurched forward with the knife, Vince raised his left arm high in the air, wrapped it around the man’s right arm, and quickly turned around. With his back against the man’s chest and the man’s arm pinned in Vince’s armpit, he reached for the man’s wrist and turned it to the side. As the drunk wailed in pain, he dropped the knife. As soon as it hit the pavement, Vince stepped on it and pushed the man to the side. As the man stumbled, Vince bent down, picked up the knife, and shoved it into his back pocket. I stood in awe at what I had just seen. No differently than the men in my MC Romance books, Vince was not only a biker, but a bad-ass biker. Standing and waiting to see what his next Judo move might be, I was surprised to see a police officer walk from inside the store and onto the sidewalk in front of my car. “Kid inside told me what happened. He saw it all. You want to press charges for assault?” the officer asked. Still standing between the man and my car, Vince crossed his arms in front of his chest and shook his head. “Simple misunderstanding, Officer.” “Kid inside said he pulled a knife on you,” the officer said as he tilted his head toward the drunk. “Nope. He took a swing at me and missed. Didn’t see a knife,” Vince said with a shrug of his shoulders. “A swing and a miss, huh? Anyone here had too much to drink?” the officer asked as he glanced at each of us. It had only been thirty minutes since I finished the bottle of wine, and although I wasn’t shit-faced drunk, I was definitely not as drunk as I was going to get. With each passing minute, I felt a little more incapable of standing without teetering over. A sobriety test would land me in jail for sure. “Can’t speak for him,” Vince said as he tossed his head toward the drunken man. “But, she’s had some wine. Good thing I’m driving.”

The officer cocked an eyebrow. “You’re driving?” “That’s what I said,” Vince responded. The officer pointed his finger at me. “Kid inside said she drove up…” He turned and pointed his finger at Vince’s chest. “You got gas…” He swiveled to the side and pointed at the drunk. “And he attacked you with a knife when you walked up to the car.” “Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear,” Vince said. Wow. He just quoted Edgar Allen Poe. The officer turned to face me, pressed his hands on his hips, and sighed. “So what really happened?” Raised by a father who was wrongly accused and subsequently wrongly convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, I had very little respect for police officers, especially our city’s finest. Based on my desire to spend more time with Vince and less time standing and talking to a cop, I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “Exactly what he said happened,” I responded. The officer raised his hand and pressed his thumb against the bill of his hat, raising it slightly. “And how much wine did you drink tonight?” “Not so much that I’m blind or stupid, but too damned much to drive,” I responded. He nodded his head in confirmation, apparently disappointed he wasn’t able to make a few arrests. “How’d you get here?” the officer asked as he turned toward the drunken man. Obviously not an intelligent man, the drunk tossed his head toward a truck parked a few stalls away from where we were standing. “Have a nice night,” the officer said with a nod as he grabbed the man by his upper arm and pulled

him onto the sidewalk. After carefully placing the can of gas in the floorboard between my feet, we got into the car and turned to face each other. “Keys?” Vince asked as he held his hand out. I reluctantly dropped the keys into his hand. Other than my father and me, he would be the only other one to ever drive the car. He reached into his front pocket, fumbled around for a moment, and then reached toward my lap. “Here,” he said as he dropped a small tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush in my lap. I glanced down and smiled. As ridiculous as it seemed to actually think of the toothpaste and toothbrush as a gift, I immediately felt warmth developing in my heart as I gazed at the items. Short of my father, it was the only gift a man had ever given me. “Any secrets to starting it?” he asked as he pushed the key into the ignition. I turned to face him and immediately my mouth curled into a grin. He had captured my attention in a short period of time, and I had no desire to let him slip away without trying to learn more about him. Before I embarrassed myself by staring, I shifted my drunken eyes away from him and responded. “Pump it once and turn the key,” I said as I opened the glovebox and placed the items inside. He started the car and slowly backed out of the parking stall. Relishing in the recollection of Vince’s one-sided fight, I glanced out the window and toward the building. The officer was giving the man a sobriety test on the sidewalk, and it was pretty obvious he wasn’t going to pass it. As I shifted my eyes once again toward Vince, I wondered just how well I would have performed the same test in my flipflops. “I appreciate you saying you were driving,” I said. “No problem,” he responded. “I appreciate you taking me to get gas.” “No problem,” I said in a mimicking tone. “But we’re not even.” “Oh we’re not?” he asked over his shoulder as he pulled into the street.

The muscles on his tattooed bicep flared as he turned the steering wheel. He was torturing me and he had no idea he was doing so. I shook my head and swallowed a mouthful of desire. “Nope. I want a ride on your bike.” He turned his head in my direction as the car came to a stop at the traffic light. After cocking an eyebrow comically and fixing his eyes on mine, he responded. “I don’t give just anyone a ride on my bike,” he said flatly. “Well,” I said as I raised my eyebrows slightly. “I’m not just anyone.”

VINCE June 8th, 2014 I had told myself over the course of the last year that a woman would have to prove herself to me to get me to even give her a moment’s notice, but in the end, that wasn’t necessarily the truth. A stupid mistake on my part had landed me in an upper middle class neighborhood, and within an hour, I had a gorgeous half-drunk brunette on the back of my bike, and was riding down a county road on my way to nowhere. As interesting as she was, and as different as she seemed to be, she was still a woman, and without a doubt would have all of the characteristics of one - and a woman wasn’t something I needed in my life no matter how cute she was, how well she filled out her filthy sweats, or how cool her car was. In the end, she was a woman, and women were evil. For a short ride through the county at midnight, however, having her on the back of my bike was enjoyable. It reminded me of better times, the feeling of being complete, and not necessarily living with much desire to do anything but exist.

The city quickly turned into a few randomly placed rural housing developments, and eventually the developments diminished into a few sparse farm houses. After a matter of minutes, we were ten miles from the city and riding into the path my headlight cut into the otherwise completely dark road ahead. As I became almost hypnotized by the bouncing beam of light, her hands lightly gripping my waist reminded me of Natalie. The thought was equal parts comforting and sickening at first, and after a few minutes, comforting was the clear winner. The fast approaching rural stop sign reminded me not only had we reached the highway, but that I needed to maintain my focus on the road, and not my passenger’s hand placement. I stopped at the intersection, pulled out along the side of the highway, and rolled to a stop on the paved shoulder of the road. “Is something wrong?” she asked as I kicked the heel of my boot against the kickstand. I flipped the ignition switch off and reached down and turned the key, killing the lights. “Nope, just stopping for a bit,” I responded. We both stepped off the bike at the same time, and stood staring at each other illuminated only by what little moonlight escaped through the low passing clouds. I broke her gaze, glanced toward the ditch, and nodded my head in the direction of the large concrete storm water drain passing underneath the intersecting road. “Grab a seat,” I said as I tossed my head toward the large piece of exposed concrete. Being subtle had never been one of my strengths, and I wasn’t going to try and change things now. In being honest with myself, riding with her on the back of my bike rekindled feelings I was sure had long since passed. Natalie hadn’t been on the back of my bike for a year before we divorced, and she’d been gone for roughly a year. The last two years I had ridden alone, and although I had many requests to take women on rides, I never fulfilled them. Now that I had decided to, for whatever reason, I wasn’t sure I liked the result. “I got to be honest with you,” I said as I sat down on the edge of the concrete. “Okay,” she responded as she crossed her arms and gazed down at me. “Sit,” I said as I patted the concrete beside me.

“I’ll stand,” she responded. “I’m thirty-three years old. Married for fifteen years, and divorced a year ago. I’m a different kind of guy than you’d probably ever meet, and a damned far cry from most bikers you’d ever run across.” I paused and patted the concrete again. She stood, staring down at me, and shook her head lightly. Standing there in the moonlight, still dressed in her sweats and flip-flops, no one could dispute her beauty. As I gazed up at her and fully realized just how beautiful she was, I reminded myself that external beauty acted as a distraction to what was on the inside. “I was faithful. For fifteen years. I didn’t spend time at strip clubs with the fellas, or any more time at the bars than I had to. When I did, I always played it cool, and never let myself do anything stupid, short of fights and stuff. You know, never messed around. Then, I found out she was in a relationship with a guy. Hell, I guess I should have known, considering the way she treated me…” I hesitated and started to stand up. She pointed to the concrete. “Sit.” She walked to my side, sat down, and turned to face me. “Go ahead.” “Well, fuck. I don’t know why I’m even telling you this. It’s just. Hell, I don’t know, having you on the back of my bike made me think of her or something. I mean, I’m done with her, but you grabbing my waist in your hands reminded me of her. I either liked it a lot or I hated it, I just can’t decide which it was,” I said. She brushed her ponytail over her shoulder and twisted her mouth to the side. “Did you actually think of her, or did having my hands there make you feel something you haven’t felt in a while?” I considered what she said, turned toward her, and wrinkled my nose. “You a fucking psychologist or something?” She shook her head and grinned. “Just read a lot.” “Yeah, me too,” I said as I gazed down at my boots. “Really?” she asked. Still focused on my boots, I nodded my head. “Like I said, you’ll never meet another like me. I sit

at home every night and read. Probably five books a week. Rarely sleep. I’m either at the clubhouse, home reading, or somewhere in between.” “A soft-hearted biker who loves to read,” she said. “A soft-hearted biker with a short fuse and quick fists,” I said as I kicked the toe of my boot against the concrete. “I noticed that,” she responded. “Been an outlaw all my life. Figured joining the MC was my best bet at finding my true calling, and it seems I was right. They put my Pop in prison when I was a kid on a conspiracy to commit murder charge, and he died of pneumonia after a few years. When I turned eighteen I got his old bike running, ten years later I joined the MC, and now I finally feel at home. Don’t care much for the government, can’t stand cops, and most of the time I think the country would be better off if Axton Bishop was President,” I said. “I’m sorry about your father. That’s crazy. My dad did five years for a burglary he didn’t commit. He was at home asleep at the time, but because of an old assault charge, he was in the system. Someone picked him out of a lineup. I’ll never forgive them for what they did to him. He was gone the entire time I was in high school. Motherfuckers,” she said as she tossed a rock into the ditch. “You said he passed,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward her. “Can I ask?” “Colon cancer,” she said with a nod. “Sorry,” I said. “Yeah, me too. And who is Axton Bishop?” she asked. “Huh? Oh. He’s the president of the MC,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll write him in next November,” she said. “You won’t be the only one,” I said. “How about when we leave, I’ll wrap my hands around your chest or maybe your neck? Maybe that’ll make you feel more comfortable,” she said.

“Wrap my hands around your fucking neck if you ain’t careful,” I said. “Don’t make promises you aren’t willing to keep,” she said as she stood up. Just saying it caused my cock to begin to twitch. Realizing it had done so made me begin to worry about it, and my worrying kept the thought in the forefront of my mind. Within a few seconds, I had a fullblown hard on, and although I wasn’t necessarily embarrassed, I wasn’t proud either. But, as I had said many times in the past, subtlety wasn’t a strength I possessed. “You ready?” I asked as I stood. She turned to face me, and her eyes quickly fell to my crotch. After a short pause, they worked their way up to meet mine. I grinned and nodded my head toward the bike. “Guess so,” she said. As I walked toward the bike, she continued. “So what’d we decide? You going to wrap those hands around my neck?” she nonchalantly asked. As I threw my leg over the seat of the bike and acted as if I didn’t hear her, I knew if I ever chose to see her again, I’d damned sure have my hands full. And I wasn’t totally convinced that would be a bad thing. Not totally.

SIENNA June 29th, 2014 I sat in my living room flipping through Netflix’s available shows. After thirty minutes of searching for something new, I decided Netflix never had anything new and chose to watch another episode of Orange is the New Black. For some reason, the thought of being tossed into a women’s prison was a constant fear of mine, and watching the show was a good reminder of how much I did not want to be in prison. For me, and I was sure for many women, the show had proven to be the best deterrent of crime that was ever invented. As much as I hated the thought of prison, I couldn’t stop watching the show. Three episodes later, I was bored, even more afraid of being fucked by a woman who looked like a dude, and as always, lonely. It really didn’t seem to matter who I had chosen for a boyfriend in the past, every one of them seemed to want the same thing in the end, access to my late father’s wealth. I wasn’t a rich woman by any stretch of the imagination, but I could easily live the rest of my life without working, as long as I was careful about what I spent my money on. My father sued after his wrongful conviction, and after many years and two attorneys, won the case, leaving him, and upon his death, me, with the proceeds. Nothing, however, would even be enough to pay for what they took from him. I lived in his home, had only utilities to pay, and had no car payment. Most would consider me

wealthy. I, on the other hand, considered myself fatherless, and no amount of wealth would ever replace the void his death left inside of me or in my life. My father’s absence in my life left me constantly searching for a male figure to step in and provide the comfort he supplied me for a lifetime. The problem was that I seemed to have some type of attraction to douchebags. Old ones, young ones, skinny ones, gym rats, I had dated them all. The common thread between them all was that they were douchebags. Either unwilling to commit or incapable of doing so – and always a liar – they seemed to flock to me like bees to fucking honey. I suppose it was quite possible I was attracted to them, and somehow in a subconscious frenzy of idiocy I chose them, knowing they would eventually pull some douche move and be tossed aside like the others, but I didn’t quite believe I was the one at fault. I liked to blame them, because in the end, they were the douchebags. I sat and blankly stared at the little squares of Netflix choices frozen in time on the screen of my television, angry that I hadn’t received my Advance Review Copy of a new Erotic Romance novel I was supposed to review. After a few moments, I began to think of Vince, how out of nowhere he appeared in my life, and how much it ended up we had in common. My father described fate as the unexpected result of the natural development of life. I guessed Vince’s appearance was nothing short of that, and as I continued to sit and stare at the television, it angered me that he didn’t have a phone. He explained how he decided he didn’t want a phone after his divorce, and that he had lived for the last year without a television, and relied solely on music for athome entertainment. At first I didn’t want to believe him, but after talking for a while about it, I realized he was being truthful, and more than likely imposing some weird type of punishment on himself for something he didn’t even do, or deserve to be punished for. Sitting on the couch gripping the remote control like I was trying to squeeze the last unavailable ounce of toothpaste from an empty tube, I became mad at his ex-wife for treating him the way she did. No one deserved to be heartbroken, and even bad-ass bikers were included. I seriously doubted I could ever be in an actual relationship with someone like Vince, and I further doubted that I would ever see him again, but the thought of it was pretty satisfying for the time being. I relaxed onto the couch and daydreamed about riding on the back of his motorcycle in cut-off jean shorts, sneakers, and a ripped up tee shirt. With one hand wrapped around his waist and the other resting in between his thighs, we’d ride across the country without a worry, fucking at every place we stopped.

His ex-wife would call him back, and after a few angst-filled weeks of separation, we’d end up back together and his ex would get run over by a train. Together, we’d go to the funeral, only to meet the newest ex-husband, who would be with a girl twelve years his junior. A true romance novel in the flesh. The sound of a motorcycle woke me from my not-so-deep sleep. I sat up on the couch, confused as to whether the sound was something from my dream or reality. The silence provided all of the proof I needed that the motorcycle was in my dream. Frustrated and in need of a drink of some sort, I tossed my legs over the edge of the couch and wiped my eyes. A thud against my front door startled me, and the sound of the doorbell that followed did more of the same. Slightly confused and maybe a little overanxious, I ran to the window and pulled the blinds. Vince’s bike sat in the driveway. I ran to the door and yanked it open. Vince was leaning against the frame of the door, and his shoulder pressing against the wooden frame seemed to be the only thing holding him up. His head hanging down, and his face out of view, I suspected he was drunk and was attempting to make a bootie call. A mild version of flattery filled me, and I reached for his arm to guide him in. As my hand touched his wrist, he glanced upward. “Holy shit!” I gasped. Someone had beaten him into an unrecognizable mess. Both eyes were swollen, and his face was covered in blood. As he fell into my arms, I noticed both of his lips were mangled. Far too much for me to hold up on my own, and with his entire weight pressing against me, he eventually fell from my arms and onto the floor. As he tried to stand, he turned his mangled face toward me and did his best to smile. His once white teeth were covered in blood. “You should…” “Shhh, let me call an ambulance,” I said.

“No!” he grunted as he tried to push himself up from the floor. “No ambulance, no cops.” I nodded my head in acknowledgement as he raised himself onto his elbows. “You look half-dead,” I said as I reached for his arm. “You should…see…the other guy,” he murmured. And he collapsed onto the floor.

VINCE July 1st, 2014 I did my best to open my eyes and tried to focus on my surroundings. The unfamiliar room was dark, illuminated only by the streetlights shining in through the cracks between the blinds. After a few long minutes of my eyes adjusting, I tossed my legs off the side of the bed and attempted to stand. With each breath I took, it felt as if a knife was being inserted into my chest. I sat on the edge of the bed and searched my mind for memories of what had happened. After a few more minutes of confusion, I recalled the events of the Sunday night that got me to where I was. A disagreement about a parking spot turned into a fight, and the fight was over almost before it started. The mouthy – and very disrespectful – driver of the truck was put in his place with half a dozen quick punches and a short choke hold. The other three passengers in the truck were a totally different story. While holding the driver in a choke hold and doing my best to explain the benefits of being respectful – all the while attempting not to actually choke him – one of his three friends blindsided me with a punch. Before I knew it, I was on the ground being kicked and stomped by three cowboys. As they laughed and turned to walk away, I cut the calf of one of them. Through the leg of his jeans

– and from the back of his knee to his ankle – I dug my knife as deep as I could, dropping him to the ground as he turned to walk away. As his two friends carried him away, I crawled to my bike and rode the three blocks to the closest place I knew to go. Assuming I was still at Sienna’s home, but not sure of anything, I once again tried to stand. As I moaned in agony and relaxed on the edge of the bed, the bedroom door opened. “Don’t you dare try to get up,” she said as she opened the door. Although I couldn’t see her clearly, her voice was enough for me to know who she was. After a short and almost blind stare on my part, the bedroom light came on. “Got to, I got a job I got to do tomorrow,” I said as I shaded my eyes with my hand. “Tomorrow being Monday?” she asked as she walked to the edge of the bed. I sighed softly and nodded my head. “Yeah.” “I don’t understand how in the hell you do anything without a phone, and it’s Tuesday, so you’re a day late,” she said harshly as she stood in front of me with her hands on her hips. “Fuck. Tuesday?” I asked as I glanced upward. She sat down beside me and cleared her throat. “Technically, yes. It’s about 1:30 am. And Monday’s passed, so yeah. It’s Tuesday. You’ve been asleep on and off for twenty-four hours.” “Swelling’s gone down quite a bit, and the stitches look pretty good,” she said as she closely inspected my face. “Stitches? You stitched me?” I asked as I reached for my face. She slapped my hand away from my face and shook her head. “Don’t you dare touch it, it’ll get infected. And, fuck no, I didn’t stitch you. You’d look like some pieced together sock monkey if I did. I got a nurse and a PA over here and they took care of you.” I gazed down at the floor, swallowed heavily, and nodded my head. At the time, I only wanted to get somewhere where I felt safe. Coming to her house was inconsiderate on my part, undoubtedly unexpected on her part, and troublesome at the least.

“Look, I don’t want you thinking I’m some weirdo, ‘cause I’m not. You live two blocks from the busiest intersection in this city, and although I don’t live close to here, I ride by here a couple times a day…” “Save it,” she interrupted. I shook my head. “No, just hear me out.” “Some of the fellas run in packs, and some hang out at the clubhouse and do whatever comes up. I’m a loner. I mean, I’m loyal to the MC, and I love the brotherhood, but I run alone. I just don’t trust people. Not really,” I paused, inhaled a shallow breath, and winced from the pain. She shook her head and tilted it toward my mid-section. “He said you probably have cracked ribs. Based on the boot prints, anyway.” “Feels like it,” I coughed. “How many stitches?” I asked as I raised my hand toward my cheek. Another slap of my hand and a sharp exhale reminded me of her obviously protective nature. “Thirteen on the big cut, and I think four on the small one,” she said as she leaned in front of me and inspected my wounds. “You look a lot better than you did,” she said. I shifted my eyes toward the floor. “I’ll pay for whatever it cost. You got friends in the medical field, huh?” “Nope. I did my best to drag you in here, and gave up half way. I made a quick Craigslist ad in the personals. Got a lot of responses, too. It was the only thing I could think of that wouldn’t get the cops over here,” she said. Still staring down at my bare toes, I nodded my head in shame. “Appreciate it.” “So, as I was saying. No phone, and riding alone as always, I was up at Central and Rock. At Walt’s. Place was packed. I pulled in from the east, and there was one stall left. Some truck was just sitting there, and I sat there on my bike and waited for this prick to park, and he just sat there. So I parked and hopped off the bike. As I’m walking toward the bar, the driver gets out and calls me motherfucker for

taking his spot. Ended up beating the shit out of his cowboy ass, but his buddies got the best of me. I’d have never made it to the hospital, and someone had already called the cops and an ambulance, so I left in a little bit of a hurry. I’m sorry,” I said. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “So, you’ve never said. Just what is it that you do? You know, for a living?” I stared down at the floor and thought of the best way to explain my situation. After a short pause, I glanced in her direction. My eyes were swollen, I had a throbbing headache, and I was still a little dazed from the beating, but it was pretty easy to see that she was an extremely beautiful woman. She looked different than she did when I met her. On that night, in her filthy sweats and half-drunk with her hair in a ponytail, there was no doubt she was an attractive woman. Tonight, however, she was even more so. With her hair down over her shoulders and her concerned brown eyes studying me, it was difficult not to stare at her. After a short time of enjoying her beauty, I once again shifted my eyes to the floor. “Resolutions manager,” I said flatly. “That didn’t sound very sincere. And what does that mean anyway?” she asked. “I resolve things,” I said as I glanced toward her. “Be more specific,” she said. “Debt collector?” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. It came out with a hint of uncertainty, sounding more like a question than an answer. She chuckled and turned her head in my direction. “What, you’re not sure?” I glanced upward. “I’m sure. It’s just not something I have to describe very often.” “Look, I’ve read enough books that I know club business isn’t up for discussion, so don’t worry about explaining anything if you don’t want to,” she said. “What books?” I asked, almost bursting into laughter while I spoke. “Lots of books. MC Romance books,” she responded.

I coughed a laugh and reached my aching ribs. “What the fuck is an MC Romance book?” “It’s a love story about a member or members of a motorcycle club. Most of them are a series of books, each one about a different member of the MC. You know, one will be the president, the next the sergeant-at-arms, maybe a prospect, or the enforcer, or whatever. It’s a subgenre of books. They’re pretty popular,” she said. “I’ll be fucking damned,” I said. “You hungry?” she asked. “Kind of,” I responded. In actuality, I was starving, but I didn’t want to impose any more than I already had. “Eggs, bacon and hash browns sound good?” she asked. I did my best to smile and nodded my head. “Be right back,” she said. She stood from the edge of the bed and studied me with smiling eyes for a moment before turning away. There was no doubt in my mind that whoever ended up securing Sienna as a wife or girlfriend would have someone very special. I just knew that person would never be me.

SIENNA July 3rd, 2014 I sat outside the coffee shop sipping my coffee and reading as droves of people needing a caffeine fix came and went. A couple in their mid-twenties got out of an SUV and walked toward the entrance, pushing each other playfully as they made their way across the parking lot. I watched until I was almost disgusted by their groping, giggling, and grabbing, and finally turned away. I took a drink of my coffee and propped my legs on the chair opposite of where I was seated, and tilted my Kindle away from the sun. The coffee shop was one of my few escapes, and provided entertainment in the form of people watching, really good coffee, and a peaceful place to read. I had read many books from start to finish at the same location over the years, and my memories of the place were quite fond. Once while parking my car, I got into an argument with another person attempting to park beside me at the same time, and was rescued by a patron of the establishment. The gesture of kindness led to sharing a cup of coffee, which prompted a date, and the date included sex.

He swore at the time he was single, lonely, and on the tail end of recovering from a case of heartbreak, but it all ended up being a lie. Facebook, Instagram and Twitter are not your friend when you cheat on your wife, and a girl who is unemployed has nothing but time on her hands to figure such things out. Since the incident with the married man, I had chosen to sit on the other side of the coffee shop, feeling as if the side I was sitting on that particular day was now tainted. My house had been reminding me of Vince, and I hoped a trip to the coffee shop and a good book would clear my mind and allow me to make it through a day without me obsessing over thoughts of him and the possibilities of us becoming an us. It seemed, however, that everything I did or saw, including reading my dark erotic novel, reminded me of Vince. In the process of reading my new book, no relief was provided, but I did have a few pretty vivid fantasies etched in my mind, all of which included Vince and me in a basement with handcuffs, a blowtorch, a Tanto blade (whatever that was) and a box of Frosted Flakes. I had no reason or right to be obsessing over Vince, and in my lifetime had never done so over any man. Men, generally speaking, obsessed over me, making ridding myself of them entirely an almost impossible task. I was beginning to feel a strange guilt, and almost as if I was becoming exactly what it was I detested, a stalker. Two chapters later, and I was writhing in my seat. In my mind, Vince was the Hero and I the heroine. The problem, for me, was that the author had done a remarkable job of painting the sex scenes in a vivid manner, and had left me to suffer. Frustrated, horny, and for some odd reason wanting a bowl of cereal, I decided to call it a morning and go for a drive. I needed to clear my mind of Vince and try to become normal again. As I picked up my coffee and turned off my Kindle, three motorcycles pulled in the lot and parked on the sidewalk by the entrance. I did my best to act uninterested, but as I walked toward my car, I checked over my shoulder. One, a massive man almost seven feet tall, stood beside another slightly shorter, but rather muscular man. The second man, with a huge beard, much more full and long than Vince’s laughed as he walked, and the third man, considerably more handsome and with a darker skin tone than the other two, talked as they walked toward the entrance.

All three wore vests adorned with the patch of their MC. Selected Sinners. Here we go again…

VINCE July 4th, 2014 Sunday nights were reserved for dinner at my mother’s home, and as much as I tried over the years to change it, I wasn’t able to do so. Disputing my mother’s practices, procedures, or rituals was something rather simple to do, but having her agree with me was another story. Although this particular day wasn’t a Sunday, it was a holiday, and one that my mother perceived as worthy of a family meal. And arguing with her wasn’t an option. “Eat your fried chicken, Stephen,” my mother said. “I’m eating it as fast as I can, Mother,” I responded. “You’re picking. I don’t like it when you pick. Pick, pick, pick. It’s all you’ve done since you got here. Did you eat with those boys before you came?” she asked. “No. I told you, I came straight from home. The food’s good, I just…” She reached below the table and handed Bradley another chicken bone. “You just what? Stephen

Vincent Ames, you need to forget about that woman. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. You deserve better, and it’s been what? Two years?” “Don’t feed him chicken bones. It’ll kill him. And it’s been a year,” I said. Bradley, an English bulldog, was my mother’s best friend. She talked to him as if he understood every word she said, and fed him whatever he would eat. According to my mother, Bradley was my younger brother, and she even held birthday parties for him, making him wear a hat and eat birthday cake every year. “He’s a walking garbage disposal, he’ll be fine. And don’t think changing the subject will make me forget what we were talking about. She didn’t even want kids, Stephen, it was only a matter of time. And I haven’t seen her for two years, so it’s hard for me to remember exactly when you were divorced, but she left you long before you were divorced, I can tell you that, ” she said. I inhaled a shallow breath and cleared my throat. “I’m not thinking about her.” I scooped up a forkful of some strange corn, bean, and vegetable salad she had prepared and carefully lifted the substance to my mouth. Fried chicken on the Fourth of July was one of her rituals, and it generally included several side dishes, many of which she now obtained off of Pinterest. Some of the new recipes were great and some were nothing short of awful. I did my best to swallow the unidentifiable spicy mixture, but it was proving to be rather difficult. As I rolled it around in my mouth and reached for my glass of water, she raised her eyebrows and sighed. “You don’t like the corn salsa?” she asked. “It’s salsa?” I asked as I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth in an effort to rid myself of the taste. “Yes, what did you think it was?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Hell, you’ve got a gallon of it there in that bowl, I thought it was a salad or something.” “Salsa, Stephen. It’s corn salsa. I got if off of Pinterest. Suzette likes it, and so does Randy,” she said. “Well, take it over to Suzette and Randy’s house,” I said.

She reached over the table and smacked the back of my knuckles with her butter knife. “God damn it,” I howled as I pulled my hand away. “Fuck.” I raised my hand and stared at the back of it, fully expecting to see blood. A three inch long red welt began to rise before my eyes. “You hear that, Bradley? We’re two dollars richer,” she said as she pointed toward the top of the refrigerator with her chicken leg. I knew better than to argue. I stood, pulled out my wallet, and walked to the refrigerator. After digging through my wallet and finding two one dollar bills, I pulled the jar from the top of the refrigerator and dropped the money inside. “You smell like smoke. Have you been smoking?” she asked. “No, I quit,” I said, telling the truth for the most part. “I think you were telling quite a fib to Bradley and me earlier when we were cooking the chicken. I want you to know that, Stephen. You’re my little boy and I can see right through you. It’s what mothers do,” she said. I continued to eat, acting as if I didn’t hear her. She paused and pointed her half-eaten chicken leg at me. “You’ve been riding since you were six years old. You and I both know you didn’t wreck your father’s motorcycle. I want to know who beat you up. What happened?” “I dumped it in some sand,” I said. “Stephen Vincent. Both your eyes are stitched up, and you look like hell. What happened?” she asked. I pointed at the jar with my fork. She shook her head. “Hell isn’t a curse word, it’s a place. And it’s a place you’re going to end up living if you keep telling your mother fibs.” “I dumped the bike, Mother,” I sighed.

“It doesn’t have a scratch on it,” she said, shaking her head from side to side as she spoke. I cocked my head and stared in disbelief. “It’s covered in scratches, how would you know?” She raised her index finger in the air and glared at me. “I rode on that bike for years. I know where every scratch is. Fine, Stephen, just fine.” “I met a girl,” I said flatly as I picked through the pile of chicken. “Pardon me? I would have sworn you said you met a girl,” she said. “I did,” I said as I continued to pick through the chicken. “Did you buy a breastless chicken?” “Here, take mine,” she said as she handed me her chicken breast. “Now, about this girl. Is she the reason you got beat up?” “No, I met her one night when I ran out of gas. She gave me a ride to the gas station. She was really nice. It’s nothing, I was just making conversation,” I said as I bit into the chicken. “Bradley’s starving, give him your bones,” she said as she waved her hand toward my plate. “He shouldn’t eat chicken bones, and he weighs fifty pounds anyway. And thirty of it’s fat,” I said. “Take it back, he’s not fat,” she said. “You can’t take things back after you say ‘em, and he is too,” I said. “You sure can. You say ‘I take it back.’ Now, who’s this girl? Does she want kids?” she asked. “How the hell would I know? I told you, she gave me a ride to the gas station,” I responded. One thing my mother always detested about Natalie was that she was outspoken regarding her lack of interest in having children, and my mother dreamed of the day she would have grandchildren. It was a subject Natalie and I discussed often and never quite agreed on. “Is she pretty?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Beautiful. Dark hair, like yours.” “Does she have tattoos?” she asked.

“None that I could see,” I said. My mother accepted the fact I had tattoos, but believed everyone else with tattoos was an obvious criminal or had spent time in prison. Women with tattoos, as far as she was concerned, were trouble. “So are you seeing her?” she asked. I dropped my chicken breast onto my plate. “Gas. She took me to get gas. That’s it.” “Did you get her phone number?” she asked. I rested my forearms on the table, glared at her, and raised both eyebrows. “You need to get a phone, Stephen. This is ridiculous,” she said. “Everyone has a phone.” “I had a phone and now I don’t. No worries, I know where she lives,” I said. “I could always stop by.” “Don’t be a stalker, Stephen. It’s not nice,” she said as she reached for her glass of tea. “I saw on Bluebloods the other night what happens to stalkers.” “Jesus…” I sighed as I reached for my chicken. “Take her some flowers, tell her thank you, and ask her to go to dinner. That’s what a proper man would do. In the same situation, it’s what your father would have done, and you know it,” she said. As I ate my chicken, I considered her advice. She was right. So far, I’d troubled Sienna twice with my problems, and had never really taken time to thank her properly for everything she had done for me. “I’ll take her some flowers,” I said with a nod of my head. “And dinner. Take her to dinner, Stephen,” my mother said as she lowered another chicken bone below the table. Bradley took the chicken bone from her hand, waddled toward the refrigerator, and flopped down on the floor beside his bowl of food. As he gnawed on the bone and grew another few ounces fatter, and one step closer to choking to death, I shifted my eyes toward my mother. “Fine,” I said. “And dinner.”

“You’re a good boy, Stephen. Now eat the rest of your salsa,” she said as she pointed her butter knife at my plate. I had no intention of eating the remaining salsa, but I did think taking Sienna flowers and going to dinner was a good idea. My mother might have been difficult to bullshit, and impossible to win an argument with, but she always gave good advice. Her only concerns were, and had always been, what she believed to be in my best interest. As I sat and ate the remaining portion of my Fourth of July meal and mentally prepared for the fireworks display we were certain to discharge in the driveway later, I knew one thing for sure. I would always be her little boy.

SIENNA July 9th, 2014 I had three books to review, was out of wine, and was about half as drunk as I needed to be. One of the books was an absolute disaster, written by someone who was so full of herself she wouldn’t even take my constructive criticism as advice. In my opinion, if an author of a book didn’t know the difference between two, to, too, four, fore, for, or their, they’re and there, they had no business publishing a book without the assistance of a professional editor. And if the author was so pretentious she believed a book reviewer couldn’t have an effect on her ability to sell said book, she was dead wrong. My offer in the form of a private message to help her with a few things was met with a response that was beyond rude and completely uncalled for. I glared at her message decided a response wasn’t necessary, only an appropriate review. Sienna, I appreciate your opinion, but remember, I am THE AUTHOR. Putting my thoughs on paper is my job, and yours is to review what I gave wrotten. If you don’t like my choice of wrods, maybe you should write your own book and have me review it.

Thanks anyway. Not. Diamond She couldn’t even write me an email without making mistakes. The sad thing was that the book had a reasonably interesting storyline, but the problems with syntax, grammar, and her weird prose prevented me from enjoying it, and from completing it. The opinions on not finishing a book and providing a review were all over the place, but I was of the opinion if I did my best to read a book, and because it was a disaster was incapable of finishing it, my follower should know my opinion. I stared at the screen and tried to decide the best thing to do. After a moment, I began to type. My Sister, My Lover, by Diamond Phelps was interesting enough for me to attempt to read it, but I was incapable of finishing it due to the constant errors and problems with her shifting from past tense to present tense and from first to third person - sometimes in the middle of sentences. “I walked to the edge of the pier, wondering what he was going to do about our baby. Strangely, I wasn’t even sure it was his. He walks up beside me and held my hand, shows me he loves me without speaking, and pats me on the back softly. I snap out of my subconscious state and turned around, and he lifts my chin and says “it’ll be just fine” with his green eyes. Words were not spoken, but they didn’t have to be spoke. He says all that he needs to say because we were loving each other, and we were always going to be lovers. You never should walking away from a man who deep down inside loved you like he loves me and I knew this, but the fight within me building with each passing moment. The fire inside of me was intense, and it burns eternally….” I think the above excerpt says it all. Now, to pre-squash the question I’m sure throngs of people will ask, “Sienna, is it fair that you one-starred a book you DNF’d? You didn’t actually finish it.” I will offer this answer in advance. If I started the book, decided to go on vacation to Belize, and didn’t finish it for that reason, only to DNF and one star the book, yes. Yes, that would be wrong in my eyes.

Or, if I started the book, set it aside to go get a glass of wine, and tripped over the carpet in the living room where it meets the hard wood (which I am known to do on my 2nd or 3rd glass), and ended up in the hospital with a broken hip and a terrible case of ‘I’m stupids’, only to return and find my Kindle had been stolen? Yes, that would be bad of me to DNF and one star. But, life is too short to read bad books or wear ugly shoes. So, I CHOOSE to not finish this book based on the fact there are many others out there worthy taking up space in my head. One star. DNF. I read the review, decided using the excerpt from the book was probably best, and pressed the button to publish it. It was an extremely short review, but I believed it provided the prospective reader with enough information for them to develop their own opinion. As I stared at my notes from the second book, the doorbell rang. Slightly startled, but becoming fractionally more used to the sound of the doorbell since I met Vince, I walked to the window and pulled the blinds to the side. I hoped it was him, but before I even glanced toward the porch I knew it wasn’t, because the sound of his motorcycle didn’t come first. Much to my surprise, what appeared to be Vince’s silhouette stood waiting on my porch. Dressed in my plaid pink pajamas and a wife beater, I considered changing clothes, but quickly decided not to. So far, neither my P!NK sweats nor my jeans had much of an effect on him, and I hoped my most adorable pajamas would cause him to see me a little differently. I ran to the living room, attempted to pace my breathing, and pulled the door open slowly. Vince stood before me with a smirk on his face and a vase filled with flowers in his hand. “Good evening,” he said. Feeling almost as if I was in shock, I stood and stared. “I wanted to say thanks for everything,” he said as he handed me the flowers. The only thing I could think of that would come close to describing how I felt would be to compare it to how and what I felt on Christmas morning with my father as a little girl. “Thank you,” I murmured.

As my heart began to race and my palms broke out in a profuse sweat, I turned toward the inside of the house and prayed I didn’t start crying. “Come in,” I said as I walked toward the kitchen. I assumed the flowers would need water, but in looking at the vase, they didn’t. “I didn’t hear your motorcycle, you surprised me,” I said as I placed the vase on the counter. “I uhhm. I drove the truck. I couldn’t figure out a way to get those on the bike,” he said. He was dressed differently than normal, and wasn’t wearing his cut. Dressed in a black tee shirt, jeans, and boots, it seemed that he was dressed up for the occasions. “You’re not wearing your cut,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders. “No cuts in cages. Surprised you haven’t read that in your little MC books.” “Well, I haven’t yet,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward the flowers. “I can’t stay, I got to go do a quick job, but I uhhm. I have a question,” he said. “Okay,” I said as I shifted my eyes in his direction. “You want to get lunch next Sunday? Maybe like meet up or something?” he asked. Holy shit. “Sure, sounds fun,” I said. “How about let’s meet at that place on 21st and Rock, the new steak house?” he asked. I did my best to contain my excitement. “Sure, what time?” “Noon?” he asked. He was big, covered in tattoos, and I knew from the night we got gas he had the ability to be violent, but for that moment, he seemed rather innocent.

“Sure.” “Alright. Now remember, I don’t have a phone, so don’t be late,” he said. “I won’t, I promise,” I said. He nodded his head, shifted his body toward the door and paused. “Alright. Well, I better get. Thanks again, for everything.” “Any time,” I said, and then immediately wished I would have said something else. He walked to the door, opened it, and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes fell to the floor and slowly worked their way back up to my face. “I like the pajamas. They’re cute.” “Thanks,” I said. I waved as he turned and walked toward his truck, just like I used to at the passing floats in the parades when I was a little girl, and then felt like a complete idiot for doing so. Hell, I didn’t know what a proper departure salute for a biker was, my books hadn’t addressed it. Maybe I should have pounded my fist to my heart and shot him the peace sign. After he got in his truck and drove away, I shut the door and ran to the kitchen. I closed my eyes, buried my face in the flowers, and inhaled a long slow breath through my nose. As I lifted my head I opened my eyes and gazed down at the magnificent arrangement. They were perfect. They were… The unexpected result of the natural development of life.

VINCE July 16th, 2014 The meal with Sienna was far more enjoyable than I ever expected it to be. As gorgeous as she was, and as womanly as she appeared to be, being in her presence reminded me more of hanging out with the fellas than eating a meal with Natalie. She was calm, she spoke about whatever was on her mind, and she didn’t seem to have reservations regarding any of the subjects I chose to discuss. I found myself intentionally trying to cause her to be uncomfortable, but nothing seemed to shake her. As our meal came to a close, I had to continually remind myself that being in a relationship was the last thing on earth I needed to do. But I really enjoyed being with her. “So, you don’t work?” I asked. “Not right now, no. I did up until last year, but I got…” She paused, raised both hands in the air, and made cute little finger quotation marks before continuing. “Let go.” I couldn’t help but grin. To see her was to witness beauty, but watching her live life defined cute. I

gazed at her for a long minute, mentally stumbled, and finally spoke. “I see,” I said. She twisted her mouth to the side as if she were thinking and reached for her glass of tea. “I’m kind of just hanging out right now. It’s my father’s old house, and I don’t really have any bills, so…” she raised her glass, took a drink, and chewed on a cube of ice while she gazed at me innocently. “And on Sundays you get drunk and review books?” I asked. She swallowed the ice and quickly got another. As she chewed it, she responded over the loud crunching sound. “Pretty much. It’s a ritual. I generally start about seven or so. It’s the only day of the week I drink.” Over the years I had learned a lot about people. My job required that I have a knack for reading people or develop an ability to do so based on my experience. I suppose my successes in my work could be attributed a little to both. Naturally I was able to read people better than most other men, and over time I learned a lot about expressions, tell-tale signs, and mannerisms while working. Sienna’s willingness to do something as simple as sit and chew ice cubes told me some things about her. She was comfortable around me, and she had no hesitation to be herself in my presence. I studied her for a moment and eventually raised my index finger. As her eyes shifted up toward my hand, I grinned. “I have a question,” I said. “Okay,” she responded. Her brown eyes were filled with innocence, but my experience with people told me she was far from an innocent woman. I knew I wasn’t mentally or physically ready for a relationship, but letting her slip away completely was unthinkable. “I told you about my ex-wife, and how I didn’t trust women,” I said. She nodded her head as she raised her glass of tea. “Yep.” “Well, what if we started doing this every Sunday? As friends and nothing more, just two people enjoying each other’s company. What would you say to that?” I asked.

She shuffled an ice cube around in her mouth and eventually spit it back into her glass of tea. After wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she shifted her eyes to meet mine and smiled. “I’d like that,” she said. And, with those three words, my life was completely changed.

SIENNA August 10th, 2014 My life was much different than what I had become used to, and now included everything I ever wanted it to; with the exception of sex. It was easier for me to dismiss the sex than I would have thought, and I attributed it not to my being satisfied to Vince’s ability to make me happy, but to my feeble mind’s belief that one day the sex would come. It had been two months since the day we met, and as much as I hoped the relationship would develop into something more than us merely being friends, he had made no indication to lead me to believe it ever would. It was pretty obvious he loved only one woman in his life, and her infidelity left him feeling alone and cheated, but more than anything, he felt as if someone he trusted had broken a promise. I truly believed of all things, her breaking her vow of marriage was what hurt him the most. Vince was a man different than anyone else I had ever met, and was no doubt different than anyone I would ever encounter, regardless of how many men I chose to meet in my lifetime. He collected debts not for his club, but for any and everyone who hired him to do so. I had learned he was well known in the city, and everyone from drug dealers, bail bondsmen, and even local attorneys who didn’t want to get their hands dirty hired him to resolve their money matters or find someone who had skipped out on a debt

or a commitment. He explained one reason he felt no shame in doing what he did was that men had a responsibility to honor their word, and no one should ever break a promise. He viewed a debt as a promise, and always made sure they understood when he arrived to collect that he was there because they had broken a promise. Vince was involved in all of the club’s activities, and viewed the members of the motorcycle club as his family. He had a pretty strong relationship with his mother from what he had said, but his family was the MC. His choice to be alone in life wasn’t some form of self-imposed punishment in my opinion, but a protective measure to make sure he didn’t expose himself to the pain and heartache associated with people not keeping their promises, commitments, or the possibility of them not meeting his expectations. On one of our lunch dates, he did take the time to explain that if he had no expectations of anyone, he would never be in a position to be disappointed. Getting him to agree to a standing Sunday lunch was difficult, but he eventually agreed, stating if I ever decided not to show up, to call him at his home, and leave a message on his answering machine. His not having a cell phone made things with him extremely difficult, but if it did nothing else, it kept me conscious of my commitments. After this short period of time, I respected Vince almost as much as I respected my father. I glanced at the clock on the dash and shook my head. Sunday traffic at noon was ridiculous on the east side of the city, as almost every street had half a dozen churches on it, and church ended at the same time for every one of them. Dealing with the indecisive minds of the slow driving idiots in front of me was about to get the best of me. Traveling the last two blocks had taken me fifteen minutes, and in five minutes, I was going to be late. And being late wasn’t an option with Vince. You don’t know whether to shit or wind your watch, do you old man? In the middle of the city wasn’t a great place to pass a car, nor was it legal. Sometimes, just to keep my sanity, it was necessary. I gripped the steering wheel, peered to the left, and pressed my foot against the gas pedal. The transmission shifted down two gears and the rear throttle blades of the massive four barrel carburetor kicked in. With no time to think, and very little time to react, I pulled the steering wheel to the left and passed the three idiots in front of me in just enough time to miss the truck in the oncoming lane.

Having in excess of six hundred horsepower in a street car sure wasn’t necessary, but it was a hell of a lot of fun. After a few light applications of the brake pedal, I slowed down to eighty miles per hour, only fifty miles an hour above the posted speed limit. Traveling at that speed, I flew past every car on the road, leaving them where they belonged, behind in my wake. The traffic light ahead would be impossible to stop at, and as I continued to blow past the Sunday drivers, I checked the signal. The light changed from green to yellow, so I hammered the gas pedal again, launching the car through the intersection like a rocket. I grinned as I pulled into the restaurant with two minutes to spare. A quick search of the parking lot produced no motorcycle, and I sighed in relief as I shut off the engine. As I sat and listened to the end of “Christmas in Hollis,” by Run DMC, someone approaching the car startled me. “What the fuck are you listening to?” he asked. “Oh shit, I didn’t think you were here,” I said as I opened the glove box and flipped the switch to turn off the stereo. I opened the door to the car, admiring his growth of beard as I got out. “Sorry, I was just chillin’.” “It’s the middle of summer and you’re listening to Christmas music?” he asked. “I like Christmas,” I said as I locked the car. He shook his head and laughed. “At Christmas time, maybe.” “Run DMC’s “Christmas in Hollis” kicks ass all year round, sorry,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders. “Run DMC? Christmas rap?” “Shit keeps me in a good mood, what can I say. You ready to eat?” I asked. “Yeah, I’m starving. It was a late night,” he said. We walked toward the entrance side by side. The entire time, I tried not to stare, but he really looked great. His beard was a little thicker than the two or three days growth that he generally wore, and had grown rather full since I had seen him only a week prior. Instead of wearing his normal tee shirt, he had on a wife beater, and his vest was unbuttoned. As he walked his walk of confidence, periodically checking over each shoulder as we made our way to the entrance, I felt safe, secure, and almost blessed.

“Fuck, maybe I should try listening to it all year round,” he said as he pulled open the door to the restaurant. “Maybe I wouldn’t be so hard to get along with.” “You’re not hard to get along with,” I said as I walked inside. “As long as you keep showing up for Sunday dinner, we’ll get along fine,” he said. “Two,” he said to the young girl at the reception desk. “Summer will help you,” she said as she motioned toward a girl with dreadlocks who stood beside her. “Follow me,” Summer said cheerily. “After you,” Vince said as he pointed toward the bouncing locks of filth in front of us. Of all people, I believed I was truly a fan of individuality and expression of one’s true self. I never, however, found much value in dreadlocks. As far as I was concerned, they made whoever was wearing them seem dirty, unhealthy, and just shy of screaming for attention. After the dreadlocked girl tossed the menus on the table and walked away, we each sat down. “You like that shit?” I asked as I picked up the menu. He cocked an eyebrow as he took a sip from his glass of water. “What shit?” “Dreads?” I asked as I tossed my head toward the waitress. He shook his head. “The Rastafarian chick? Nope.” “Yeah, me neither,” I said. “Personally, I like your hair,” he said as he nodded his head toward me. “Dark, clean, well-cut, and always done up a little different. Hell, it never looks the same, but it’s always perfect. I like that.” My face felt flush, and I was sure that I was blushing, but the compliment was genuine and it made me feel great. Based on who I had received them from in the past, I generally categorized compliments as attempts to get in my pants. With Vince, I knew better. Whatever he said came from the heart. Hearing him say such things made me want him more, and the want was almost a dull pain. As a

matter of respect to him, I never asked for anything else, but I wanted him more with each passing week. Each time we met, I expected him to finally reveal a portion of his personality or being that would cause me to turn away under the realization he wasn’t what or who I thought he was, but it never happened. If anything, he continued to confirm he was just what I expected – and hoped – him to be. He was a man with tremendous devotion and commitment to what and who he believed in, and it just so happened he used a motorcycle as his means of transportation. He intertwined his fingers, turned his palms to face me, and extended his arms as he cracked his knuckles and yawned. Seeing his biceps and chest flare was something I would never get used to, even if we remained nothing but friends for a lifetime. His body did a pretty good job of defining perfection, and although he wasn’t a conceited or arrogant man, he often accidentally flaunted it. And each time he did so, my heart stopped for a few beats. “So tell me about today’s reviews,” he said as he leaned back in his seat. “Uhhm. Well, I’ve got one stepbrother book I finished earlier in the week that was a good solid three and a half, and a werewolf shapeshifter deal that was actually pretty good. I’m back and forth between four and four and a half. We’ll see how I feel after lunch,” I said. He leaned forward, pressing his forearms into the edge of the table, and cocked an eyebrow in what had become his signature gesture of concern. “But you only read romance, right?” I took a drink of water and nodded my head. “Yep.” “Don’t tell me a stepbrother book is…” Before he had a chance to continue, I interrupted. “Sure is.” “Do they…” “Sure do.” “The brother and sister?” “Uh huh, but they’re ‘steps’ so it’s okay,” I said as I raised my glass. He pushed himself away from the table and shook his head. “It’s wrong as fuck. And you’re telling

me people like that shit?” “Sure seem to,” I responded. “And a werewolf what did you say? Shapeshifter? It is a romance, right?” he asked as he leaned onto the edge of the table again. “Yeah. He shifts back and forth between being a werewolf and a man. He falls in love with a woman from Massachusetts, but he’s originally from Canada. A long way from the pack, you know,” I said with a laugh. He scrunched his nose and shook his head again. “A chick fucking a dog?” “Well, they only bone when he’s a man, but in a sense, kind of, yeah,” I said. “I fucking swear. And people wonder why I’m a loner. The world’s full of fucking weirdos. Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Midsummer Night’s Dream…” he shoved himself away from the table in clear frustration, grabbed the edge of it with his fingertips and pulled himself close to the edge again. After shaking his head in disgust, he rested his elbows on the edge of the table and leaned into the center, pressing his palms against his jawline. After a few seconds of staring blankly at me, he cleared his throat. “Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion,” he said. “Have you read that book?” “Pride and Prejuduce? Yeah, several times,” I said. “Can I interest you in our buffet?” the Rastafarian girl asked. “Come back in ten, we’re in a heated discussion,” Vince said with a wave of his hand without so much as shifting his eyes away from me. “You notice there weren’t any werewolves or shapeshifters or fucking stepbrothers in it?” he asked. “Yeah, I noticed,” I responded.

“Here’s what I think. I think the world is so full of people that have lost hope in conventional love – all because no one is willing to give it unconditionally anymore – that they read to be shocked, thrilled, or disgusted. They no longer read to be filled with promise or hope, because they no longer believe. A modern love story has become the most unbelievable fairy tale ever. And now, people read those BDSM books like they’re going out of style because it makes them wet. That sure as fuck doesn’t make it a good novel. A porno movie will make them wet too, but it sure doesn’t mean it’s a good movie. I fucking swear,” he said. I shrugged and tried to force myself not to smile. He was right. The book world had changed drastically just in the amount of time I had been out of school. It seemed the erotica genre was not only based on sex, but most of the books lacked the base ingredients to give them even a hint of romantic element. “You know, in a romance novel, it’s the first kiss. That, Sienna, is the money shot,” he said. I coughed out a laugh and tried to keep from spitting my ice cube out. “I thought the money shot was when, you know. When the guy shot his load on a chick’s face.” He shook his head and waved his hand in my direction. “See? That’s your perception, based on modern day bullshit books. A money shot, by definition, is the essential element that causes a book, movie, or magazine to succeed. The selling point. In a romance novel, it should be that kiss. Not a face full of cum. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a time and a place for a cum shot, but the money shot? It should be the kiss. The first one.” I was really, really starting to like this guy. Before I could give my opinion, he continued. “People need to learn to believe in love again. They need to desire that feeling that happens deep down in their inner being that only love can give. And true love sure as fuck isn’t something that causes your crotch to ache, either. That’s where all the confusion lies,” he said as he reached for his glass of water. “My heart aches,” he said as he raised his glass and held it in the air. I did the same. “Here’s to the lost art of loving,” he said as he clanked his glass against mine. “Hear, hear!” I said.

My heart swelled a little as I took a drink of my glass of water. If I was reading a book about a romance novel reading biker who was a debt collecting ass kicking member of a MC, I’d probably laugh until I peed myself. But, he sat before me in the flesh, talking about Pride and Prejudice as if it was sacred and something he held dear to his heart. “So, are you ready to order?” Dreadlocks asked. Vince turned to face her and grinned, exposing his shiny white teeth. As she smiled in return, he widened his eyes, took a shallow breath, and all but came unraveled. “Sure, I’ll have a plate of devotion, a side order of commitment, and a thick slice of I promise not to break your heart. Be sure to make it untoasted and hold the butter, so I don’t choke on it. Oh, and a shot of your best bourbon to wash it all down with,” he said without so much as taking a breath. “Huh?” she said as she tossed her dreadlocks over her shoulder. “Exactly,” he said as he wagged his eyebrows at me. “See?” It was that day. On the Sunday at the buffet place on Webb Road. That was the day that a large part of me fell for Vince. And fell hard.

VINCE September 11th, 2014 There were very few men I respected as much as my father. Axton Bishop was one of those men. I didn’t respect him because he demanded it or because he wore the “President” patch. I respected him because his actions, his words, and where his heart was required that I do so. To not respect him for who he was would do nothing but provide support of me being incapable of seeing just what it was he offered me as a man and as a member of the club. “Got a minute, boss?” I asked as I leaned inside the office door. “I’ve always got time for you, Vince,” Axton said as he closed the ledger. “Headed to the bar with Toad,” Otis said as he stood from his seat. “Otis,” I said as he began to walk toward the door. “Vince,” he said with a nod of his head as he walked past. “So what’s on your mind?” Axton asked.

“Just wondering about a few things,” I said. “Flunked mind reading in school, Brother. You’re going to have to enlighten me,” he said as he leaned back in his chair. “Got a question about a woman,” I said as I sat down across from him. He snapped the rubber band he wore around his wrist a few times, more than likely subconsciously, inhaled a long slow breath through his nose, and then exhaled out his mouth. The process, for Axton, had become somewhat of a ritual. “My thoughts on women have been made pretty clear. Don’t have much use for them, they can’t be trusted,” he said. “So what’s your question?” “You think a man can be friends with a woman, or does it always turn to shit?” I asked. He popped his rubber band once and leaned forward in his chair. “You got a woman friend, have ya, Vince?” “Sure do. Just don’t want to hurt her, or have her expecting things of me. You know, things I’m not willing to give,” I said. “So this is some girl who’s a friend, and you’re not throwing her any of that cock, right?” he asked. “Right,” I said. “And you’re not planning on changing that?” he asked. “Not planning on it, no. It’ll just fuck things up. She’s cool as a fan, Boss. Drives a ‘65 Continental, she’s pretty as fuck, and kind of a mouthy little bitch, but not in a disrespectful way,” I said. “Sounds interesting,” he said as he leaned back in his seat. “Well, you and her can be friends no doubt, and I wouldn’t tell all of the fellas this, believe me. You’re a weird fucker, Vince, and we both know it. I’m sure if you say you’re not going to give her any dick, you sure won’t. But I can tell you one thing for fucking sure…” “What’s that?” I asked.

He rubbed his jaw between his thumb and his forefinger and lowered his chin as he locked his eyes on mine. “There’ll come a day when she wants that dick. And it’ll be a deal breaker. Then you’ll have to decide for sure,” he said. “Always comes to that, doesn’t it?” I asked blankly. “Sure does,” he responded. “Damned sure does.” “So how’s business?” he asked. “Pretty good, thanks,” I responded. “Face looks better now that it’s good and healed. Scars make you look more like a one percenter and less like a book reading hermit,” he said with a laugh. “You’re one to talk. You read as much as I do,” I said as I stood. “I read a lot, that’s a fact. Now don’t leave mad. You still need to talk?” he asked as he stood. “Ain’t mad,” I said. “Just thinking.” “You wanting to start fucking this girl? Just between you and me?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Fuck I don’t know, kind of.” “So what you’re really wanting to know is if you can fuck her without fucking up the friendship, right?” he asked. “I’m not sure. It’s just. Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve never been around a woman as cool as she is. She reads books. Reviews them online and stuff. We meet every Sunday for lunch, and have been for three or four months now. We sit and talk about books, cars, bikes, people, politics…” I paused and shrugged my shoulders before I continued. “Shit, you name it, and we’ve discussed it. God damned woman is drop dead gorgeous, but that ain’t what I like about her. I like it that she’s so down to earth. No fucking drama. No bullshit. No whining, bitching, or acting like a little girl.” “Believe me, that’ll all change,” he said.

I turned to face him and nodded my head. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” “Listen, I’ll never shack up with a woman. Every motherfucker in this club knows that. They’re good for one thing and one thing only, and that’s shovin’ ‘em full of dick. That’s it. Beyond that, I don’t have much use for ‘em. But my opinion on women shouldn’t be your opinion on women. There’s sure plenty of men on this earth who are happily married, in solid relationships, or shovin’ the single neighbor gal next door full of cock, and doing it successfully. Does it mean this girl’s for you? Only you can answer that question, Vince. Only you,” he said. “I think I’ll probably keep doing what I’m doing and see what happens,” I said. “Sounds like a good move,” he said. “Devil looks after his own,” I said as I clenched my fist and held it at arm’s length. He pounded his fist against mine and grinned. “He damned sure does.” As I walked out of his office and into the shop, I didn’t feel any better about the situation I was in. Axton was right, the only one who knew what was best for me was me, and no one else. What it came down to was whether or not I was ready to take the risk of being hurt again. And I didn’t know much, but I knew the answer to that question. I wasn’t.

SIENNA October 5th, 2014 I stared blankly at the monitor. The book was a disaster, the wine was aplenty, and the night was yet another spent at home alone. I wondered if I died in my sleep some night or fell into a wine induced coma and was unplugged from life support by some nurse who hated cool bitches just who would write and read my eulogy. I considered what it might say, based on them somehow finding someone who knew me well enough to write something. She drove a cool car and her hair was awesome. She had a nice butt when she wore those jeans from The Limited. Her nail beds were nice, but she rarely chose a good color of polish. Her eyebrows needed work. Thinking about it, I came close to crying. I had no one, was falling for a man that would probably never fall for me, yet I couldn’t fathom ever wanting any other man. My life had become a disaster. I was twenty-six, single, and had spent a lifetime in and out of relationships with losers. My father was

probably turning over in his grave at the thought of his precious daughter withering away as an unmarried woman now pushing thirty years old. My father, not unlike me, was constantly reading something. Everything from cookbooks to old folklore could be found beside his bed on any given day. He was a sponge willing to soak up anything he could gather from reading. Me? I became a dreamer while he was away in prison, and began reading romance novels as fast as I could flip the pages. As soon as I got a Kindle and learned of the one-click option, my savings account began to dwindle, and my TBR list grew into the thousands. Romance novels were my weakness, and living the life depicted in them had become my dream. Before my father went to prison, he told me persistence is rewarded in a manner indifference will never know. I applied it all through high school, and my grades were a reflection of his wise words and my desire to make him proud of his little girl. I considered the advice of my father, and decided unless I applied it to my life, I would simply fall back into a proven pattern of slipping further and further away from what it was I deserved. I deserved to be loved as much as I was able to love. My eyes eventually focused on the monitor, and I realized I had spent an immeasurable amount of time wallowing in my sorrows. Spiraling into a state of self-pity wasn’t something I needed to do, and I knew focusing on my review should resolve the issue. I grabbed the bottle of wine, raised it to my lips, and took a long drink. Much to my surprise, the flow of the sweet substance abruptly stopped, leaving me holding a useless glass paperweight over my bobbing head. How in the fuck did that happen? I blinked my eyes and stared at the bottle. It was definitely empty, even though I had opened it only a few minutes prior. I swear, they’re making these bottles smaller. Maybe the glass is thicker and they hold less... I shook the bottle, gazed blankly at the bottom, and shoved it onto the desk beside my monitor. After teetering back and forth for a few seconds, it stopped quivering and came to rest upright and… Empty.

The bottle’s ability to hold itself upright after I tossed it across my desk was all the proof I needed that the wineries were making the glass thicker, and providing me with much less of the nerve soothing potion I required to complete my Sunday night ritual. Fuckers. I glared at the screen, angry about the wine situation. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” by The Pretenders calmed my nerves as I began to read my glorious review. You’re probably reading this review wondering just what book I read. Well, don’t let all the five star reviews fool you. I’m drunk enough, experienced enough, and lack fear of retribution enough to give an honest opinion. And here it is. This book was awful. And regardless of how many tens of thousands of followers the author has, I’m not afraid to admit it. I refuse to fall in line with every other reader or reviewer who states this book is a “great read” or “fabulous” just because the author is a well-recognized figure in the industry. Newsflash. Five star reads are NOT books that have unbelievable characters doing unbelievable things. This book read like an episode of the Jerry fucking Springer Show. I fell in love with the guy who raped me as a teen, and used to come to my house as a babysitter and tie me up in the basement and stick broom handles in my twat. He beat me unconscious when I was twenty, and my family moved away, but I decided to stay because I truly loved him. Then, after a few years of suggesting and me willingly complying with his requests to have threesomes with him and his brother, I woke up and decided to break it off. After six months of sulking and smoking meth, I decided to give his other brother a try, only to fall in love with the stepfather.

Are you fucking kidding me right now? As I read this worthless piece of shit, I held my breath in wait of the trip to Tijuana and the Shetland pony show. That’s really all this book was missing. Great read? I think not. Hot sex scenes? No. Well written? Yes. But I don’t care to read another hot sex scene when the h is mentally challenged and incapable of standing up for herself against an H who is overbearing, has a thirteen inch cock, and can fuck for twelve hours straight without the aid of a Viagra. “Fuck me and my brother, okay?” “I don’t want to, it’s not right…” “How can it be wrong if I want it and you love me, Aphilia?” “I guess it can’t. Okay, I’ll do it, but only because I love you…” That, ladies and gentlemen, is a direct quote from this five star read. I’m sorry, but I about barfed. And who in the absolute fuck names their kid Aphilia, anyway? Nobody. Want a five star review? Write me a book about a girl named Sienna who gets her brains fucked out by a bearded biker.

My rating? Half a star because I liked the dedication, but with great reluctance I must give it one star because Goodreads won’t allow zero. I published the review and reached for the bottle of wine. After raising it to my lips, I realized it was the same empty bottle I had so eagerly abandoned earlier. Heavy, but empty. Fuck. After removing my glasses and tossing them to the side, I pushed myself away from my desk, stood, and sang backup for Madonna’s “Santa Baby,” which was the only thing that saved me from my wine deprived state of being. As the song came to a close, I smiled and fell back onto my bed with my arms outstretched. After a moment of staring at the ceiling I rolled over and smashed my face into the closest pillow. My lunch with Vince earlier in the day had been perfect. Vince was perfect. And I was sure I could be perfect for him, I just needed an opportunity. I wrapped my arms around the pillow, squeezed it tight, and within a few seconds, began to softly cry. And on that night, in a slightly drunken state of being, I cried myself to sleep for the first time in five years.

VINCE November 6th, 2014 Our meeting ended, and a mandatory ride supporting Toys For Tots had been discussed at length. With Christmas fast approaching, the weather was less than favorable to ride, but as long as there wasn’t snow on the ground, we continued, regardless of the temperature. With all of the club’s heavies gathered on the side of the shop, I sauntered toward my bike as I pulled my stocking cap over my head. “Vince,” Otis said with a nod as I walked past. I raised my right hand slightly and nodded my head. “Fellas.” “Headed to Toad’s barbeque joint for a few beers and some chow if you’re interested,” Axton said. “Appreciate it. I think I’ll just…” “Excuses are like fuckin’ assholes,” Biscuit said. “Everybody’s got one.” I turned to face the group. Toad, Axton, Otis, Hollywood, and Biscuit were a club within the club,

and for the most part, were a closer knit group than the club was as a whole. They really didn’t let the other fellas in their little group, other than to meet for a drink or take a short unscheduled ride out of town for a show of presence. “I need to…” “Need to loosen up, Brother,” Biscuit said. “Tell you the truth, you ought to knock you off some pussy. Been walkin’ around this motherfucker for the last year like a motherfuckin’ zombie. Come on, I got a story to tell that’ll make your toes curl.” I glanced at my watch out of habit. Still stuck at three o’clock, it wasn’t much help. Hell, I didn’t have anything else to do, and I did need to eat something. “Sounds good,” I said. “Saddle up,” Axton said as he tossed his head toward his bike. “Last one out lock up,” Axton said over his shoulder as he fired up his sled. The thought of being part of their group for a short period of time was satisfying, but doing so on a long term basis wasn’t something I could ever do. It was far too easy to get caught up in patterns, routines, and eventually develop expectations of the men as friends, and eventually someone would fuck up and I knew enough about myself to know I would lose faith not only in the men, but in the club as a whole. Not exposing myself to the members as individuals protected me from being disappointed in their actions or broken promises, which, over time, were bound to happen. The six of us rode the half mile to Toad’s barbeque joint, and carefully parked our bikes in front of the building side-by-side. After confirming my bike was perfectly parked beside Otis’, I turned toward the entrance and shoved my keys into my pocket. “Hardcore motherfucker, ridin’ that Shovel. You work on that pig all the time or what?” Biscuit asked as we walked toward the door. “Quite a bit, yeah,” I responded. “But it was my Pop’s bike, and…” “Yeah, I heard that. Cool as fuck you kept it and all,” he said. “Shovel’s are powerless,” Otis said as we walked inside.

I shook my head in disagreement. Harley replaced the Panhead motor with the Shovelhead in 1966, and in 1971 a world record was set by a man on a Shovelhead powered Harley. The bike was the first in the world to travel the quarter mile in less than nine seconds in a drag race. Propelling two wheels from zero to one hundred and sixty-eight miles an hour in less than nine seconds, and doing so in 1971, was a tremendous accomplishment. “The first nine second bike in the quarter mile was a Shovel,” I said. “Bullshit,” Otis snapped back. “God damned truth,” Axton interrupted. “Man’s name was Joe Smith. Out in San Diego, I think.” “Los Angeles. West Covina to be exact,” I said. Biscuit coughed a laugh as we walked up to a table large enough to seat us. “Fuckin’ bookworm.” “But the man’s got his facts straight. A god damned Shovel is bulletproof,” Axton said. I nodded my head in his direction as we sat down, appreciative of his support of my bike in the presence of the other men. Each of them rode an almost brand new Harley, and with the exception of Axton’s bike, they were all pretty much unaltered and had very little personality. My bike was a hodgepodge of parts, and looked the part of an old school hard-core biker’s bike. With faded black paint and very little chrome, it was loud enough to wake the dead. It had the same straight pipe exhaust my father rode it with, and the ape hanger handlebars were the only modification I made to it since obtaining it from my father. Older bikers gathered around it at every rally and poker run I attended. The younger bikers simply walked past it, most not even knowing what it was or what it was capable of. Personally, I loved the thing. “Cool old bike, if you ask me,” Biscuit said as we sat down. Excluding Axton, of all of the men, Biscuit was the most genuine. He was the club story teller, and a practical joker. He reminded me a little of me, as he was against technology in many respects. He didn’t have a television, rarely carried his phone, and never cared to read the newspaper or hear anything about the world’s current events. Toad was a war hero of sorts, and had never really mentally came back to civilization after the war. He had a quick temper, was a martial arts specialist in addition to being a

Marine, and was a walking time bomb. Otis was the Sergeant-at-Arms and acted as the protector of the club, but no one short of Axton ever really knew what he was thinking. He was six foot six and muscle from head to toe, so the SAA slot was a great place for him to be. Hollywood was another loner of sorts, and lived in the middle of nowhere, keeping to himself if he wasn’t with the smaller group of men. Of the group, I trusted him the least. My father always said the eyes don’t lie, and Hollywood’s eyes always were constantly filled with concern or worry. He was a club brother, and as much a Sinner as me, but it didn’t mean I had to trust him wholly. And I didn’t. “Everyone hungry?” Toad asked as he turned toward the kitchen. The five of us glanced around the table and nodded our heads in confirmation. “I’ll get ribs, links, and brisket coming. Sound good?” he asked. “Sounds good, I appreciate it,” I said over the others grunting and nodding their heads. After being gone a few minutes, Toad returned with a round steel tray filled with bottles of beer. As he reached for one of the beers, Biscuit began to tell his story. “So, this gal was a waitress at Hooters, and built like a brick shithouse. She had tits the size of that pumpkin that was sittin’ on my porch ‘till Halloween and a waist about twenty-six inches at most. So, one of the El Forastero’s and me was havin’ a beer and this gal walks up to the table. ‘Are you a real biker?’ she asks. I said, ‘If having a Harley and a ten-inch cock makes me a real biker, I guess so.’ She stands there for a minute, tilts her head to the side, and says, ‘show it to me.’ ‘Shit,’ I said, ‘the motherfucker’s right outside the window, see for yourself.’ She grins like a shit eatin’ possum and shakes her head. ‘Not the bike,’ she says. ‘Show me your cock.’” he paused and scanned the group for a reaction. “Bullshit,” Hollywood chimed in as he took a drink of beer. Biscuit turned toward Hollywood, cocked an eyebrow, and rubbed his beard with his right hand. “Might be a lot of things, ‘Wood, but a liar ain’t one of ‘em. You don’t wanna hear this tale, grab you a rib to go and hop on that sled and point her west.” “Go ahead,” Hollywood said with a heavy sigh. “So I looked at Ol’ Red Wing and winked. Then I turned toward the gal with the titties and pulled

out my meat right there at the table. Now, this all happened in about ten seconds, so I didn’t even have a chance to work me up a chubby, but I yanked the Hankster out and he was about half limp, but just half. So I get it out, and I shake it at her a little bit. And she covers her mouth like this,” he paused and raised his hand to his mouth. “Gal’s eyes get wide as a couple dinner plates, and she says, ‘It ain’t even hard, is it?’ Hell, I drop my cock in my lap and shake my head. ‘Do you think I walk around with a stiff cock all day, Lady?’ I ask her. ‘It makes me dizzy if I do’,” he said as he slapped his hand against the table. “So what’d she do?” Otis asked. “Well, if you’d stop fuckin’ interruptin’ I’d sure as fuck tell ya. Anyone else want to ask any stupid questions before I continue?” Biscuit asked as he surveyed the group of men. Axton shook his head from side to side and twisted his index finger in a circle. On his signal, Biscuit continued. “So she glances over each shoulder, stares down in my lap, and shakes her head. Now she don’t know it cause she’s checking to make sure there ain’t gonna be a crowd gatherin’ around the table and not payin’ attention, but I been stroking this fucker for about thirty seconds at this point. So anyway, she looks down in my lap and she does this…” He paused, covered his mouth with his hand, and inhaled a sharp shrill breath. “She stares at it for a minute, and without lookin’ up, she says, ‘Holy shit. Does it get bigger?’ I stop strokin’ it, look over my shoulder, and turn toward her. ‘Only if it’s in a gal’s twat. But she’s got to have really big titties.’ I tell her. And she looks at me like she won the lottery. Now I ain’t shittin’, fellas, not one bit. She looks at me, drops her hand away from her mouth, and this crazy bitch says, ‘Oh my god, I’ve got huge titties.’ Red Wing spit out about half his beer, and I just widened my eyes and said, ‘Hell, I didn’t even notice.’ It wasn’t ten minutes, and I was balls deep in that gal’s twat in her SUV in the parking lot. Motherfucker had three of them kid seats in the back, which was kinda weird for a minute,” he said. “You’re a fucking whore,” Otis said with a laugh. “And damned proud of it,” Biscuit said. “But that’ll be the last she’s gonna see of me.” “Why’s that?” Toad asked.

“Are you fucking kiddin’ me? I ain’t lookin’ to raise another man’s kids,” Biscuit said. I found it strangely satisfying that all of the men at the table were single, and for the most part, short of Biscuit, none of them were actively pursuing women. Biscuit’s pursuit was more of a hobby or sport than a desire driven by any means of attraction, and excluding him, the men shared the same feelings regarding women. I sat quietly, thinking of Sienna as the food showed up. As everyone reached for a plate, my mind began to wander to the what ifs and the why nots of being in a relationship with her. All things considered, I was more of an individual, and never conformed to the patterns or opinions of the masses, these five men included. If I was going to be in a relationship with her, it was going to be for all the right reasons, and although I believed sex was always an important part of a relationship, it wasn’t the sole reason to be in one. As I ate a rib and paid very little attention to the next story Biscuit began to tell, I decided the next time I saw Sienna, we were going to have a talk. A serious talk.

SIENNA November 9th, 2014 With perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect makeup, a great pair of jeans, a bad ass pair of 2” heels, and a sweet as fuck wool coat, I raced through traffic as I alternated glances between the road and my rearview mirror. My eyebrows looked reasonable, as always. As The Eurythmics “Winter Wonderland” blared out of the speakers, I weaved in and out of traffic with my typical five minutes to spare and four minutes of driving left. While stuck at a traffic light, I once again checked my eyebrows in the mirror. I looked like I had turned a three year old loose on my face with a molten brown crayon. I seemed to never get my eyebrows to reach the point of perfection. The light flashed green just as Bryan Adam’s “Run Rudolph Run” began to play. Now that’s more like it. I mashed the gas, lurched through the intersection, and quickly changed lanes in front of the old

man in the pickup truck who had been beside me for the entire trip. After another lead-footed display of the Continental’s awesome power I was far enough ahead of him not to raise his temper, so I hit the brakes and turned right into the Bradley Fair shopping center. A quick scan of the parking lot and I found the perfect spot - on the end and in the front. No door dings for Sienna. I pulled in the spot, hugging the far side for safety’s sake. I shut off the engine, opened the glove box, and flipped the switch to the stereo. Vince’s bike was parked up front by the door on the sidewalk. A quick glance in the mirror further confirmed I was nothing short of a spastic eyebrow plucking idiot, so I opened the door and began my shameful walk to what I was certain to be the impending death of our six month old friendship. Death by bad eyebrows. I pushed the door open and glanced toward the seating area. Sitting immediately beside the door on a long leather bench, Vince tapped the face of his watch with his index finger. “Sorry, I was early,” he said. “This thing’s hit and miss. I thought I had it fixed, but it quit again. I didn’t want to be late, and I wasn’t sure what time it was, so…” “Well, by my clock in the Lincoln, I was one minute early,” I bragged. “Pretty typical,” he said. “I have no idea how you do it with consistency.” “I wait down the block until there’s one minute left, then I haul ass to where we’re meeting,” I said. He nodded his head. “Wouldn’t surprise me.” His beard was full, typical of what most men with beards do for winter time, I supposed. He had on a black canvas jacket over a long-sleeved khaki shirt, and a black stocking cap pulled down low on his head. The jeans he was wearing were perfectly worn, from wearing them, not because he bought them that way. I admired him as he stood, wondering how he got each and every hole in them, and just what it was that happened to cut the hole above his right knee.

He interested me so much it made me sick. “I’m following you,” he said as he pointed into the restaurant. I walked through the restaurant toward the blazing fireplace. It wasn’t quite winter yet, but it was much cooler than what we had been used to, and was just a few degrees shy of fifty. Vince had picked a time that was well after lunch, but a few hours before dinner. Because it wasn’t necessarily the holiday season just yet, the restaurant, short of us and one other couple, was empty. Being almost alone with Vince was enough of a change to fool me into thinking we were on a romantic date, and I was pretty sure after I got my book reviews done for the night, I would pleasure myself daydreaming about it. “I like it here by the fireplace,” I said as I flopped into the seat. “Your hair looks nice,” he said as he sat down. “Oh, thank you,” I said. “So do your heels,” he said. “I like heels with jeans.” “I just grabbed what was at the end of the closet, thanks,” I said. Actually, I had spent almost an hour trying on shoes and trying to pick the perfect pair. Some made me look ridiculous, some for whatever reason seemed to no longer fit, and a few of the others killed my feet. This particular pair of 2” black heels felt great, looked great, and didn’t break the bank when I bought them. Shoe sales are the best thing ever. “I like your jeans,” I said with a grin. “They’re awesome.” “My jeans?” he asked in a slightly sarcastic tone. “Why’s that?” “Because they’re worn out, but I know you wore them out. You didn’t buy them like that. I like worn out jeans,” I said. “I’ve had these fuckers for years,” he said. “And you’re right. I wore these fuckers out for sure.”

“Well, I like them,” I said. “Thanks,” he responded as he waved to the waitress. “I’m sorry, you order at the register,” she said as she walked up to the table. I shrugged my shoulders. “Never eaten here.” “Me neither, one of the fellas recommended it,” he said as he pushed his seat away from the table. We walked side by side to the register, where a six foot tall wooden menu was on display. Quite surprised I didn’t see it or stumble into it on my way inside the restaurant, I chuckled and pointed toward it. “Probably missed it because it’s so small,” I said with a laugh. The menu was a good foot taller than I was. Vince laughed and nodded his head as he studied the descriptions painted on the wooden display. “I’m going to have the pizza and salad deal,” I said after looking over the menu. “Which pizza?” he asked as he continued to stare at the options. “The one with artichokes and roasted garlic, sounds good. And I don’t have to worry about kissing anyone, so no worries,” I said. A man walked in, stepped behind us, and peered over Vince’s shoulder toward the menu. After a glancing over his shoulder a few times, Vince sighed and turned around. “Something I can help you with, Brother?” Vince asked the man. “Just looking,” the man said cheerily as he repositioned himself to see over Vince’s shoulder. He stood a mere twelve inches from Vince. “Why don’t you give my girl and me some space for a minute,” Vince said calmly as he took a step toward the menu. My girl? “Ain’t got to be a dick about it,” the man responded under his breath.

Oh shit. Vince turned around completely, and swept me to his side with his hand as he did so. I watched as he spread his feet shoulder width apart and raised his right hand to half way between his waist and his chest. The dip-shit staring in our direction didn’t seem to notice, but it was apparent Vince was preparing to stomp this guy’s ass. “Now the last thing I want to do is drag you out in the parking lot and kick the living shit out of you for being disrespectful. If I was alone, I can give you my solemn word you and I wouldn’t be talking right now, I’d just be beating your ass. So, I’m going to need you to apologize to my girl for being a rude prick and breathing on her shoulder, and I’ll let the dick comment slide,” Vince said. Vince’s right hand quivered as he tightened his jaw and prepared for what was going to be his next move. As I stood and waited for the guy to either tell him to fuck off or apologize, I wished I was a guy and could tell people off from time to time, because sometimes they sure as fuck needed it. The man stared down at his feet for a moment, glanced toward me, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for crowding you.” I smiled and nodded my head. “Apology accepted.” Vince lowered his hand, turned toward the menu, and inhaled a short breath. “I’m having the calzone,” he said calmly. “Yum,” I said as I turned toward the register. As we placed our order Vince pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the money inside. “Twenty-two forty,” the man said after ringing up the total. “Here’s fifty,” Vince said as he handed the man a fifty dollar bill. “That’ll cover whatever the guy behind me is getting.” “Him?” the cashier asked as he tilted his head toward the guy who was still studying the menu. “You got it,” Vince said with a nod. “And the change?” the cashier asked.

“Keep it,” Vince said with a nod as he reached for his glass of tea. As I reached for my tea, I turned toward Vince and grinned slightly. He was looking away and he didn’t notice my admiring stare, but I didn’t do it for that reason. He was different than any other man I had ever met, and I liked it. I liked it a lot. I dreaded the day he found a woman who actually interested him. The thought of ever losing him, especially to another woman, scared me to death. In his presence, nothing else mattered. There was no real concern with time, where we were, or what we were doing. I was as satisfied as I had ever been, and I wanted nothing else but for our time together to stand still. It never did, and always eventually ended, but one thing I could always count on was that he would return the next Sunday for lunch, to sit, talk, and enjoy time with me. And for that, I respected him. But, because of who he was and what he stood for, I was slowly falling in love with him. “So, they bring it to us?” he asked as he sat down. I shrugged my shoulders as I removed my coat. “I guess?” “Tea’s good,” he said as he raised his glass. I took a drink of the tea and nodded my head. It had a slight hint of peach, but it wasn’t overbearing. “That is good.” “So, what happened since we last met?” I asked. “Other than my watch crapping out?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders and grinned. “I dunno, anything. I just like hearing about what you’ve done. I mean, the stuff you can tell me.” “Well, we went on the toy run, donated a bunch of toys. All of us rode except Tater, and he drove a truck full of shit. Fucking Axton went insane this year buying and trading for toys. Crazy fucker traded a shipment of guns for toys last July, and kept ‘em in the shop for the last six months waiting for this deal to happen. He loves Christmas about as much as I do,” he said.

“Best holiday of the year,” I said. “Saddest, but the best.” “What’s sad about Christmas?” he asked. “My dad’s gone. He isn’t here to keep me company. It’s not really fun unless you can share it with someone,” I said. “But I still like it.” “And you said your mother’s gone too, right?” he asked. I nodded my head as I reached for my tea. My mother had a condition called placenta previa when she was pregnant. The placenta was positioned in such a manner that it covered the opening in her cervix making giving birth an impossible task without serious complications. The main problem was that my father couldn’t afford insurance at the time, and they were initially going to have me at home, naturally. When she went into labor, her placenta ruptured, and by the time the ambulance got there, she was barely alive. The paramedics did an emergency cesarean section, and delivered me alive, but my mother hemorrhaged, dying immediately after my birth. My father raised me, alone. He never got married, nor did he so much as ever have another woman in the house. I always admired him for his devotion to my mother, and I spent a lifetime wishing other men were more like him. As I stared blankly at Vince, I realized he was like my father. Probably more than I cared to admit. I smiled again, wondering how much of the similarities I had noticed, and how many I didn’t bother to notice, but let influence my feelings for him. I shifted my eyes to my glass of tea and stared. “She died when I was little.” “I’m sorry,” he said as he reached for my hand. He hadn’t done anything like that before, and I found it comforting and odd at the same time. As much as I wanted to perceive it as a comforting gesture of sympathy, my mind saw it otherwise. For a fleeting moment, at least in my mind, Vince was attracted to me in a sexual manner. “Listen,” he said as he tapped his fingers against my palm.

I glanced up and forced a smile. “Yeah.” “I uhhm. I picked this place for a reason,” he said. “Oh yeah?” I asked. “Why’s that?” He pulled off his stocking cap and tossed it in the empty chair. After making a half-assed attempt to straighten his hair and a few strokes of his hand along his beard, he inhaled a short breath and shifted his eyes upward. After what seemed like an eternal pause, he exhaled and locked his eyes on mine. “Well, I have a question,” he said. “Okay, let’s hear it,” I said cheerily. “I uhhm. I was wondering if maybe you’d want to…like trying…you know. Adding…fuck. I don’t know how to say it,” he said as he shook his head. He released my hand and cleared his throat. “Sienna, do you want to try and be together? You know, try and see if we can be…like be a couple?” he asked. Oh dear fucking God, thank you. I swear to fucking God almighty, I will not fuck this deal up, I fucking swear, I won’t. Holy fucking fuck do I ever? Thank you, Lord. “Yes,” I said. “You sure?” he asked as he reached for my hand. My eyes began to feel swollen and my throat got tight. I knew enough to know not to speak. I bit into my bottom lip and nodded my head. He stood from his seat and lifted my hand as he did so. On some pretty shaky legs I followed his lead and stood up. Everything following that moment seemed to happen in slow motion. He leaned over the table and lifted my chin ever so slightly with his free hand. As I felt his fingers touch my face, my entire body began to tingle. With his hand now lightly gripping my jaw, I opened my mouth slightly in hope of what was to come. While he maintained eye contact with me, he continued to lean forward until our lips met.

The moment I had been waiting for finally arrived. My prayers had been answered. I closed my eyes… And he kissed me. It wasn’t a sloppy kiss, nor was it aggressive, but it was our first. It was the kind of kiss a girl spends a lifetime dreaming about. A kiss that causes your palms to sweat and makes your heart stop beating until a few seconds later when you feel it racing to catch up. It was the kiss that stops time, causing your entire body to tingle during the process; the kiss that sets the standard for every other kiss that might follow it. Yeah, it was that kiss. The money shot. It was November 9th. The happiest day of my life.

VINCE November 9th, 2014 On the ride to Sienna’s house, it dawned on me that her experience in reading romance, erotica, and BDSM books would more than likely cause her to have a broad range of sexual interests. Not knowing for certain what the night might bring, but fully realizing we were two adults, I suspected sex was on the forefront of her plans for the remaining portion of the afternoon. The garage door was going closed as I pulled into the driveway, and instead of parking on the street, I pulled up the drive and parked on the sidewalk leading to the front porch. The front door opened as I got off the bike, and she stood in the opening with her hair twisted into a bun and a smirk on her face. “Well, are you going to come in?” she asked. “Suppose so,” I said as I pulled the key from the ignition. It had been five months since we met, and although my former wife and I had sex on the first date, I was glad Sienna and I had been friends for as long as we had without introducing sex to the relationship. There was no doubt in my mind that we were compatible in many ways, and I believed sex would do

nothing but bring us closer together. I stepped past her and into the living room. As I turned to face her, she gazed at me blankly, as if she was uncertain of what to do. Obviously waiting for me to make the first move, she stood in wait, looking far more innocent than I suspected she truly was. As she twisted her hips to the side, I reached for her neck and pulled her into me. The kiss that followed wasn’t as special as the one in the restaurant, and I suspected none would ever be, but it was apparently enough to lead her to believe I had opened the door, sexually speaking. She reached for my belt and fumbled with the buckle as we kissed. Quite sure she’d never get it unbuckled without my help, I reached down and pulled against the belt, freeing the leather strap from the buckle. Now grabbing for the button on my jeans with one hand and rubbing my back with the other, she kissed me as if she believed it would be our last. Within a few seconds my jeans were unbuttoned, and she quickly shoved her hand deep into my pants. As her hand wrapped around my swollen shaft, she pulled her mouth from mine, leaned away slightly, and widened her eyes. “Holy crap,” she said as she shifted her eyes toward her hand. After a few tugs, she freed my now completely rigid cock from its confinement. She began to stroke it slowly, leaned forward, and raised herself up on her tip-toes. Within a few seconds we were well into an extremely sensual kiss, and I slipped my hand along her back and gripped her ass tightly. As I kneaded her butt in my hand, she began to moan wildly. She pulled away, made eye contact, and exhaled a choppy breath. I either had my hands on one very one wild woman, or she was clearly as sexually frustrated as I was. Slightly confused and a little uncertain on which it may be, I dismissed her elevated sexual tension to a long period of abstinence, which was something I could certainly relate to. As much as I wanted to perform for her, and as important as it was for me to satisfy her completely, I realized actually being with a woman, and especially Sienna, would be enough of a turn-on to cause me to reach climax pretty promptly. Still slowly stroking my cock as she gazed into my eyes, she lowered herself onto her knees.

There was no way I would last for any length of time if she was going to suck me off, and realized I should object to her doing so, but for some reason the words never came. I eagerly watched her delicately wrap her lips around the swollen head of my dick. Fighting to pull my jeans further along my thighs as she moved her mouth up and down the shaft, she eventually became frustrated and pulled away. As she softly stroked my throbbing shaft in her delicate hand, she glanced upward and smiled. “We’re both adults, right?” she asked. I gazed beyond my twitching cock and fixed my eyes on her. “I suppose so.” Her mouth was formed into a full-on pout, as if she was truly in need of assistance. “Can you help a girl out? Like maybe take off your jeans and boots?” “Anything else?” I asked in a sarcastic tone as I pressed the sole of my right boot against the heel of my left one. She released my cock, stood, and promptly removed her shorts. Before I got my other boot off, she was standing in front of me completely naked. As my eyes met hers, her mouth curled into a smile. “Yeah, there’s one other thing,” she said as she turned and bent over the arm of the couch. “Make me scream your name.” Just remember, you asked for this…

SIENNA November 9th, 2014 Reading a book on how to cook may assist with the preparation of dinner, and reading a book about landscape architecture might provide ideas on the development of a great looking flower garden, but no amount of MC Romance novels could have prepared me for being fucked by Vince. A book hadn’t been written yet to accurately describe how he was making me feel. “Who’s fuckin you?” he bellowed. “Vince!” I shouted as he shoved his cock into me once again. With each powerful stroke, I felt like I was being impaled. Not only was I well out of practice at having sex, but his dick was thick, long, and far beyond what I could describe as hard. As he held himself deep inside of me and ground his hips against my ass, his balls began to massage my clit. I’m never going to make it. The head of his dick feels like it’s pounding against the bottom of my heart. I’m going to die right here and collapse on the couch, death by a cock induced heart attack.

“And whose big fat cock is in that sweet little pussy of yours?” he asked as the palm of his hand came down sharply against my ass. I gripped the cushion of the couch in my hand and squeezed it tightly as I opened my eyes and glanced over my shoulder. We had been fucking for longer than I cared to guess, and my legs were weak and felt like rubber. Much to my surprise, he hadn’t reached orgasm, and I wondered just how much longer he could make it. He widened his eyes and raised his hand. As it hovered above my ass, I grinned and waited. My tingling clit provided all of the mental support I needed to stay right where I was for as long as he would allow me to. “Whose?” he growled. I blinked my eyes and silently studied his muscular torso. He was covered in sweat and every muscle was tensed. I was truly in heaven, and Vince was my big dicked biker angel. After a few seconds of eye contact, his face washed with faux anger and his hand came down. Smack! I winced in pain as his hand slapped against my butt cheek. I truly loved being fucked doggie style, but not being able to watch him was sheer torture. “Say it!” he shouted. I turned, lowered my head into the edge of the couch and bit into the cushion. “Vince’s,” I said. “God damned right it is,” he grunted as he began to fuck me again. The sound of our sweaty flesh colliding was music to my ears. Something I had yearned to hear for almost six months, and now was quite sure I would never be able to live without, it provided me a reminder of just who was in charge. And it was time he took charge and ended this escapade before he killed me. “Fuck me, Vince!” I screamed into the fabric of the pillow.

His pace increased, pounding his hips into my ass and slowly driving the couch an inch or two across the floor with each thrust of his hips. The smell of his sweat, cologne, and the sweet scent of sex filled my nostrils, bringing me closer to orgasm, and undoubtedly closer to collapsing. “Fuck me, Vince!” I shouted again, the sound muffled by the pillow my head was buried into. As he continued forcing himself deep into me, I felt a slight tug against my hair. As I wondered if he was going to actually pull it, he began to. My one true weakness, at least that I was aware of, was having my hair pulled. If a man knew how to do it, and do it right, it was about as pleasurable as anything… Oh dear God. Ding, Ding. Ding. It was immediately obvious Vince knew how to do it right. My back arched and my neck craned as he filled me with dick and continued to push the couch toward the wall. “No, fuck me!” I wailed. And that was all it took. He began to powerfuck me, pulling my hair the entire time he did so. After a few seconds, there was no sound, no smell, only the feeling of him inside of me and our two bodies becoming one mechanical sexual machine. After a few more seconds of him fucking me and forcing me and the couch across the floor in the process, I was about to come loose at the seams. As my entire body began to shake and my legs began to tremble, the couch hit the wall. And he continued. “My little pussy,” he grunted as he held himself deep inside of me. My clit began to tingle and my nipples ached as I reached a level of climax I never knew existed. At the same time I felt myself contract around his shaft, his cock began to swell. I arched my back, allowed a moan to scape my lungs, and almost immediately felt him explode inside of me. His groans of pleasure confirmed he felt the same way I did. The labored sound of his breathing continued for a moment as I attempted to collect my thoughts. Within a few seconds, his chest pressed against my back and he released my hair from his grasp.

I felt his mouth kiss along the back of my shoulder, up along my neck, and eventually reach my ear. His warm breath on my neck was a relaxing change to an otherwise intense sexual romp. “Whose pussy?” he whispered into my ear. “Yours…” I breathed. And there was no doubt what I said was true. My pussy, my heart, and my soul… All belonged to Vince.

VINCE November 14th, 2014 I knew from the first day we met that Sienna was different, but I had no real idea of how changing our level of commitment to each other would affect me. There was no doubt she was exactly what I had been missing in my life, and from what little she shared about her feelings, she felt exactly the same way about me. Her having changed how I felt about women was quite an accomplishment, but nothing or no one would ever change who I was. After locking the door of my truck, I walked around the corner and studied the front of the house. Based on the size and the amount of windows, my guess was that there was one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen, and a small living room. The Sedgwick County property listing had it detailed as a residential one bedroom family dwelling, but accuracy by our state and county government was something that really didn’t exist. One late model Nissan coupe sat in the driveway, seeming clearly out of place in the rundown neighborhood. Dressed in jeans, a loose-fitting long sleeved pullover, and my boots, I looked the part of someone the homeowner might trust enough to open the door.

I tugged at the bottom of my untucked shirt, making sure it covered the pistol hidden in the holster on my hip. After checking the side of the house for additional cars and seeing nothing, I stepped onto the porch and knocked on the door. “It’s open,” he responded. It wasn’t the greeting I anticipated, which led me to believe he was expecting someone; and there was no doubt in my mind the person he was expecting wasn’t me. I glanced over each shoulder, cleared the pistol from the holster, and held it behind my right thigh. As I turned to the right, exposing my left side to the door, I gripped the handle with my left hand and pushed the door open. The floorplan was pretty much what I expected. After a wide-eyed and more than likely drug induced squeal, he jumped from his seat at the dining table and started to run toward the small kitchen. He was half-naked, obviously scared, and skinny, but he was fast. I took aim and barked out my demand. “Freeze, Motherfucker. I’ll drop you dead right where you stand,” I shouted as I kicked the door closed with the heel of my boot. He stopped, turned toward me, and narrowed his gaze. His shoulder length hair didn’t look like it had been washed in a month. He was in his late twenties, obviously strung out on much more than weed, and may have tipped the scales at a hundred and fifty pounds if he was fully dressed and soaking wet. At my guess of six feet tall, he looked pretty fucking unhealthy. Barefoot, and dressed in jeans and nothing else, it was all I could do to look at his scab-covered malnourished body without offering him a much needed meal. If I didn’t kill him first. “Fuck, I uhh…” “Save it,” I said. “I’ll make this easy for you. I’m here to collect the debt you owe Jimmy Weed. Thirteen grand. I’m not leaving without it. You got that much here?” “Awwe, fuck, man. No. No, I got maybe five hundred,” he responded as he began to dig his fingernails into the side of his neck. “Five hundred? You sure that’s all you got?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” he responded as he continued to scratch along his lower jaw. “I’ll cuff your ass, stuff a sock in your fucking mouth, toss you in the tub, and tear this place apart,” I said as I held the pistol rock steady, pointed directly at his chest. He stopped scratching and began to stammer. “I got maybe…I mean…yeah… maybe…uhhm… five…oh, fuck, Dude, don’t shoot me. Yeah…like five hundred maybe.” “You’re sure?” I asked. He started scratching again. “Yeah. Way sure.” “Sit down,” I demanded. “Where?” he asked as his eyes darted around the room. “Right where you’re fucking standing,” I barked. He dropped to the floor as if someone had kicked his legs out from underneath him. “So how the fuck did you plan on paying this debt?” I asked as I pulled the vintage chrome legged chair away from the dining table. “I uhhm…I was gonna…I…fuck, Dude, I dunno,” he said. “You reached an agreement with Mr. Weed, and he honored his part. You, however, didn’t honor yours. Do you understand that?” I asked as I waved the pistol in his direction. “Uh huh,” he said. I glanced around the house. Spongebob Squarepants played on the flat-screen television that was sitting on the floor beside the only couch in the small living room. The place was a disaster, and smelled like a combination of piss and pizza. I shifted my eyes from the living room to where he was sitting. “And you understand thirteen grand is a lot of money?” “Uh huh,” he said. “You also understand it really doesn’t matter if it’s thirteen grand or thirteen cents, you made a

promise. And you broke it. You understand that?” I asked. “Yeah, I guess. We were gonna…I mean I…” “Shut up. Jesus fucking Christ. You understand you broke a promise, right?” I asked. He scratched his face and stared blankly in my direction. “You’re never going to make it if you don’t change the way you’re doing things, kid. Show respect, get respect. Understand?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Where’s your phone?” I asked. He narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his brow. “Huh?” “Your fucking phone, dipshit. Where’s your phone? You’re expecting someone, and I need to see who. Where is it?” I asked. “Think I knocked it on the floor,” he said as he pointed underneath the table. I glanced down at the floor. A phone sat a few inches from the chair I was sitting in. I leaned down, picked it up, and attempted unsuccessfully to unlock the screen. Growing increasingly frustrated, and wondering when and if his friend or friends were going to show up, I stood from my seat and walked in his direction. As I stepped to his side, I pointed the pistol at his head and held the phone in front of his face. “Reach up, unlock the screen, and do it slowly. If you reach for this piece, I’ll blow what little brains you have all over this fucked up green carpet. Understand?” I asked. “Yeah, Dude,” he said as he reached for the phone. “How’d you…uhhm…how’d you, oh fuck man…” After he pressed a series of buttons on the screen and nodded his head, I raised the phone and opened the text screen. After a quick study of his text messages, it appeared Lamar was on his way. I glanced at my watch,

realized it was definitely not three o’clock like it depicted, and glanced at the screen of the phone. If Lamar was going to be on time, and most drug dealers never were, he was five minutes late. “Lamar carry a gun?” I asked. He stopped scratching his neck and glanced in my direction. “Huh?” he murmured. “Does Lamar carry a fucking gun?” I asked as I walked to the table. “Uhhm. No, Dude,” he said. “If he walks in here strapped, I’m going to shoot you first, and then I’m going to shoot his dumb ass. Does he carry a gun? I asked again. He widened his eyes and shook his head from side-to-side. “No, Dude, I swear.” “When he gets here, you’re going to tell him just what you told me, understand? No more, no less. ‘It’s open’ is all you’re going to say, understand?” I asked. “Uh huh,” he responded. Some of the people I encountered through my day-to-day activities were more intelligent than others. A good portion of them were simply people who got caught up in trouble, and were incapable of meeting their commitments. Others were questionable, and some were just plain stupid. A quick study of the text messages on the phone provided enough information for me to believe the scab covered fool on the floor was the biggest idiot I had ever had the experience of encountering. It seemed every drug deal he made was detailed in the form of a text message on his phone for all to see. “You know the government can read these messages without a search warrant, right?” I asked. “Huh?” “Neverfuckingmind,” I said. My level of respect for Jimmy Weed diminished slightly as I placed the phone on the table beside me. For anyone to trust such an idiot to return any amount of money did nothing in my opinion but clearly show their desperation of hope for another dollar earned. As the sound of a vehicle in the drive became apparent, I stood from the chair.

“Move your skinny ass over toward the couch and remember what I said,” I said as I waved the gun in his direction. I walked to the hinge side of the front door and stood. Three sharp knocks were met by the scab covered fool’s authorization to enter. “It’s open,” he said. The door opened, and who appeared to be the walking skeleton’s brother entered holding a small cardboard box. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your fucking brains all over the wall,” I said as I stepped from behind the door and pressed the pistol into his temple. “Oh fuck, Dude. Don’t shoot me. You can have it all,” he said as he tried to hand the box to me. “Put it on the floor,” I demanded. He dropped the box at his feet. It hit the floor with a solid thud. I shifted my eyes to dumbass number one, and back to number two. They appeared to be twins. “Brothers?” I asked. “Twins,” dumbass number one responded. Just what the world needs, two of these dumb fucks. “Go stand by your brother,” I said. “Don’t reach in your pockets or do anything stupid, or I’ll shoot both of you, understand? “Yeah…I uhhm. Fuck…Don’t shoot me. Yeah…I understand,” he murmured as he walked toward the couch. I picked up the box, opened it, and looked inside. To describe it as being full of money would be an understatement. “How much is in here?” I asked. “Uhhm, money or meth?” Lamar asked.

“Money,” I responded as I peered into the cash filled box. “It’s uhhm. It’s…there’s…there’s twenty-two grand…uhhm…in bills, and about thirty grand worth of…in there…uhhm, in meth,” he responded. I shifted my eyes toward dumbass number one. “You dipshit. So you had enough to pay your debt and keep your word, and you didn’t?” “Huh?” number two asked. “What debt?” I shook my head in frustration as I alternated glances between the box and the two idiots. “Jimmy Weed.” “You didn’t pay The Weed?” number one asked number two. Number two shrugged his shoulders. “Dude, I was gonna pay him after we got the shit sold.” I waved the pistol toward the kitchen. “Both of you just shut the fuck up. Go sit in the kitchen in the middle of the floor.” Dumbass number one led the way, and number two followed close behind. After they were both sitting in the middle of the floor picking at their faces, I turned, locked the front door, and walked to my seat. I dumped the contents of the box in the middle of the table, and began to count the money, doing my best to stick with hundred dollar bills. The box was filled with every denomination of bill, including countless well-weathered one dollar bills. A few minutes later, I had two piles of cash. One with thirteen thousand and one with three thousand nine hundred. “We can do this one of two ways. You owe Mr. Weed thirteen grand. That’s not negotiable. My cut is thirty percent. So, I can take the thirteen, leave the rest, and you’ll be seeing Mr. Weed – or quite possibly me – again, for the thirty-nine hundred dollar fee I’m charging him, because that comes off the top of his thirteen grand. Or, you can pay the thirteen and pay me my cut now, and it’ll be the last you see of either of us. So, do you two want to discuss it?” I asked. “Take all you want,” Lamar said. “I want thirty-nine hundred, and not a cent more. Mr. Weed wants thirteen grand. I really don’t give a fuck if you pay me, or if he pays me. I’m just telling you a way to keep him, or me, from coming back. So what’ll it be?” I asked.

“Take it all now,” dip shit number one said. “The thirteen and the three grand.” I shook my head. “Thirty-nine hundred.” “Yeah, whatever. Take it. And you’re just gonna go? Like that’s it?” he asked. I stood from my seat and shoved my gun in the holster. “Yep. That’s it.” “And you’re leaving the dope and the rest of the money?” he asked. I glared at him as if he was even more of an idiot than he actually was. “It ain’t mine, why the fuck would I take it?” He shrugged his shoulders and widened his eyes. “Because you have the gun?” “You dumb fuck. Having a gun doesn’t give a person the right to steal. A gun is a deterrent to crime and a means of protection, not a license to be a god damned thief. I fucking swear, that’s what’s wrong with society. No one keeps a promise, and people are too god damned quick to take what’s not rightfully theirs,” I said as I shoved the piles of money in my two front pockets. “Good luck in your endeavors, Fellas,” I said as I unlocked the door. I stepped onto the porch, pulled the door closed behind me, and started to walk away. After pausing for a long second, I pushed it open and peered inside. The two dipshits were still sitting on the kitchen floor scratching their faces. “You two fuckers can get up now,” I said. They both stood up and stared in my direction. I considered giving further instructions, but opted to simply pull the door closed and leave. It bothered me that the criminal activities in the city were carried out by idiots like the two men I had just left behind. There is no honor among thieves was a saying I had always believed to be true. At least in my mind, a thief was the worst type of criminal to ever exist. A drug dealer, however, was nothing short of a businessman, choosing an illicit or illegal substance as his means of obtaining income. Drug dealers weren’t inherently bad people, nor did I assume they were irresponsible simply based on their chosen profession. Furthermore, I didn’t believe all drugs were bad, or that they should all be illegal, yet I refused to enter in the debates regarding their legality. I did, however, believe that a man

should always honor his word when he gave it, regardless of his means of obtaining income. A promise was no different than a contract, and when a man gave his word, he needed to honor it at any or all costs. If he didn’t or wouldn’t, he was as worthless as the promise he had broken. If my father taught me one thing before he died, it was to be honorable. I walked to my truck a member of a motorcycle club, a one percenter, a criminal, and without a doubt a man who could be placed in prison for his actions and choices. But everything I did, I did with honor. And I never made a promise I wasn’t able to keep.

SIENNA November 15th, 2014 I believed most people on this earth were living a life not of their choosing, but one of settling for what it was they were convinced they were entitled to. Their quality of life was directly tied to their belief in their self-worth. It saddened me that a world full of women with minimal self-respect settled for substandard treatment at the hand of less than honorable men, and did so for the simple reason that they didn’t believe they were better than what it was they were receiving. I knew I had made some pretty poor choices in my lifetime regarding men, but my choice to wait as long as I had to for Vince to accept me as a lover proved to be the best decision I had ever made. Following my father’s advice of being persistent had provided me with the best man I believed this world could or would ever produce. I had always hoped one day I would find a man that would not only be handsome, but would share my views on life, love, and hopefully, books. After twenty-six years I had all but given up, realizing finding someone capable of pleasing me fully would be impossible. There was no doubt in my mind that a

qualified man existed somewhere on earth, but I had all but decided he was on another continent somewhere and probably speaking a different language. I was now living my lifelong fantasy with Vince, and he had proven to be everything I had always dreamed of. And more. He cocked an eyebrow comically. His facial hair was several inches long now, and I was quickly finding out just how well his beard length was directly connected to my pussy’s on button. Each time I noticed his beard had grown a little fuller, I’d become a little wetter, and it would happen a lot quicker. I loved doing things with Vince and spending time with him, but no differently than an alcoholic who had just came off a two year dry spell only to take that first drink and eventually go on a full-blown drunken bender, I felt if he was in my presence I needed to be fucking him. And his beard stood as all the proof I needed. As his mouth continued to move and his hands gestured in one direction or the other, my mind wandered to thoughts of him shoving me full of dick. I was convinced if the entire population on earth was getting fucked the way Vince was fucking me, world peace would only be a few strokes of a thick cock away. There was no doubt in my mind if Lizzie Borden was being fucked by Vince, she would have never swung the fateful axe. If a woman is being fucked right, happiness soon follows. His mouth continued to move, but my mind was elsewhere. As his hand massaged his beard while he talked, I stared as if possessed by sexual demons. All I heard was Fuck me, Sienna. Fuck me, Sienna… regardless of what it was he was actually saying. He really needed to shave. Well, either that or crawl over the table and fuck me. “Huh?” I said as I shook my head from side-to-side. “What part didn’t you get?” he asked.

“I uhhm. I think I had a spasm or something. I didn’t hear anything. I was watching your mouth move, but I didn’t hear anything,” I said. “Catch anything about the book I’m reading?” he asked. I shook my head and shrugged an apology. Leaning back in the chair, he slowly raised his hand to his chin. As he massaged his beard, he scrunched his brow and silently stared until it appeared he wanted more. With his eyes still fixed on mine, he leaned forward and rested his muscular arms on the edge of the table. His eyes were an odd color of green but were lightly sprinkled with little brown specks, and all but made me become a helpless and hopeful little girl each time he opened them wide. I gazed back at him blankly in admiration, all the while hearing my heartbeat and fearing he could do the same. I tried to turn away, but my eyes remained locked on his as if he was in control. In all reality, he was. “No shit?” he asked. “Nothing?” “Sorry,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Just went deaf for a minute, huh?” I grinned at the sight of him and did my best to change the subject. “So what are you reading?” “What’s so funny?” he asked. I attempted to wipe the grin from my face and remain in his good graces. “Nothing.” “What are you smiling about?” he asked. “About? Uhhm, nothing. Not about anything. I dunno, maybe because of something, I guess. Sorry,” I stammered. He pushed his cup of coffee to the side of the table and turned his palm upward. “Because…” “You really want to know?” I asked. He relaxed into the back of his chair and cleared his throat lightly. “Enlighten me, sure.”

“Because you’re fucking me right,” I said. He coughed a laugh and leaned forward slightly. “Is there a wrong way?” I flipped my hair over my shoulders and leaned forward, grinning the entire time. “Believe me, there are plenty of wrong ways, and it appears you don’t know any of them.” “And being fucked right makes you smile?” he asked. “You ever seen a girl who has CBF?” I asked. He shifted his eyes down to the table and shrugged his shoulders. “Guess I don’t know what that is.” “Chronic Bitch Face,” I said as I pursed my lips and narrowed my gaze. “See women like that all the time,” he said with a laugh. “Well,” I responded as I raised my coffee cup. “They’re not getting fucked right.” He nodded his head and grinned. “And women like this,” I paused and grinned a big cheesy grin. “They’re getting all the dick they need.” “And you?” he asked. With each index finger, I pressed the corners of my mouth upward until it hurt, doing my best to create a smile like The Joker on Batman. He raised his hand to his face, pressed his palm against his beard, and winked. “That’s good to know. So, what’s the latest masterpiece or flop in the world of Independent authors?” he asked. “Masterpiece? Loving Mr. Daniels, by Brittainy Cherry,” I responded. “Good?” he asked. “Words can’t describe it. I’m thinking I’m just going to take a few pictures of the tears I shed when

I read it and post them. It’s a fucking masterpiece,” I said. “It’s about time you read a good one,” he said with a nod. “Did you finish the one about the guy with cancer?” I asked. “Sure did. Same thing. A fucking masterpiece. In the end she was…” He paused and shook his head. “I’m not going to ruin it. You’ll read it soon enough,” he said. “Started anything new?” I asked. He nodded his head. “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. You know, I heard a lot about it, but never read it for some reason. I never really got into those kinds of books, but this motherfucker’s good.” “It sure is. How far along are you?” I asked. “Half,” he said. I nodded my head. “You’ll love it.” “Have to beat anybody up this week?” I asked, coughing out a laugh as I did so. He shook his head and started to laugh, almost choking on his water as he did so. “No. But I pushed a guy down some steps on accident.” “Really? By accident?” I asked. He eventually stopped laughing and told the story. “I told him I was going to, and I grabbed his shoulders and acted like I was about to shove him. He was some Romanian dude, and he was wearing one of those shiny fucking track suits. So, I grabbed him, pushed him a little to add some incentive, and the fucker slipped out of my hands and fell down the steps. Those shiny jackets are slippery as fuck.” “Did he pay up?” I asked. “Like a fucking slot machine. As soon as I got to the bottom of the steps, he was reaching for his wallet,” he said.

“Well, I guess that’s good,” I said. It didn’t bother me that Vince did what he did for a living. In his own words, he forced people to realize the responsibility associated with making a promise. Most of the broken promises he dealt with had to do with money, and he simply made sure they met their part of the commitment they had already agreed to. In his mind he was teaching people to be moral. “And yesterday, a couple of one hundred and ten pound twin meth heads who owed a guy thirteen grand and hadn’t paid him a dime had a box with about thirty grand worth of meth and twenty-five grand in cash in it when I showed up. But they didn’t make one phone call to try and pay for the dope that got them there. I fucking swear,” he said. “Drug dealers without morals,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. “Men without a moral code. It doesn’t matter the profession,” he said. I guess not,” I said. I waved at the waitress as she walked past. We had been at the restaurant long enough after dinner that we’d changed waitresses. “I need coffee,” I said as she walked up to the table. “Make it two, please,” Vince said. “Cream or sugar?” she asked. “Black on both,” he responded. Vince paid attention to all of the details. I liked it that he knew how I liked my coffee, noticed what perfume I was wearing, and remembered the year of car I drove. He recalled what jeans or outfits I wore on certain days, and made reference to them later, describing the time, place, and article of clothing. It was nice to think a man had enough interest in me to remember things about me. As with most things about Vince, his actions and his manner of living reminded me of my father. The waitress quickly returned with two cups of coffee. After thanking her and sliding one of them toward my side of the table, Vince raised his cup to his mouth and took a sip. “So, I have a question,” he said over the rim of the cup.

He wasn’t a very predictable man, but when he preceded a question with that particular statement, it meant that whatever he was going to ask was something he felt was significant. “Let’s hear it,” I said as I reached for my cup of coffee. “Well, Thanksgiving is coming up a week from this coming Thursday, and I was wondering if you’d like to spend the day at my mother’s? I want you to meet her and she’s been asking about you,” he said. Immediately, my heart felt swollen. “You told her about me?” He lowered the cup of coffee to the table and pushed it to the side. “I told her about you six months ago, Sienna. She knows we’re in a relationship now, and she’s pretty excited. So yeah, she wants to meet you.” When my father went to prison my mother’s sister came down from Ohio and stayed with me. At the time she was young, single, and felt sorry for me. Although I never met her before my father went away, we got along fine, but I always felt in the back of my mind that she blamed my father for the death of my mother. Why else would my aunt never take the time to meet her niece, I wondered? After my father was released, she left, and I hadn’t seen her since. For me, holidays were a thing of the past. Since my father’s death, my music was my Christmas, and I enjoyed his favorite album, A Very Special Christmas, all year round. I hadn’t celebrated a birthday, Thanksgiving, or a Christmas in the presence of anyone since he died, and although I hadn’t told Vince yet, Christmas was not only Christmas as he knew it, but it was my birthday. “I’d uhhm. Thank you. Yes, I think I’d love to. Do we get dressed up or anything?” I asked. “Well, funny you asked. My mother’s kind of old fashioned, and she would skin me alive if I dressed like this for Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. It’s just been in the last few years that she’s come to terms with me having tattoos. So, if you could wear a dress, that’d sure be nice,” he said. Squeeeeee! I tried my very best to hide my excitement. “Sure, I’ll dig around in my closet and find something nice.” Sienna’s going shopping…Sienna’s going shopping…

“She cooks a huge meal, and she’ll expect us to eat damned near everything,” he said. “Sounds great,” I said. “I love Thanksgiving. Can I help? I mean can I cook anything?” It was becoming more difficult to contain myself. The thought of it all was almost too much. My father had been gone almost five years, and to think I was going to share a holiday with Vince was almost too much to comprehend. “We’ll go see her maybe Sunday or something, how’s that?” he asked as he reached for his coffee. I leaned on the edge of the table and batted my eyelashes. “Uhhm, Sunday’s tomorrow.” “Okay, we’ll go see her tomorrow. If you don’t like her, it’ll give you time to bow out of the Thanksgiving deal, how’s that?” he said with a laugh. “Sounds perfect,” I said. Before I met his mother, I needed desperately to get my nails done, go get makeup, buy a new dress, spend a few minutes in a tanning booth, and make a few adjustments to my ratty hair. “What time?” I asked as I reached for my coffee. “I don’t know, noon?” he asked. “How about a little later? I have a few things I need to get done first.” I said. He relaxed in his chair, sipped his coffee as he studied me for a moment, eventually placing his cup on the table and pushing it to the side. As he rested his massive forearms on the edge of the table and leaned forward, he grinned. “What? Get your nails done, go fake bake, and hit the mall?” he asked. Vince Ames may have been a biker, a criminal of sorts, and a debt collector for drug dealers, but to me, he was perfect. And I deserved his perfection.

VINCE November 16, 2014 Introducing Sienna to my mother required a level of commitment on my part not much different than marriage. In my lifetime, only one other woman had met my mother, and it was my ex-wife. In inviting Sienna into my mother’s home, I was not only inviting her into my life, but into my mother’s life. As far as I was concerned, this would make Sienna part of the family. In a short period of time, I beat myself up about her meeting my mother, and cancelled the Sunday plans, and simply left Thanksgiving as the meeting day. Sienna was ready, I was afraid I was not so ready. “So, you ready for this?” I asked. “Just a few more days. I can’t wait for you to meet her.” He glanced upward and stared for a moment. It appeared he intended to be attentive, but eventually his eyes fell closed and he lowered his head. Apparently I was boring him with my subject matter, and he was about to fall asleep. “You fucking prick. Don’t you dare pass out before I’m done, you rude son-of-a-bitch. When I’m

talking, you good and god damned well better listen, understand?” I seethed. He shook his head violently, no doubt attempting to prevent himself from falling asleep. He slowly shifted his eyes to meet mine, blinked a few times, and lowered his chin slightly. “So anyway, she’s pretty to look at, but she’s also pretty damned smart. She reads more books than Pop and me combined,” I said. He blinked his eyes again and stared, apparently waiting for me to continue “Hard to believe, I know, but she reads half a dozen books a week. And, she’s thin. Not one of the unhealthy skinny bitches like you see on television or in those fucking magazines, but just naturally thin, like a supermodel. And her hair? Wait ‘till you see it. It’s perfect. Her eyebrows are hit and miss, but don’t you dare stare at ‘em, got it?” I paused and shifted my eyes to meet his. Fast asleep and lightly snoring, it was obvious he had very little interest in knowing anything about Sienna before she made her grand entrance for Thanksgiving dinner. I turned toward the sound of the front door opening, and met my mother’s gaze as she peered toward the porch swing where we were seated. “I can’t believe this weather we’re having,” she said. “It’s so nice out here. Now you two need to come in here for dinner, it’s ready.” I stood from the porch swing and shrugged my shoulders. “He’s asleep.” She shook her head lightly and sighed signature sigh of frustration. “He’s going to be mad if he misses dinner, just wake him up.” “Bradley!” I shouted. “Dinner’s ready.” He opened his eyes, jumped from the porch swing, and ran toward the front door. “He was tired of listening to your stories, that’s all,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away. “He’s the only one in this house that pays attention to me. He just fell asleep,” I said as I followed

her into the house. Bradley and I followed her into the dining room. As she pulled her chair away from the table she shifted her eyes toward me and sighed again. “I listen to what you say.” I pulled my chair away from the table, sat down, and placed my napkin in my lap. “You listen to what I say, but Bradley hears me.” “Who’s saying grace?” she asked. “I said it last week,” I said. “You sure did,” she responded as she reached toward the plate of roast beef. After picking up a piece of meat large enough to choke a horse, she held it to the side and shook it. Within a few seconds she had Bradley’s full attention. Having performed this ritual no less than a thousand times, he knew just what to do. He situated himself directly beside her, sat, and tilted his head back. “It’s your turn to say grace, Bradley,” she said. “Woof!” Bradley barked as he stared up at the roast beef. “Amen,” my mother said as she dropped the piece of meat. “Amen,” I said. “So, finally. What’s it been? A year? And you’re finally bringing her to meet us,” she said as she began to spoon mashed potatoes onto her plate. “I met her in June. And we didn’t start seeing each other until I took her those flowers, and I think that was in August,” I said. “It was July. The fouth,” she said. I shook my head as I loaded my plate with meat. “August.” “That’s exactly why Bradley falls asleep when you talk to him. He gets tired of the fibs you tell,” she said.

“He falls asleep because he’s fat and unhealthy,” I said, knowing what I said would irritate her. She turned and glared at me over the top of her fork full of mashed potatoes. “Stephen Vincent! Take it back.” “It’s true,” I said. “Every word out of your mouth is a fib. Bradley’s not fat, he’s muscular. And it was right after you got beat up, because you had those stitches in your face. It was July Fourth, and we were eating fried chicken. Right here,” she said as she pointed at the table. “I know where we were, Mother. Whatever, Okay, July. Fine,” I said. “So, six months ago you started seeing her, and just now I get to meet her. I think it’s sad,” she said. “Well, you won’t have anything else to complain about here in about ten days,” I said. She wagged her fork in my direction and cleared her throat. “They’re not complaints, they’re observations. Now, eat your dinner.” “Well, I’m excited to finally meet her,” she said. “And if you’ve been seeing her all year, and if you truly love her, you should…” She paused and took a bite of bread. “I should what?” I asked. She handed Bradley another piece of roast beef, glanced upward, and shook her head as we made eye contact. “Never mind. I’m excited to meet her, that’s all.” I forced a sigh of sarcasm and continued to eat. I was pretty sure I knew fully what my mother intended to say. She was a master at hinting at what she wanted, expected, or believed she deserved, but not actually saying it. And, in time, I was pretty sure I would grant her wish.

SIENNA November 27th, 2014 Dressed in a new black V-neck pleated dress, 2” heels, and a black shawl, I felt as beautiful as Vince said I looked. Vince was dressed in dress jeans, dress boots, and a black button down shirt. Much to my surprise, he allowed me to drive, and we listened to Christmas music the entire way to his mother’s house. I felt for the entire trip that my life was finally not only precisely where I had always wanted it to be, but exactly as I deserved it to be. The neighborhood wasn’t exactly what I had expected, and as we pulled into the driveway of the two-story brick home, I was immediately surprised at the size, perfect landscape, and southern appeal. The home clearly stood out as being different than all the others surrounding it. A red brick home with wrap-around porch complete with porch swing, white shuttered windows, and a yard filled with huge trees in a middle class neighborhood wasn’t where I expected Vince’s mother to be living. Considering the fact that Vince’s father was a biker who had died in prison, and Vince was an only child, I expected a little more modest – and much smaller – home. “This place is huge,” I said as I shut off the engine.

“Pop built this place,” he said. “Bought three lots to build it on so he could have this huge yard.” “Seriously?” I asked as I admired the home. He gazed in the direction of the house and nodded his head. “Yep, pretty cool place, huh? He was a biker, but being a construction contractor was his day job. Hell, he wanted a dozen kids and a place where they could always come back to for Sunday dinners. I grew up in this big fucker all alone. Lots of cool places to hide, though.” “Wow. That’s crazy he built it. Good for him,” I said. “And the yard is huge.” “Just remember, no cussing. Oh, and you can call me whatever, but she’s going to call me Stephen,” he said. “Got it,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “And don’t call Bradley fat,” he said. “Okay,” I said with a laugh as I got out of the car. Vince got the pies from the back of the car and we began to walk up the drive. I continued to admire the massive home as we walked up to the sidewalk leading to the front steps. Growing up in such a place would be heaven for a child, especially with the yard as large as it was. As we stepped off the sidewalk and onto the steps, the reality of it all hit me. I had never met a man’s parents, at least not a man I was in a relationship with. I suspected Vince felt the same way, but as far as I was concerned, this was a huge step toward securing our relationship as being one that was solid and secure. “After you,” Vince said as he opened the door. I nervously stepped into the home. The very large living room was decorated as I expected a home to be in the south, and although it wasn’t ornate, it was pretty close. Camel back couches, arm chairs with carved wood, and various coffee and end tables were scattered about the room, and very plentiful. There was no doubt the home could easily be used to entertain dozens, but from what Vince said it was never more than him and his mother who occupied the home. As I inhaled the aroma of the Thanksgiving meal, all of the emotions associated with the holidays I had at home as a child filled me. We rarely had a large crowd, and frequently ate alone, but the holidays were special nonetheless. From time to time my father would invite a less fortunate friend, and I

remember times when I had friends from school visit during the holiday season, but the holiday meals were typically only my father and me. Although the holiday dinner table was less than full, the love that filled the dining room was immense. My father loved to cook, and his recipes for the holiday meals were always traditional. Although we often ate meals which were more customary in his actual home land, Ukraine, he never introduced any of his family recipes into our holiday meals. He was proud of being a U.S. citizen, and proud of adopting the traditions and policies of the country, recipes included. His sweet potatoes were my favorite; he put big marshmallows in with the potatoes, and because it was only him and me eating, I always got plenty of marshmallows with my sweet potatoes. “Oh my word,” his mother said as she walked out of what I expected was the kitchen. According to Vince, she was in her early fifties, but she looked to be in her forties. She was petite, dressed in a burgundy dress, had long brunette hair with highlights, and was absolutely beautiful. A white apron was tied around her waist, and contrasted completely with her beautiful dress, but clearly showed how much time and effort she had placed in the preparation of the meal we were about to eat. As she stood in the doorway and gazed in our direction, she slowly raised her hands to her mouth and pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips. “Sienna, this is my mother, Anita,” Vincent said. “Ma, this is Sienna.” She lowered her hands from her face, opened her arms, and curled her fingers toward her palms repeatedly as if she was trying to coerce a small toddler to come see her. “Go give her a hug,” Vince sighed in the form of a light whisper. I walked across the living room toward where she was standing, and as I stepped directly in front of her, realized she was softly crying. I felt an odd sense of pride that Vince adding me to his life provided her with such joy, but also felt guilt for some reason. As she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into her, I realized the guilt was more a feeling of responsibility. “I love him very much,” I whispered in an effort to comfort her. “And it’s nice to meet you.” “Where do you want the pies?” Vince asked. “You know where to put the pies,” she said in a sarcastic tone as she released me. “Now, go play

with your brother, Stephen. We have work to do.” “Follow me,” she said as she turned toward the kitchen. I glanced over my shoulder, grinned, and winked at Vince. As I followed his mother into the kitchen, an adorable – and obviously overweight – English bulldog ran past us and toward the living room. As he ran, slobber flipped from his lips. “That’s Bradley,” she said as he ran past. “He’s Stephen’s brother.” “Hi, Bradley,” I said jokingly even though he was long gone. “Stephen was right, your hair is perfect,” she said as she stepped to the side and studied me. “Why, thank you,” I said. I glanced over my shoulder and upon confirming we were alone, lowered the tone of my voice to a whisper. “He told you about my hair?” “Honey, I’ve been hearing about you since the day you met back in June. He tells me bits and pieces at a time, but that hair of yours…he just won’t stop talking about it.” She said. “He’s silly,” I said. She pulled the oven door open slightly and peered inside. “He sure is. And just so you know, he’s been known to tell a fib or two. Now, back in July, what happened to his face? Someone beat him up, didn’t they?” I pointed to my cheek innocently. “When he got the stitches?” She glanced up and nodded her head. “Mmmhhhmm.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I thought he wrecked his motorcycle.” “Well aren’t you cute,” she said. “Sticking up for him already.” She opened the oven again and pulled out a sheet of dinner rolls sufficient to feed a small army. After placing them on the counter beside the rest of the meal, she sighed. “Stephen’s always prompt, and so am I. I think that’s about all of it,” she said as she glanced

around the kitchen. “It smells wonderful,” I said. “So do you, Honey. I absolutely love that perfume you’re wearing. And that dress? It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you,” I said with a smile. “I just got it.” She walked past me, peered through the doorway, and turned to face me. “He’s in there talking to Bradley.” She walked back into the kitchen, picked up the platter of turkey, and nodded her head toward the sweet potatoes. “Honey, grab the yams and follow me.” I glanced in the dish. The sweet potatoes were covered in marshmallows. As I inhaled the sweet aroma, a rush of emotions washed over me. Other than in my father’s home, I had never seen them prepared in the same manner, and although I never assumed my father invented the recipe, I had yet to deal with such a strong reminder of him. I bit into my quivering lip, picked up the sweet potatoes, and followed her into the dining room, my mouth watering the entire way. A table large enough to seat eight with a large chandelier over it sat in the center of the room. She placed the turkey on the table and reached for the potatoes. After situating them in what I suspected was her perfect place, she turned away. After a few steps, she paused. “Do you want children?” she asked. I was slightly shocked by her question, and wondered how I should respond. It was something Vince and I had yet to discuss, but I was sure we would at some point in time. Talking to her about it first seemed strange. Still facing away from me, she turned her head and gazed at me over her shoulder. “Just between you and me.” I grinned and nodded my head eagerly. “I do.” “How many?” she asked as she turned away. “Just between you and me?” I asked.

“Honey, everything we discuss is between you and me. It’s what mothers and daughters do, they keep secrets with each other,” she said. Her response didn’t immediately sink in, but as I responded, I felt flattered and considerably more welcome in her home. Whether she intended to or not, she made me feel wanted, and almost as if I was already truly a part of the family. “Enough to fill this house if I got my say in it,” I said. She blinked her eyes, smiled, and quickly turned toward the sink. “Grab the green beans, honey, I think I’ve got something in my eye,” she said as she turned away. I carried the remainder of the food to the table as she walked to the bathroom and tried to get something out of her eye. As I gazed down at the table and wondered if she would be mad about my placement of the food, I heard her yell at Vince. “Bradley, Stephen! Dinner’s ready, you two,” she shouted. “It’s perfect,” she said as she walked into the dining room. “I didn’t know where to put everything,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. “It looks wonderful.” “So, we’re ready?” Vince asked as he walked into the room. His mother shifted her eyes toward me and grinned. “We sure are.” “You been crying, Ma?” Vince asked as he walked into the room . “No, I got something in my eye, didn’t I, Honey?” she responded as she shifted her eyes toward me. I nodded my head. “Yeah, and I wrecked my bike,” Vince said with a laugh. “Just be quiet and sit down,” his mother snapped. We all took a seat at the large table, Vince and I sitting on either side of his mother, and Bradley on the floor beside Vince.

“Who’s saying grace?” she asked as she alternated glances between Vince and me. “Well, according to your rules, it’s Sienna’s turn,” Vince responded. His mother tilted her head to the side and batted her eyelashes. “I’ll say it,” I said with a nod. I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and inhaled a shallow breath. As I began to pray, Anita rested her hand on my knee. “Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today to give thanks. There are so many, Lord, who are less fortunate, and for them I ask you to give special consideration on this day, and throughout the holiday season. Bless them with understanding and a willingness to continue, for one day they, just as we have, will find their calling in life and see the world through clearer eyes, through your eyes, and through you they will pave the way to a brighter future. Today, Lord, I thank you for Anita, I thank you for Vince, and I thank you for Bradley, but most of all, I thank you for providing all of us with something as sacred as the ability to love. I give these thanks in your name, Lord, amen.” I opened my eyes, lifted my head, and glanced around the table. “Pass the potatoes, Ma,” Vince said. His mother stood and patted me on the shoulder. “Hand him the potatoes, Honey,” she said as she turned away. “I’ve got something in my eye again.” I did wonder when she walked away the first time if she was crying or if she had something in her eye, and now the answer was pretty clear. But I’d never tell. Because that’s what mothers and daughters do, they keep secrets with each other.

VINCE December 15th, 2014 It was apparent Sienna was quite fond of Christmas, and obviously more so than any other holiday. Her constant listening to Christmas music and her inability to hide her excitement as the day approached caused me to ask more questions, and in due time I learned that her birth, her mother’s death, and the holiday all shared the same day on the calendar. Throughout her childhood, she and her father spent the day celebrating not only the holiday and her birthday, but her mother’s sacrifice, which ultimately provided Sienna with the gift of life. I knew there weren’t many people who would maintain such a positive outlook on life after forfeiting their entire family at such an early age, but Sienna wasn’t like everyone else. She was grateful for what she had, appreciative for the time she was able to spend with her father, and had no reservations admitting that although she wished she would have been able to meet her mother, she blamed no one for her loss. Christmas had always been a holiday I enjoyed, but on this particular year, I was enjoying it just a little bit more.

Even if it was difficult to admit. “What’s the options?” he asked nervously. “You’re out of fucking options,” I responded. “He saved you from a dime piece in the joint. The fucking charge was manslaughter. You remember the not guilty verdict, right? I bet you had a huge fucking fiesta for that, didn’t you?” He glanced around the restaurant and leaned toward the center of the table. “I remember. But check this out…” I shook my head and raised my left index finger in the air. “Check this out. You owe him eight, and my cut is thirty percent. That’s ten thousand four hundred. Not negotiable.” Sitting in a restaurant with a gun in the pocket of my coat made me slightly uncomfortable, but this guy had proven to be impossible for me to find. After paying $500 to an informant a few weeks prior, the call finally came. I learned Hector was eating at one of his favorite places in the barrio, and if I hurried, I could catch him there. As I walked in, he was paying his bill and preparing to leave. Now sitting at the table trying to negotiate a payoff in the presence of a hundred Spanish speaking patrons, I was beginning to feel like the center of attention. In this crowd, I stood out like a turd in a punch bowl. “Look, Hector. You and I both know you were in the game then, and you’re in the game now. Ten grand isn’t going to kill you. I know enough about you to know you’re aware you need to pay the debt. It’s been six months, and it was due in 30 days. You know enough about me to know if I have to, I’ll drag your ass out of here and it’ll get real ugly real quick. I don’t want that, and I know you don’t either. Solve this problem for me,” I said. “Navidad’s a bitch, and I got six kids. It creeped up on me this year. And I’m out of the click. You see any of my homies in here?” he asked as he motioned around the room. “Yeah, me neither.” “I’m stretched thin as fuck ‘till I get another gig,” he said. “Can we reach an agreement?” “Like what?” I asked. “I know exactly what I got at home in the safe. It’s like $7,800. I can maybe scrape up a few more and make it eight,” he said. “That’s all. But I need it squashed.”

“Eight leaves your attorney fifty-six hundred. He won’t settle for that,” I said. “It could pay him off,” he said. I wasn’t sure he had the money, but I suspected he did. It seemed every time I had to collect money from a member of the Hispanic community I entered into a bargaining agreement, and there was always an expectation of me forfeiting my cut, which I never did. The negotiating process seemed to be part of their culture, which I tried to respect, but eliminating my cut was not an option. I wasn’t in this business for my health. “Ten thousand four hundred,” I said as I shook my head. “Borrow what you don’t have.” “Look, my wife took the kids and went Christmas shopping. She left me off here to eat. I don’t want any trouble when she gets back, not around my kids. So let’s make it eight and be done with it,” he said. “I ought to put a bullet in your ass and take that gold fucking watch. As many people as you’ve fucked over, I doubt anyone in here would say a fucking word. What’s it worth? I asked. “Maria got me this,” he said as he pulled his arm away from the table. “Hell, I need a watch. Mine’s fucked up, anyway. Take it off,” I said. “I can’t do that,” he said. I leaned into the center of the table and narrowed my eyes. As he shifted his eyes to meet mine, I gave my demand. “Actually, you can. Give me the fucking watch or I’ll drag your ass out on the sidewalk and pistol whip you into a bloody fucking pulp. And that, Hector, is a fucking promise,” I said. “She’ll kill me if I give you this watch,” he said. “And I’ll kill you if you don’t,” I said. He studied me for a moment, and eventually reached for the clasp of the watch. One thing I had developed over the many years of doing what I did was a reputation. My customers always ended up with their money, merchandise well worth in excess of the money, or I delivered their client to their doorstep.

And, as a local attorney wouldn’t be able to make much use of me delivering Hector – and he knew it – he further knew I wouldn’t let him leave my sight without the money or an equivalent. He unclasped the watch, extended his arm, and handed it to me. “Good choice,” I said as I shoved the watch into my coat pocket. “Tell that to my wife,” he said. “So what now?” “We’ll wait for your wife and kids. Tell her we’re old friends. But you’re riding in the truck with me to your house. And I’ll wait till you get the money out of the safe, or wherever you have it. Then, I’ll be gone,” I said. “I got some brand new 22” rims for a Chevy truck, and a 60” flat screen. Take that shit instead of the watch, homie,” he said. “Do I look like I need a fucking set of rims? Or a fucking TV? I’m keeping the god damned watch,” I said. “And I’m not your fucking homie, remember that.” After a few long silent stares and two glasses of water, I watched as a little girl struggled with the front door for a minute, and then finally pulled it open. Dressed in a bright orange colored coat, black leggings, and little black buckled shoes, she was adorable. After scanning the restaurant for a recognizable face, she locked eyes with Hector and smiled. “Papi!” Speaking Spanish faster than I was able to understand, she ran across the restaurant and directly toward our table. As she jumped into his arms, it was apparent she was one of his many children. What seemed to be a small argument ensued, and after a little negotiation, Hector turned to face me. “She wants to know if she can ride with us in the truck?” he asked. I cocked an eyebrow and glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” “Show me some respect,” he said as he nodded his head toward his daughter. Although having children in my presence wasn’t something I was used to, it didn’t take me a

matter of a split-second to realize I had cursed in front of his child. Cursing in my mother’s home cost me a lot of money over the years, and as much as I hated to admit it, I needed to show him and his daughter respect regardless of the debt he owed. Show respect, get respect. “Lo siento por mi elección de palabras,” I said. The little girl smiled. “Listo?” I asked. He nodded his head. As we stepped out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, I noticed a Suburban in front of the front door. Filled with kids who were all waving in our direction, it was apparent the story he told of his wife taking the kids Christmas shopping was true. As we began to walk toward the vehicle, a boy in his teens stepped out of the vehicle and grinned. “We got you some presents, so don’t be trying to look all in the back and see what they are,” the boy bragged. The remaining children, all much younger, beat their fists against the windows and made faces as his son stood outside talking about the presents they had purchased. . In ten days, Christmas would be upon us all. “This is Vince,” Hector said to his son as he motioned toward me with his free hand. “Emilio,” the boy said with a smile. I nodded my head. “Nice to meet you.” I alternated glances between the boy, Hector, and the Suburban full of excited children. Memories of being a boy at Christmas, and opening presents with my mother and father were some of my fondest memories, even as an adult. Christmas would be upon us in a matter of days.

“Come here for a minute?” I asked Hector. “Take your sister and get in,” Hector said as he motioned toward the SUV. “You know where our shop is?” I asked as the children crawled inside the car. “Our clubhouse?” “Couple blocks east of the pizza place?” he asked. I nodded my head. “You have me the eight grand buy January 15th? No bullshit, can you?” “I can get the eight to you tonight. It’ll be tight, but I can do it,” he responded. “Here,” I said as I handed him the watch in my cupped hand. He shook his head and raised his hands as if he wasn’t going to accept the watch. “I can’t get you $10,400. I can’t even get you $8,400. I wasn’t bullshittin’. Just keep it. I’ll tell her something.” Based on what I knew about people, I was pretty sure what he was telling me was true. I shook my cupped hand in front of him. “Keep the watch. Get me $8,000, and we’re straight. Merry Christmas,” I said. “No shit?” he asked as he took the watch in his hand. I nodded my head and extended my hand. “Bring it to the shop by the 15th, just put it in an envelope with my name on it.” “You have my word,” he said as he shook my hand. “Merry Christmas, Vince.” “Merry Christmas to you and your family,” I said. “And this didn’t happen. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “What didn’t happen?” he said as he clasped the watch on his wrist. “Exactly,” I said as I turned away. And, just like that, I was out of the mood to collect debts and in the mood for Christmas. I got in my truck, glanced at my watch, and realized it was nowhere close to the three o’clock time it depicted. This fucking watch.

As much as I needed a new watch, I knew it would be a cold day in hell before I broke down and bought another one. I would have no problems spending money on Sienna for Christmas, though. Because there was no doubt in my mind that she was a necessity.

SIENNA December 25th, 2014 Christmas was so much more than a holiday for me. I was born on Christmas, my mother died on Christmas, and according to my belief, Jesus was born on the same day. After my father’s death, I made it a point to remember my father’s and my memories of the day by enjoying the music he graced me with when he gave me the special CD, and I did so on a daily basis. I typically didn’t tell people when my birthday was, because if they knew about my mother’s death, it made the holiday and my birthday both seem sad. It wasn’t a sad day as far as I was concerned, and in fact, I considered it to be the best day ever. In the last five years, the holiday had been a difficult one for me. Celebrating it with Vince and Anita would not only bring back so many fond memories, but would without a doubt develop new ones that we could spend a lifetime sharing together as a family.

“Open it,” I said as I pushed the gift in his direction. “Don’t be jumping around, I want a clear picture,” Anita said. “I’m not six years old, Mother. I’m not going to jump around like a fucking idiot,” Vince said. Uh oh. I widened my eyes and glanced in Anita’s direction. She pointed over her shoulder toward the kitchen, cleared her throat, and after not gathering Vince’s attention, did it again. “The jar, Stephen,” she said. He glanced in her direction, sighed, and stood. “It’s Christmas,” he said. She pointed toward the kitchen and grinned. “All the more reason to be respectful.” He lowered his head and began walking toward the kitchen slowly. “Let me see it,” she said. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and removed a $1 bill. “Here,” he said as he waved it in the air. She raised the camera and took a picture of him as he held the bill high in the air. After a minute, he returned to the room and sat down beside his gift. Incapable of containing myself, I began to clap. “Open it, open it, open it.” We had stayed all night at his mother’s home, and I was still wearing my pink pajamas. After hot chocolate, coffee, and his mother’s Christmas breakfast, the morning was just like I remembered it being with my father. There’s nothing on earth like waking up Christmas morning with the one you love. He slowly peeled the wrapping from the package while his mother sat back and took pictures with her digital camera. After carefully pulling all of the paper away from the box, he turned toward me and scowled. “Really?” he said sarcastically. I shrugged my shoulders. “Sorry.”

“See this?” he said as he held the box in the air. It was covered in clear packing tape. “Take a picture of this shit,” he said. Uh oh. He cussed again. I glanced at Anita. She lowered the camera, cleared her throat, and glared. Without speaking, Vince stood, pulled a $1 bill from his wallet, and waved it in the air. After being photographed as he walked to the kitchen, he returned, sat down, and quietly began peeling the tape away from the box. As he opened it I held my breath. “Oh my god,” he said as he peered into the box. I hope you like it. “Well, let’s see it,” his mother said. He picked the book out of the box, held it in the air, and turned it toward his mother. A hardbound first edition, first printing of Pride and Prejudice, I hoped he would take great pride in having it. I had bid on two of the books on eBay, hoping to buy the first one, but I lost out on it at the last minute. Although the one I purchased was in much better condition, the first one was five years older, and I was interested in it for that reason alone. He stood, held the book at his side, and grinned. After a dozen or so pictures, his mother turned toward me. “It was his favorite since high school,” she said. “He might try and act tough, but he’s a romantic at heart.” I grinned and mouthed the words “I know.” Vince walked over to me, hugged me, and kissed me as he released me from his arms. “I love you, Sienna.” “I love you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Open this,” he said after reaching under the tree and handing me a gift. It was the first Christmas gift I had been given since my father died. I had several gifts, but they were all purchased by me, wrapped by me, and opened by me. And, speaking from experience, I can say they’re never as much fun when you know what’s in them. “I don’t open them like you do,” I said. “However you like,” Anita said as she raised the camera. “Well, if you’re going to take pictures, you better hurry,” I said as I tore into the paper. Within a few seconds, the wrapping paper was in shreds and an untaped box remained. I quickly opened the box and looked inside. As much as I didn’t want to, I began to softly cry. “You didn’t,” I said as I wiped the tears from my face. “I did,” he said. The book I wanted to buy for him, a first edition, first print of Pride and Prejudice from 1850, lay in the box. I not only had been outbid by my lover, but we both had the same ideas for what we believed the other would cherish for a lifetime. Our each having purchased the other the exact same gift spoke volumes of not only our love for each other, but for our love for books. With glassy tear-filled eyes, I glanced around the room. The camera sat in Anita’s lap as she wiped tears from her cheeks. I lifted the book in the air. “He…” I paused and bit my lower lip. I realized if I continued, I would be in a full-fledged sob. It was too much. Vince was too much. Spending Christmas morning with a family was too much. I turned toward Anita and held the book close to my chest. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she raised the camera and took a picture. I turned toward Vince and shook my head. “I love you,” I said. He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess we think alike,” he said. “It’s all the proof I need. You two are made for each other,” Anita said.

For the next hour we opened gifts, some large, some small, but none as meaningful as the book Vince bought for me. The day, as far as I was concerned, was best day of my lifetime. I wished my father could have been there, but realized his departure from the earth wasn’t something he had planned, but something that had simply happened. I didn’t know if my belief in matters was correct, but in my belief he was witnessing everything that was happening while enjoying a glass of his favorite wine. “There’s one more for each of you,” I said as reached behind the tree and removed a two small gifts. “There sure is,” he said as he reached behind the couch and produced a large box. He kicked the box with his boot, sending it sliding across the floor. It came to a stop at my feet. I stood, stepped around the big box, and handed him the small one. After giving Anita hers, I walked to the couch and sat down in front of the big box. “I’ll go last,” I said. Anita opened hers, turned toward me, and smiled. “Bombshell?” “Yep. The day we met. You said you liked it. It’s what I was wearing that day, on Thanksgiving,” I said. “Thank you, Honey,” she said. “I’ll wear it with fond memories.” “Open it,” I said as I motioned toward Vince. He tilted his head toward the large box in front of me, “Open yours.” “I’ll go last,” I said. He removed the wrapping paper, took his knife from his pocket, and made a huge production as he cut the tape from the box. After removing the outer cardboard covering, he stared down at the hard plastic case. After studying the case for a moment, he opened it. “I knew you didn’t want something fancy, but I really wanted it to be dependable. The jeweler said it was a good one,” I said.

Sitting and gazing at the box, he simply nodded his head and continued to stare into his lap. He removed the black Tag Heuer Formula watch from the box, studied it for some time, and unbuckled the watch from his arm without speaking. The process seemed more like a ritual than simply replacing a watch. He hadn’t so much as made eye contact with me since opening the box. Anita sat down beside me on the couch and began to take pictures. “His father gave him that watch when he was a kid,” she whispered. “It’s a cheap watch, and it hasn’t worked right for years.” I turned to face her and chewed my lower lip. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” “Let him be,” she interrupted as she nodded her head toward Vince. Slowly and methodically, he removed his watch, strapped the new one on his arm, and placed his old watch in the presentation box. After studying the watch for a moment, he turned toward where we were sitting. “What time is it?” he asked. “9:10, Dear. And the date is the 25th,” Anita said. He nodded his head, glanced down at the watch, and made the adjustments. I was humbled that he replaced his father’s watch with the one I had purchased for him. From what the jeweler said it would keep time better than any other watch I could buy. After studying the watch for a long moment, he shifted his eyes toward where we were sitting. Without speaking, he raised his clenched fist in the air and extended his thumb, giving me the “thumbs up” sign. I returned the gesture. He reached into his lap, pulled out his knife and shook it in the air to get my attention. As I noticed what he held, he slid it across the carpet toward me. As it came to a stop at my feet, he motioned toward the big box. It was almost as big as the ottoman sitting in front of the couch. Curious as to what may be inside the box, I flipped the knife open, set it at my side, and tore into the wrapping paper with my hands. After exposing the large box, I cut the tape from the seam and opened

the flaps. A smaller box sat inside. I removed it, slid the large box to the side, and cut the tape on the smaller box. I opened the box and gazed inside. Another smaller box was inside the box between my feet. I turned toward Vince and cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “Scoot back, Honey,” Anita said. “I need a picture.” I turned toward her, smiled, and pointed to the boxes. A few pictures later, and I was back to the box opening routine. Six boxes later, and I held a small box in my hands. I glared at Vince and shook the box. “Was all of that necessary?” I asked. “Probably not, but it was fun,” he said. I opened the cardboard box. Inside, a slightly smaller box with a name I recognized from the jeweler I had visited. Rolex. I opened the box and removed the gold watch. Much smaller than the one I had purchased Vince, it was gold and had small diamonds that circled around the face. Back to wiping tears from my face and fully realizing just how much my father’s saying of the unexpected result of the natural development of life was applicable to us, I turned toward Anita and held up the watch. With tear-filled eyes and a heart full of what I was sure was pride, she took several photographs. “You’re always one minute from being late. Now you’ll never have to worry about the clock in your Continental crapping out. Turn it over,” Vince said. “Look at the back.” I wiped the tears from my cheeks, turned over the watch, and gazed down at the back of the case. Delicately engraved, but easy to read, the inscription was perfect. The Money Shot.

November 9th, 2014 The fact he remembered the date came as no surprise, Vince’s memory was almost photographic. He remembered almost everything, and seemed to remember anything with numbers in it. Sitting on the couch in the living room of the big house that I hoped to one day fill with grandchildren for Anita to enjoy, I realized that particular day was far more than special. It was the… Best. Christmas. Ever.

VINCE January 13th, 2015 I sat patiently and waited for him to arrive, thinking of Sienna the entire time. Love drunk and feeling completely different than I had ever felt before, I realized Sienna was exactly what I had hoped Natalie would have been. It had also become painfully obvious I wasn’t actually ever in love with Natalie, and it took my having met Sienna to realize it. Since I was eighteen years old, I was in love with the idea of who I wanted Natalie to become, but not who she was. With Sienna, there were no changes I wanted to see made, nothing I hoped she would do differently, nor was there anything about her I either despised or even lightly questioned as being in need of adjustment. In summary, Sienna was the woman of my dreams, and I was now filled with thoughts of her every waking moment of the day. In many respects I felt as if her presence had become nothing short of a necessity. Having experienced her in my life for the last six months, imagining living without her was something I couldn’t force myself to do. Her being a permanent fixture in my life undoubtedly made me a much better man. Not completely convinced she wasn’t making me a softer more subtle version of my former self, but realizing it really didn’t matter, I allowed my days to simply include her, silently hoping she didn’t turn me into a twat.

Parked across the street from where he lived with me slumped down in the reclined seat, the vehicle I was in appeared to be empty, at least to a passerby. The neighborhood wasn’t at all what I expected, and I wondered how a man who could afford to live in a $600,000 house couldn’t afford to pay a $30,000 attorney’s bill. I felt odd in the rental car I was using, but trying to blend in while driving my old truck or riding my motorcycle would have been impossible. Being dressed in my button down shirt and dark blue jeans did very little to make me comfortable, but again, in this particular neighborhood I realized the importance of fitting in. With my line of employment, the fewer people who witness my activities the better off everyone was. After what seemed like an eternity, but was only an hour and a half according to my new watch, an Audi sedan pulled into the driveway. After the garage door closed, I patiently waited a few minutes and proceeded with my ritual. I confirmed there was a round in the chamber, secured the Glock pistol in my holster, and began to open the car door. The sight of him walking down the sidewalk was a surprise, but a welcomed one. I turned and glanced over my shoulder as he continued down the walk. Apparently, he was walking to his mailbox, which was only a matter of ten yards behind where I was parked, but on the other side of the street. Dressed in jeans, a pull over camouflage sweatshirt, and military style boots, he didn’t at all appear like I had expected him to, especially after studying his photos at the attorney’s office. Obviously a physically fit man, I suspected he may put up a hell of a fight or try to run, but there was no way he was going to outrun a bullet. As he removed mail from the mailbox and inspected each individual piece, I quietly pulled open the car door and took a few steps in his direction. Half way between the car and where he was standing, he turned and looked over his shoulder. “Something I can help you with?” he asked in an obviously aggravated tone of voice. “Come on, Rudy. I’m Paul. Paul, you’re acting like you don’t remember me.” I said as I turned my palms upward and continued to walk in his direction. In the decade that I had been employed in my profession, I had collected debts from all walks of life including businessmen, criminals, the accused, the convicted, drug dealers, drug users, and everyone in between. Although neighborhoods like the one I was in were uncommon and lower class areas were more frequently the hiding places of my targets, I never changed my defensive posture regardless. A man willing to walk away from a $30,000 debt and tell his attorney to fuck off, knowing all the while I was

eventually going to pay him a visit was a threat regardless of where he chose to reside. The difference for me was not where Rudy Vallencio lived, but that he was known to be a collector of firearms, and more than likely would be armed if he was in the home. I needed to keep him outside for our negotiations if possible. With his back still facing me, he turned his head toward the house as if I hadn’t even spoken. Assuming I was going to need to say something else to keep him within earshot, I took a shallow breath and prepared to continue our one-sided conversation. As I saw the mail fall to the ground in front of him, I realized he wasn’t planning on talking. Everything went into slow motion. The sound of a vehicle’s squeaky brakes behind me, the fluttering of the mail to the ground, his pivoting toward me, and the pulling his pistol from the waist of his jeans were all as clear and precise as if they were a scene from a movie. The sound of his gun firing and a scream from behind me were equally – and unmistakably – clear, and everything happened before I was able to clear my Glock from my holster. My fear was now a reality. I had become a twat. I cleared the Glock from the holster, instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch, and fired the weapon twice. The sound of three gunshots rang echoed, and Rudy fell to the ground. Fuck. I ran the thirty or so feet which separated us, picked his pistol up, and searched him for additional weapons. The two gunshot wounds – one in his abdomen and one in his chest – were each bleeding profusely. The sound of shouting from behind me caused me to turn around, and I was shocked to see a US Mail Jeep, complete with a bleeding mail delivery person inside. Fuck. Rudy wasn’t dead, but he would be in a short period of time. The woman in the Jeep appeared to be shot in the leg. I ran to the vehicle and gazed down at her leg. Fuck.

I pulled my knife, cut the sleeves off my shirt, and tied them together. After tying a tourniquet to her upper thigh, I asked if she had a phone. Relatively alert, and surprisingly calm for having just been shot, she pointed to her purse. “In…in my…purse. Thank you…for…saving…me,” she said. I reached into the purse, removed the phone, pulled out her pack of cigarettes, lit two, and handed her one. “Thank you,” she said. I took a long much needed drag on the cigarette, inhaled, and let the smoke fill my lungs completely. I exhaled the cloud out into the winter air, inhaled another long drag, and held it deep in my lungs. As the smoke burned against my lungs and I felt the pressure build, I made the call no one percenter ever wants to make. I called the police.

SIENNA January 13th, 2015 Police cars, crime scene tape, and a firetruck aren’t the things a woman wants to see when her respective other calls and tells her to come and come quick. “They may charge me with murder” wasn’t very comforting to hear, either. I pulled the car right up to the edge of the crime scene tape, got out, and shifted my eyes toward the crime scene. Countless police officers, police cars, firemen, and what seemed to be an off-duty ambulance were all forced into a one hundred foot square area. It looked like what my father often described as a Mongolian clusterfuck. I shook my head, scanned the area for Vince, and ducked under the yellow tape. “Ma’am, you’re going to need to step behind the tape, this is a crime scene,” an officer said in a demanding tone as he gestured toward the tape with his hand. I disregarded his demand and continued walking toward Vince as if I was a crime scene professional.

“The dead are incapable of demanding justice, Ma’am, but it’s my responsibility to see to it that you stay out of my crime scene so I can see to it that justice is served,” he said as he puffed his chest out. The officer narrowed his gaze and glared. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed the cheesy line waiting for an opportunity to use it. Dressed in jeans, Ugg boots, a sweatshirt, and Victoria’s Secret hoodie, I didn’t quite look the part, but I really didn’t care. As far I was concerned, Officer Responsibility needed to fuck off. I’d read enough books I could fake my way through some yellow tape, and I was sure of it. I placed my hands on my hips and gazed up and into his eyes. “Well, in 1879 James Madison drafted a little document I like to refer to as the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, and it’s my responsibility to my client to see to it that justice is served in respect to unreasonable search and seizure, and it’s further my responsibility to remind him to exercise his right to remain silent and make every effort to avoid any police coerced self-incrimination in what is undoubtedly a stressful time. Now, with all due respect to you and your crime scene, excuse me, Officer,” I said as I stepped past him. “Counsel,” he said with a tip of his hat. Standing beside a police cruiser talking to an officer, Vince stood in a sleeveless black shirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips. A habit he had given up two years prior, the stress associated with shooting someone had probably caused so much mental anguish that he had to have a cigarette just to keep his sanity. “Not another word,” I said as I walked up to where he was standing. Vince turned to face me, glanced at my boots, shook his head, and grinned. “We’re done here.” I turned toward the officer. “I’m his legal counsel.” He glanced down at my boots, slowly shifted his eyes up along my frame, and locked them on mine when our eyes met. “Is that right?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Sure is.” “Well, doesn’t look like he’s going to need any,” the officer said with a light laugh. “He clearly shot this shit bird in self-defense.”

He turned toward Vince, nodded his head, and extended his hand. “Appreciate your help with the report.” Vince tossed the cigarette at his feet, blew out a cloud of smoke, and shook the officer’s hand. I was thoroughly confused. From what Vince had said when he called from the mail lady’s phone, he was involved in a shoot-out with a guy he was trying to convince to pay his debt. He was, at least at that time, worried he may be charged with murder. Seeing his smiling face, jovial mood, and lack of overall concern made me immediately feel comfortable that something must have changed drastically. The officer clutched his notepad, turned, and walked toward another officer. After he was far enough away from where we stood that he was incapable of hearing us, I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Self-defense, I’m free to go,” he said. “Nice shirt,” I said as I nodded my head toward what I could now see was formerly his nice black dress shirt. He glanced at each tattooed arm, flexed his biceps, and grinned as he did so. “Cut off the sleeves to make a tourniquet,” he said. “I fucking love you,” I whispered. “I love you,” he responded. “So we can go?” I asked. He glanced around the chaotic scene and nodded his head as he turned toward me. “The mail lady gave her testimony to the officers before they got her hauled away and it matched mine perfectly. Hell, they’re calling me a fucking hero. The dead guy had a few outstanding warrants, the gun he used was stolen, and I fired in self-defense. I told them why I was here,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “And they didn’t give a fuck.” I nodded my head and forced a smile. I was far from happy, but very relieved he was unharmed and wasn’t going to be arrested.

“My gun’s registered and I have a permit for it. His was stolen. He shot the mail lady, and only after he shot the mail lady did I even pull my gun. I’m free to go,” he said. “He shot at you first?” I asked. He widened his eyes as he shook his head lightly. “Actually he got two shot off.” I stood and stared. “You said you always shoot first. Always. You said there was nothing for me to worry about, ever. You said ever, Vince” “Yeah, we probably need to have a talk,” he said. “About?” I asked as I turned toward the Continental. “Fucking,” he said. “We need to slow down on the fucking. It’s making me soft.” “Not an option,” I said over my shoulder. “I’ll just buy you a bullet proof vest.” “I’m being serious,” he said. “So am I,” I responded as I began to walk toward my car. So am I.

VINCE February 14th, 2015 Sienna and I had continued our ritual of eating out on Sunday’s for lunch, and often went together to my mother’s house in the late afternoon for dinner. When the weather was nice, we typically met at the establishment because I was on my motorcycle, and even though the warm winter days were warm enough for me, they were never warm enough for her. On this particular day, the forecast had called for cold enough weather that my bike was locked in her garage, and we intended to ride in her car. I stepped from the shower, wrapped myself in a towel, and walked toward the vanity to shave my neck. My beard was now pretty long, and according to Sienna, was the best aphrodisiac ever. I never understood the fascination some women had with beards, but I wasn’t one to argue with her, especially after she described herself as weak when it came to having sex with me while I had a full beard. She had proven to be the best possible sexual match for me, and although my deep sexual desires were never met – or even discussed – with Natalie, I had no deep desires with Sienna, everything was a reality. After shaving my neck, pulling on a pair of jeans, and grabbing a white tee shirt, I walked from the

bedroom and into the living room while unfolding the shirt. Sienna appeared comfortable on her back with her Kindle held in the air, still dressed in a pair of pink plaid pajamas and matching pink plaid house shoes. Hanging over her shoulders and draped onto the couch, her hair looked perfect, as always. Engrossed in her book, and unaware I had even entered the room, she continued to read as I walked across the room. As I pulled the shirt over my head, I paused and said what I was thinking. “You’re pretty,” I said. She lowered her Kindle onto her chest, draped her head over the side of the couch, and cleared her throat. “I’m always prettier with your big dick in my mouth. You know that, right?” There was no doubt Sienna was different than most women in almost all respects, and sex certainly wasn’t excluded from the differences. She didn’t care much for me making slow, kind, caring passionate love to her. Sienna liked being fucked. And, as fate would have it, I liked fucking her. I pulled my shirt over my head, unzipped my jeans, and admired her for a short moment. The midday sunlight made her hair even more beautiful than it was in its absence. Impatient, as always, she released the Kindle from her grasp, opened her mouth, and extended both her thumbs in the air. “Do it,” she said. I really didn’t need any more of an invitation to stick my cock in her mouth. My only problem, if it was truly a problem, was that I was incapable of lasting more than a few minutes while watching her suck my dick, and for whatever reason, I was incapable of closing my eyes while she did so. It simply felt too damned good and she looked great doing it. As a result, almost immediately following her performance on me orally, I would pull out of her mouth and start fucking her. I suspected she was well aware wrapping her soft lips around the head of my dick wasn’t a prerequisite to having sex, but her doing it always seemed to lead to me fucking her. Her consistent offering to suck my cock stood as a pretty solid indication that she used her oral skills to coerce me to have sex with her. Either way, the process was something we both seemed to enjoy immensely.

I kicked my jeans to the side, gripped my cock in my hand, and began to stroke it while I walked toward her. Laying on her back with her head dangling off the side of the couch, I knew not only that I’d be able to force myself deep into her throat with her in that position, but that I wouldn’t last a matter of minutes. As I watched the head of my dick slip past her lips, I considered closing my eyes and face fucking her into a whimpering little pile, but I couldn’t force myself to either shut my eyes or turn my head the other direction. She was right. She was prettier with my cock in her mouth. After a few seconds of her sucking and licking masterfully, I began to buck my hips back and forth. Within ten seconds, I was burying my cock deep in her throat, and she eagerly accepted every inch of it. Watching my shaft disappear into her mouth provided a sense of satisfaction that was not only sexual, sensual, and fueled my dark and dirty inner being, but provided confirmation of just how compatible we truly were. Sienna liked having my cock in her mouth just as much as I liked it there. And I really liked it there. A few more slow strokes into her mouth, and I felt my scrotum begin to tighten. “Time to switch it up,” I said as I pulled myself from her mouth. “Fuck my mouth,” she said as she turned her head to the side and blinked her big brown eyes. “Please.” “You little fucking tease,” I said. “Get up.” “I’m not a tease,” she said as she stood, wiping her mouth free of saliva with the back of her hand. “A tease teases. I want that cock in my mouth,” she said as she kicked her shoes to the side and pushed her pajamas and underwear off in one effortless motion. “I want world peace, and eighty degree median temperature, and gas prices to plummet below a dollar a gallon,” I said. “But we don’t always get what we want.”

She huffed out a sigh, bent over the couch, and acted as though I was cheating her out of something she was truly entitled to. With her cute little ass sticking up in the air, and her pussy right in front of me for the taking, I stroked my cock with one hand and slapped her ass with the other. “Sorry, but I’m not fucking you from behind,” I said. She glanced over her shoulder and puffed out a pouty lip. “Why?” I rubbed my beard with my left hand and continued to stroke my cock with my right. “Because I love you.” Her eyes shifted back and forth between my cock and my beard. After glancing at each a few times, she sighed heavily. “If you truly loved me, you’d just shove that in me right now.” I released my cock, reached around her waist, and lifted her from the floor. “When we’re done, tell me if you hated this.” “Hate what?” she asked. I lifted her into my arms fully, walked into her bedroom, and lowered her onto the bed, facing up. As she peered up and into my eyes, I crawled on top of her and began to kiss her deeply. With our lips pressed firmly against each other and our tongues intertwined, she began to moan in pleasure. Purposefully making sure there was no penetration, at least not yet, I moved my mouth along her jaw and began to kiss her neck while grinding my hips against hers. A quick glance toward her face produced an image of her biting her lip and writhing in suppressed sexual agony. My mouth slowly slid along her skin from her shoulder to her chest, kissing along the surface of her skin the entire way, and eventually came to a stop at her breasts. Kissing her nipples and massaging her breasts in my hands, I pressed against her firmly and ground my hip bones against hers. In a show of her sexual satisfaction, or quite possibly her frustration, she arched her back and pressed the backs of her shoulders deeply into the comforter. With her perky breast now pushed fully into my mouth, I squeezed the other in my hand and twisted her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. “Please…” she moaned. I lifted my free hand to her mouth and covered her lips with my index finger. “Shhh.” I raised myself slightly and worked my way along the length of her body until my mouth met her

waiting swollen mound. I slowly began to work my right finger in and out of her wet folds as I sucked and licked her clit with precision. She bucked her hips against my face and I continued to lick her pussy and suck her clit as if my life depended on it. My tongue as deep as I was able to force it while my finger rhythmically continued to work her into a sexual frenzy quickly proved to be too much for her. A loud wailing sound silenced by a pillow against her face confirmed her satisfaction and having reached climax. I raised my head in enough time to see her remove the pillow from her face and toss it aside. Her eyes met mine and remained fixed for a moment, but not a word was shared. I admired her beautiful face and allowed her a moment to regain her senses. Sienna’s beauty wasn’t simple. There was no disputing Sienna was a beautiful woman in her outward appearance. Often times, I found myself simply standing and staring at her, incapable of believing she truly existed in the sense she did, and that she did so with such ease. Her willingness to eagerly participate in the act of living life was testament to her inner beauty. A woman who refused to allow the unfortunate events in her life to bring her down in spirit, she held her head high and lived life completely and to the fullest. Always giving those around her a smile, if for no other reason but to confirm her position on life, she exuded her beauty from her very being. But nothing Sienna did, believed, or participated in was quite as beautiful as the scent of her having reached climax on my face. I slowly inhaled a deep breath through my nose, savoring her aroma as I did so. As her head collapsed onto the bed, I carefully crawled on top of her and began to kiss her sensually. Our mouths pressed against each other and our bodies chest to chest, I continued to kiss her as I guided my stiff cock inside her wetness. As I slowly and silently began to work my hips back and forth, she bit into my lower lip and held her bite, moaning as I continued the steady rhythmic pace. I slid my hands under her shoulders and held her chest tight against mine, working myself in and out of her warmth in a balanced and predictable motion. Each stroke of my cock was full and forceful, but not abrupt. After five minutes of my body grinding against her, and our mouths encompassed in a kiss the

entire time, she released my lips and tilted her head back. As I continued my long, full strokes, I lifted my body from hers, arched my back, and worked my long shaft in and out with a forceful grace. As I released every drop of my love into her, she relaxed and howled into the room, providing all she needed to confirm she loved me as deeply and as permanently as I loved her. I collapsed on the bed, drained of every ounce of energy, and satisfied completely that I had provided her a powerful message of my love. Eventually her breathing became less intense, and slowed to a steady pace. After a few minutes of silence, she turned toward me and smiled. “You were right,” she said. I raised my head from the bed and turned toward her as I rested my jaw in my palm. “About what?” I asked. “I didn’t hate that,” she said. “Not one bit.” I nodded my head and didn’t say a word. I’d proven my point. I didn’t hate it either. I knew I wouldn’t. It was the first time we actually made love. And I tricked her into doing it on Valentine’s Day. Score: Vince 1, Sienna 0.

SIENNA March 16th, 2015 The routine I had developed over the last nine months not only provided me with a sense of security, but gave me great satisfaction. My adult life, finally, was exactly where I had always hoped it would be. To have everything I had always dreamed of after spending five years doubting it would ever exist made the taste of it all so much sweeter. I had read half a dozen books a week for as long as I could remember. The count was well into many thousands, and almost all of them had been romance novels. I had never, however, read a book that depicted a relationship or romance as sweet as the one I was living with Vince. Having been raised by a father who instilled tremendous moral value, a mother who stressed the importance of loyalty and love, and a motorcycle club who required he be strong, fearless, and selfless, Vince was the perfect mixture of what made the perfect man the perfect man. His mother was exactly as I pictured a mother should be; loving, caring, nurturing, demanding at times, sentimental when she needed to be, and funny. At this juncture in our relationship, my friendship I had developed with his mother was almost as important as the relationship I had with Vince.

“Bradley, you know better. Don’t ‘snatch’, it’s not polite,” she said as she waved her fork in Bradley’s direction. Bradley had just aggressively taken a bite of tamale from Anita’s fingers before she told him he could have it. Now sitting on the floor beside her chair trying to decide if he wanted to chew the food and eat it or spit it on the floor, Bradley wallowed the tamale around in his mouth as if he’d been given a rubber ball to eat. “That dog is going to explode. Who feeds their dog Mexican food? I’ll tell you who. Nobody, that’s who,” Vince said as he grabbed a tamale from the platter. I shifted my eyes from Vince to Anita and waited for it… “He wanted a bite,” Anita said. “He asked for it.” I bit into my taco and shifted my eyes back to Vince. “He’s a dog, Ma. A dog. He didn’t look at a menu and see we were having Mexican food and ask for a bite of tamale. He knows we’re sitting here eating, and he wanted some of what we were eating, because he’s fat and he’s always hungry. If he’d have known it was Mexican food, he wouldn’t have asked,” Vince explained. And, back to Anita. She pointed her fork at Vince and wagged the end of it up and down. “You know, for as smart as you are, and for as many books as you’ve read, sometimes you surprise me, Stephen. He knows it’s Mexican food, he sat in the kitchen and watched me make each and every bit of it. Long before you were here I might add.” I glanced at Vince. Vince poked a bite of tamale into his mouth, chewed it, and before he swallowed, spoke over his mouth full of food. “Oh, now he can recognize ingredients, huh?” “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Stephen. I swear, your father would have smacked you for that, and you know it,” she said in a scolding tone. “He knows better, Honey. I’m sorry,” Anita said as she patted her hand against my knee.

I turned toward her and smiled. “The food’s so good. I love it.” “Why, thank you,” she said. “Watch this,” Vince said. After we both shifted our eyes toward Vince, he reached for the bowl of homemade salsa, scooped out a large spoonful, and held it to his side. “Bradley!” he said. Bradley turned, realized he was being offered food, and ran to Vince’s side. After flopping his butt down on the floor, he looked at the spoon, looked up at Vince, and barked. “Come on bud, it’s good,” Vince said as he wiggled the spoon. Bradley glanced at the spoon, tilted his head back, and barked again. “He doesn’t like salsa,” Anita said. “Come on bud, look,” Vince said as he raised the spoon and pretended to eat some of it. He lowered the spoon to his side again. Bradley barked. Vince raised the spoon, dumped the salsa on the side of his plate, and shook his head. “His stomach’s bothering him after that tamale.” “Bradley!” Anita said. Bradley turned, studied what she held in her hand, and upon recognizing it, ran past me toward Anita. As he reached her side, he quickly sat down and tilted his head back slightly. She tossed the piece of tamale in the air and Bradley caught it in mid-flight. After gobbling it up and licking his lips, he glanced toward Vince and me. “See?” Anita said. “He knows what he likes.” “Tamales,” I said with a laugh.

She patted her hand against my knee. “That’s right, Honey. He loves the tamales.” “Stephen, you’re picking again. Did you eat with those boys before you came?” she asked. “Ma, how many times do I have to tell you? Sienna and I eat every Sunday. And we ate at noon. It’s 5:30 now. So, to answer you, no, I didn’t eat with the boys. And I’m not picking, I’ve had two tacos and two tamales,” he said as he poked his fork in his half-eaten tamale and raised it in the air. “Well, what did you eat for lunch? Maybe you’re still full,” she said. Vince sighed and bit into the tamale. “We do this every week, Ma. I’m not full. I’m hungry, and I’m eating.” “You’re talking with your mouth full again. That’s what you’re doing. If that’s the type of manners those boys are teaching you, you need to just quit that little club,” she said. Vince swallowed the tamale and took a drink of tea. “I’m not quitting the club, and they’re not a bunch of manner lacking pigs.” “How would I know? You never bring them over for dinner. It makes me wonder, Stephen,” she said. “I’ve always wondered.” “Keep wondering. They’re not coming over,” he snapped back. “Not now, not ever.” Uh oh, time to change the subject. Although Vince was in the MC, and was an active member, he wasn’t at all what I expected a member of an MC to be. He went to all the meetings, rode in all the mandatory runs, and sometimes I was convinced he loved his motorcycle more than he loved me, but he wasn’t really friends with any of the members. He didn’t hang out with them, ride with them, or do anything with them that wasn’t mandatory or sanctioned by the club. He told me he didn’t trust them, and I silently wondered why he was in the club with 30 members he didn’t trust. He explained the trust of the brotherhood was much different than trusting someone as a friend, and even though they were each his brother, none were his true friend. It made sense, but it didn’t make perfect sense. I suspected, like with all things Vince, he simply didn’t want to set himself up for a failure by

being misled, lied to, or develop and expectation and have it unmet. “It’s warming up outside, huh?” I said. “It sure is, Honey,” Anita said. Vince stood from his seat. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, excuse me.” “You’re excused, Dear,” his mother said. After he walked away, Anita patted me on the leg. I turned toward her and grinned, assuming she was going to say something about Bradley eating tamales, but that wasn’t the case. What she chose to share with me provided considerable insight to Vince, and why he was the way he was about some things. As she covered the side of her mouth to speak, I knew what she was going to say was about Vince, but only after she proceeded to speak in a light whisper, did I realized the significance of what she was telling me. “When Stephen was a little boy, he had very close friend. He was the cutest little boy, and so polite, his name was Jackson. They were inseparable. The little boy had a heart condition, and we all knew it, but it wasn’t something we ever discussed. You know, as parents we think those things will always work themselves out. Well, he lived down the block,” she said, pausing and pointing over her shoulder. “Three houses down. They started kindergarten on the same day, and were together until third grade. The bus picked them up at the corner. I think Stephen was nine and Jackson was ten at the time.” She lowered her fork to her plate, leaned forward, and peered through the doorway to confirm Vince wasn’t coming. “He died that summer. Vince hasn’t had a friend since. Not a single one. And when that woman… when she cheated on him? I thought he’d never be the same. The two people he opened up to and chose to let into his life had both let him down. I guess they were each for separate reasons, but he didn’t see it as different. You know, he looks at things differently than most, and I blame it on him losing Jackson,” she said. Vince hadn’t told me about his friend. As with many things from childhood, I suspected it may have been something he chose to forget, but I doubted that was the case. More than likely he remembered it, and the memory of losing a loved one and a cherished friend at such a young age not only affected Vince then, but still affected him today.

“That’s so sad,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” “So were we, Honey. They moved out right after. We lost them all. The Smiths. A wonderful couple and a wonderful little boy,” she said. As soon as she finished speaking, Vince walked back into the dining room. I turned toward him and forced myself to smile the best I was able. “I love you,” I said. It wasn’t all I could offer him, but it was the best I could do. I meant it, and I wanted him to know it. He needed to know it, understand it, and hopefully believe it. “I love you, too,” he said with a smile as he sat down. I told myself as I watched him prepare another taco that regardless of how bad things ended up, or how difficult life became that I would always be there for Vince. I would be the one person in his life that would never let him down. And all I could hope was that one day he would be able to realize my devotion, my sincerity, and my need to have him as my significant other. At that moment, and forever.

VINCE April 7th, 2014 Never let your guard down. I have no idea how many times my father had told me that, but it was a phrase not only that I remembered, but something I applied in my day-to-day activities, and it proved to be some of the best advice I ever received. “How bad?” Axton asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pretty bad.” “Well, fuck, Vince. Your definition of ‘pretty bad’ and mine might be different. Let’s hear it,” he said as he sat down. I pulled the chair away from the edge of the table and hesitated. Although I was proud that I wasn’t hurt, and thankful I was aware enough of my surroundings to recognize what was happening at the time, I wasn’t proud of what happened. “Broke out most of his teeth, at least the ones you can see when a guy smiles, anyway. Said I broke his jaw in a couple places, and broke his ankle,” I said.

Axton stood from his seat, crossed his arms in front of his chest, and shook his head from side-toside. After inhaling a long breath, he exhaled a whistle. “God damn, Vince. And how in the fuck did you break his ankle?” “When he came up behind me. I flipped him over my shoulder. He landed pretty bad on the table and all,” I said. “Right there in the restaurant?” he asked. “Broad fucking daylight? This fucker just comes up behind you with a gun and tries to rob you?” I shook my head. “Wasn’t really a robbery. He was mad about me taking the money I took from him on a deal from about a year ago and was trying for a little get back. Little more than ten grand, and he sure didn’t want to give it up at the time. He kept going on and on about how if I took the money it was going to cause the whole snowball effect and shit. Goes without saying I took it anyway. Guess he just saw me and recognized me.” “And that girl? She wasn’t there?” he asked. I shook my head. “Nope. Actually I was in there looking for someone else.” “Work?” Axton asked. “Yep,” I said with a nod. “So in three months you’ve shot some prick, killed him, and beat some other poor bastard half to death, leaving him in intensive care in the hospital. And, to top it all off, when this shit happens, nobody can help you, you can’t help yourself, and the club’s got our pants around our fucking ankles and our asses in the breeze…” he said. “Is that what this is about?” I said as I stood from my seat. “I haven’t said shit yet, Vince. Now sit the fuck down!” he demanded. I stood for a moment, glared at him, and eventually sat down. Axton had called me to the clubhouse to have a talk, and although I suspected he wanted to talk about the incident, I had no idea he was going to make it club business. “So what are you trying to say?” I asked.

“I’m not trying to say a damned thing. What I was saying was this; the business you’re in is your business, at least until it becomes a problem for the club. Your business isn’t a problem for the club…” he paused and lowered his arms as he sat down. He locked eyes with me and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Yet.” “At the rate you’re going, you’re going to be on the news more than Bret fucking Baier, and it’s going to become a problem if the club’s brought into it,” he continued. I kept my eyes locked on his and leaned into the edge of the table. I respected Axton, but no one was going to intimidate me, including him. “Anybody named the club yet? Ever?” I asked. He shook his head. “That’s not the point…” “It sure as fuck is,” I interrupted. “Slow down, Vince. God fucking damn, we’re on the same team here, you hot-headed prick. Jesus H. Christ,” he paused and pulled the rubber band tight, released it, and snapped it into his wrist. After snapping it again, he fixed his eyes on mine. “Here, let me say this before you fucking explode again. Don’t wear your cut when you’re working. And, it goes without saying, nothing with the club name on it. Just while you’re working,” he said. He leaned back in his seat and glared. “I don’t,” I said. “Ever?” he asked. “Never. Not fucking once,” I said. “Well,” he said as he raised his hands in the air. “Looks like we’re all good.” “That it?” I asked as I stood from my seat. He shook his head from side-to-side and rubbed the few days of growth on his face. “No. There’s one more thing.” I gazed down at him and widened my eyes. “And?”

“A phone. I know you got rid of your phone after Natalie and you split up, but…” “We didn’t split up. I divorced her,” I said. “I swear. You’re one difficult motherfucker. Nobody here is out to get you,” he said. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shook my head. “Never said anybody was out to fucking get me.” “Sit down. You make me nervous looming over me like that,” he said. I sat down and glared in his direction. “You didn’t have to say you felt like anyone was out to get you. You fucking act like it. Now this brings up another thing. Answer this. When was the last time you did anything with anyone in the club that wasn’t mandatory?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders and glanced around the room. After a moment of calming down, I turned my eyes toward Axton. “When was the last time you did anything with anyone except with the five or six motherfuckers you run with? Fucking never. You gonna tell me who I got to run with now?” I asked. “That wasn’t what I was…” He paused and shook his head, obviously frustrated. It made two of us. He glared at me as he responded. “To answer your question, no I’m not going to tell you who to run with. Who you run with is your business.” “That it?” I asked as I pushed myself away from the table. “Get a phone,” he said. “Excuse me?” I asked. “You tossed your phone in the bon fire after you found those text messages from Natalie on it. We all figured you’d get one after a while, and we’re coming up on two years here pretty quick, and you still don’t have a god damned phone. What if someone needs to get ahold of you?” he asked.

I stood from my seat, turned toward the door, and took a few steps. After exhaling what little breath I had in my lungs, I turned to face him. “Anybody I care about needs anything from me, they know how to find me,” I said. And I walked out the door.

SIENNA May 8th, 2015 Vince and I had known each other for almost a year. The last eleven months had flown by – quicker than any other time in my life – and I wondered if a life with Vince was just going to whoosh past, leaving me with many memories and no real recollection of where all the time had gone. Spending time with Vince was like watching an action packed movie or reading a fabulous book; it passed at three or four times faster than any other time. I loved the watch he bought me for Christmas more than anything, but if we were out on a date all I had to do was look at it, and I was immediately reminded that the night was all but over. It was apparent the satisfying things in life caused my mind to relax, and the passage of time was immeasurably fast when my mind was less resistant to what was being processed. Life’s stressful events made me tense, and when I was stressed out the clock seemed to stand still, making my shitty days last forever and my great ones over before they ever got a good start. Life would be so much more enjoyable if the tables were turned; and the memorable times seemed to last forever, leaving the tension filled days to blow past like speeding freight train.

As I heard the rumble of the motorcycle’s exhaust, I grabbed my purse and ran to the door. I pulled the door closed and turned toward the street just in time to see him come around the corner and accelerate toward my house. Riding on Vince’s motorcycle was one of my favorite things ever, and even though it was ugly to look at, it was delightful to ride on. Mentally, I compared his motorcycle to oatmeal; something grotesque to stare at, but one thing I clearly couldn’t imagine life without. As he pulled into the driveway I jumped off the porch, hurried down the walk, and stood by the garage door waiting. He slowed down, turned around in the drive, and faced the street. With the change of weather from winter to a very warm spring, his thick beard was long gone, and he was back to having nothing but short stubble on his face. Sad that my beard porn winter was over, but enjoying his new look, I lifted my leg over the seat and got on. “Glasses,” he said over his shoulder. Shit. I opened my purse, grabbed my glasses, and put them on. Remembering all of the things I had to do when riding the motorcycle didn’t come naturally to me, because I didn’t ride on it often enough. I did always remember that I needed to hang onto him to keep from falling off, but each time Vince pulled out of my driveway, I made it a point not to, because it felt like riding a rollercoaster when I teetered back in the seat as he pulled away. And he always pulled out of my driveway slowly, which allowed me to enjoy the feeling each time. After placing my feet on the rear pegs, I tapped him on the shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Ready,” I said as I lifted my hands out to my side and closed my eyes. He pulled out of the driveway slowly; causing me to rock back in the seat and making me feel as if I was riding an amusement park ride. As I opened my eyes and grabbed him around the waist, he accelerated up the block, leaving me to wonder if he realized I enjoyed coming out of the driveway slowly, and he purposely did so for a that reason alone. It seemed Vince knew everything, so I chose not to ask, deciding he did what he did for a reason. As we rolled to a stop at the end of the block, Vince tilted his head to the side. “There’s this cool little place in Andover. It has a pretty small selection, but it’s great food. Guy started out on one of those

little street vendor grilles with fucking wheels on it.” He glanced in either direction, and pulled away from the stop sign gradually. “Maybe fifteen minutes to get there, sound good?” I didn’t ever care what I ate with Vince, simply being with him was enough. Hell, he could starve me, and as long as I was starving with him, I really wouldn’t care. I leaned forward and rested my chin on his shoulder. “Sounds great.” “Andover it is,” he said, twisting the throttle a little more after he spoke. I gripped him a little bit tighter and pulled my chest tight to his back. Feeling my body against his provided a level of comfort I had not previously known. It didn’t matter if he was hugging me, making love to me, or we were riding on the motorcycle, but when our bodies were touching and I was positively held in place, I felt as if nothing could harm me. With Vince as my lover, I felt the only person who could harm me was me. What seemed like five minutes and very little traffic later, we pulled into a small and rather sparsely occupied strip mall. At the far end was a small restaurant with a nice unoccupied covered seating area outside. As Vince came to a stop in a parking stall adjacent to the restaurant, I envisioned us sitting alone in the outdoor patio, talking and eating while enjoying the warm western evening sun. We walked to the door side by side, and Vince pulled against the handle. The door rattled, but didn’t open. He pulled against it again, rattling the windows of the storefront. We both gazed through the tinted glass into the restaurant. Everything was in place, but it was obviously closed. It seemed odd on a Friday night that the restaurant would be closed, but that sure seemed to be the case. I studied the sign positioned above the door, grabbed my phone, and Googled the name of the restaurant. “Closed. Says it right here. All of his restaurants are closed, this one was the last, it closed just yesterday,” I said, pointing to the screen of my phone. “Motherfucker!” he shouted as he kicked the frame of the door.

From the force of his kick, the glass door flexed inward terribly. As it bowed back outward, it opened. “Oh my god,” I said as I glanced over each shoulder. “Did you break it?” “No,” he said as he kicked it again playfully. “These aluminum framed doors are pieces of shit.” He gripped the door frame in his hand and pointed to the latch, which was still in place. “The slightest flex in the frame and they open, it’s a bad design.” “Oh,” I said, as I studied the door. I turned to face him and shrugged my shoulders. “So now what?” He pulled the door open and peered inside. A quick glance over his shoulders later, he stepped inside the vacant restaurant. “Come on.” I gazed the length of the parking lot. The half a dozen or so shops, which included a nail salon, a gaming store, and a frozen yogurt shop, all had very little business. A few passing cars were in the street, but no one was actually in the parking lot, only a few parked cars and Vince’s bike. Not wanting to say no, and rather intrigued by the abandoned restaurant, I followed him through the door. With my heart beat steadily increasing with each step; I gazed around the empty establishment, staying a few steps behind him. The restaurant consisted of one large room, filled with eight booths, eight tables, and a small kitchen which was exposed and open for the patrons of the restaurant to view while dining. It was more upscale than I suspected it would be, considering its location. As I turned and looked at the artwork still hanging on the walls, I couldn’t help but wonder if the location was part of the reason it closed. Such a nice place in a small town outside of the city, and in a rundown shopping mall, it seemed a strange choice for the location. I glanced toward a few of the tables, their chairs askew, wondering if people left in a hurry or were ushered out after a grand closing complete with wine, live music, and streamers dangling from the ceiling. It seemed strange having full access to the place, knowing at one point it was a thriving business filled with lovers, businessmen, and the occasional debt collecting biker. “Well I’ll be damned,” Vince said, causing me to shift my focus daydreaming to him. He pointed to a single bottle of wine below the wine rack, sitting in a wine cooler. “There’s one bottle…”

“What is it?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders, opened the door of the small cooler, and handed it to me. “It’s a 2006 Schiopetto Pinot Grigio,” I said. “Most wine connoisseurs wouldn’t admit to loving this, but it’s a great wine.” He pulled two glasses from the overhead rack, blew away what little dust may have been inside, and began to hunt for a corkscrew. After a short search, he found one and uncorked the bottle. After pouring the wine, he lifted a glass and gazed into it. “Want a taste” As I chuckled at his question, my mouth began to water. “Really? You’re asking me if I want some wine?” Dressed in his cut, a snow white tee shirt, jeans, and his leather boots, he seemed out of place standing in the end of the kitchen with a glass of wine in his hand. Truth be told, we both seemed out of place in the closed restaurant. We seemed like criminals. After sip of the wine, it really didn’t seem to matter much. The wine was chilled perfectly, and was quite tasty. Somewhat disappointed we didn’t at least have an appetizer or something to nibble on while we drank it, I fixed my eyes on the small stainless steel refrigerator a few feet to Vince’s right. “What’s in the fridge?” I asked. “Anything?” He took a sip of wine, walked to the refrigerator, and opened the door. “Looks like some white cheese, some leafy shit, a bag of tomatoes and that’s about it. Maybe something left over from an appetizer or something.” He slammed the door of the refrigerator and turned to face me. “Let me see it,” I said as I stepped around him. I opened the refrigerator. Fresh Basil, Roma tomatoes, and a few pounds of fresh mozzarella were on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, just as Vince said. No doubt left over from the previous nights closing, it appeared fresh and seemed like a great idea. A few seconds later, and I had found appetizer plates, a sharp knife, and balsamic vinegar. While I sipped my wine, I prepared two plates and walked to where Vince still stood.

“Viola!” I said as I handed him a plate. “Does this shit even go together?” he asked. “Try it,” I said as I picked up a piece of the appetizer I had prepared. “All together?” he asked. “Just like they’re layered,” I said as I lifted mine in the air. I ate the cheese, tomato, and basil leaf in one bite and after swallowing it, took a drink of wine. “Heaven,” I sighed. Vince did the same. “Damn, pretty good stuff. You’re handy as fuck.” “Blind luck they left that stuff there,” I said. We carried our plates, the bottle of wine, and the glasses to one of the many empty tables. Although it might not have appealed to just any woman, having wine and an appetizer with Vince in a restaurant we had broken into was romantic. We were alone, the place was only lighted by the indirect sunlight, and it was quiet. As we sat and talked, drinking our wine and sharing cheese, a few cars came and went in the parking lot, but as far as I was concerned, we were alone in a perfect sense. As the bottle of wine produced its last drop, I glanced at my watch, well aware we would need to leave soon. Three hours had passed since we had left my house, further proof of my belief that time with Vince passed at a drastically rapid rate. “I’ve got to pee,” I said as I glanced around dining area. “The hallway in the rear,” he said as he tossed his head to the side. I walked to the rear of the restaurant and into the hallway. The first door I reached was the men’s restroom, and although I fully realized I never would have considered doing it in any other circumstance, I always wanted to see what the inside of the men’s bathroom looked like. Fully expecting to have to hover over the dirty toilet, but far too curious not to go inside, I pushed

the door open, knowing no one was going to come inside. Surprised at the cleanliness of the restroom, I peed, washed my hands, and pulled out a towel from the dispenser. I tossed it toward the trash can receptacle, missed, and walked toward the corner to pick it up. A small brown bag lay on the floor beside the trash can with my wadded paper beside it. I picked up both, tossed the tissue in, and began to wad the bag into a ball. As I smashed the brown paper sack, a receipt fell out onto the floor. Naturally, I picked it up, and even more naturally – at least for me – I looked at it. The receipt was date and time stamped, and from a local upscale grocery store close to Vince’s mother’s home. I stared down at the receipt and did the math for military time, which never quite came natural for me. 16:44 5.8.2015 The receipt was for the bottle of wine, basil, tomatoes, and cheese. And the items were purchased at 4:44 pm, roughly a half hour before Vince showed up to pick me up. The entire night wasn’t happenstance, he had planned it. I folded the receipt, shoved it into the pocket of my shorts, and looked at myself in the mirror. The woman who looked back was happy, beautiful, and very much in love. I grinned at her, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Still sitting at the table, holding his half-full glass of wine under his nose, Vince didn’t look the part of a romantic, at least not in the big picture. He looked like he wanted the world to see him. Like the bad ass, take no shit, don’t fucking look at me or I’ll rip your head off, tattooed biker that he was. He was those things, but he was so much more. He was kind, sincere, and filled with devotion to the woman he loved. And that woman just so happened to be me.

VINCE May 8th, 2015 I watched as she walked down the hallway toward where I was seated. A firm believer that she was without a doubt the most beautiful creature God had ever created, I sat and admired her without trying to bring attention to the fact I was doing so. Watching her simply meander from point “A” to point “B”, for me, had to be comparable to what most men experienced watching a Victoria’s Secret runway show. “I love you,” she said as she stepped to my side. I leaned forward, kissed her lightly, and gazed at her admiringly as I pulled my lips from hers. “I love you,” she said. “Very much.” “So, you ready to get out of here?” I asked as I picked up the glasses and plates from the table. She placed her hands on her hips and arched her back slightly. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Oh no?” I asked as I walked toward the kitchen.

I placed the dirty dishes in the sink, turned to face her, and shrugged my shoulders. “I think it was a great evening here. Kind of romantic, if you ask me.” “It was,” she said. “It was very romantic.” “What are we going to do now?” I asked as I motioned around the room. “Here?” She twisted back and forth on the balls of her feet, her hands still pressed against her hips. “Well, I’m going to suck that big cock of yours. I don’t care what you do.” “Oh are you?” I asked. She nodded her head, reached behind her head with both hands, and tightened her ponytail. “Yep. Sure am,” she said as she lowered her hands. With her eyes fixed on mine, she began to walk in my direction. The entire twenty or so feet, she maintained eye contact, walking slowly and gracefully. She stopped mere inches from where I was standing, still gazing into my eyes, and lowered herself onto her knees, her eyes locked on mine the entire time. By the time she reached me, my dick was fighting against the fabric of the denim jeans, aching to be released. Without speaking, I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, and pulled out my cock, gazing into her eyes as I did so. She took me in her hand, and while still looking up at me intently, licked the pre-cum from the tip of my dick, leaving a small strand of it connecting her tongue to the head for a long second before it finally fell, only to be caught by her hand and lifted to her mouth. As she licked her hand, it was over for me. I couldn’t take it any longer. Seeing her doing what she was doing was far too much for me, and on this particular night, although I wasn’t drunk, I was well aware I wouldn’t make it a matter of minutes. Sienna was much too sexy of a woman. I bent my knees slightly, reached down and slipped my hands under her armpits, and as she began to encompass the swollen head in with her lips, I lifted her from her knees and to her feet.

“What?” she asked innocently. “Don’t even start,” I said. “You know what. You do that shit on purpose, you sexy little bitch.” She pressed the tip of her index finger to her lips, doing her best to look innocent, but appeared to be as guilty as she truly was. “I just love that big cock of yours, that’s all,” she said. “And I love that tight little pussy of yours,” I said as I lifted her in the air. Her eyes met mine as I hoisted her above the floor and held her in the air, her feet dangling six inches from the floor. “What are you going to do to me, you big mean biker?” she asked in another effort to be as innocent as she could in appearance. “Whatever I want to,” I said as I held her in place. “Please don’t fuck me,” she whispered. “I just wanted to suck your cock. Please don’t fuck me.” “You afraid?” I asked. She gazed down at my cock, feigned a gasp, and covered her mouth quickly. “It’s too big. It won’t fit in my little pussy. I’m scared.” I lowered her to the floor. As her feet made contact with the concrete, I began to stroke my cock. Her innocent routine had me so worked up I’d be lucky to last a matter of minutes. I unbuttoned my cut, took off my shirt, and draped them over the back of a chair. “You’re so muscular. Oh no, you’re not going to make me fuck you, are you? Please, don’t make me fuck you. You’re so big and muscular,” she said as she widened her eyes and stared at my chest. “Get undressed,” I said as I pointed toward her shorts. “But my pussy, it’s so tight, you’ll hurt me,” she said in a high-pitched whine as she turned away. “I’ll hurt you if you don’t get undressed,” I growled. “Yes, Sir,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you say.” I shook my head at her innocent little girl efforts. “Toss your clothes on the table and bend over,” I

said. “Anything you say, just don’t hurt me,” she said softly as she pushed her shorts down her thighs. “Leave on the shoes,” I said as I pointed to her sneakers. “Please let me take them off, I don’t want you to fuck me in my shoes,” she whimpered. “I’m so scared…” I shook my head, pointed at the table, and cleared my throat. “Bend over.” “Please, please don’t fuck me from behind. Pleeeaaaaaase, I’m begging you. It’ll go too deep,” she whined as she pulled down her panties and tossed them on the table. “Bend over,” I said in a demanding tone. “But you’re too big. You’ll hurt me. You’ll tear my little pussy up,” she said as she bent over and pressed her tits into the top of the table. My jeans had been around my thighs the entire time. As she turned to face away from me, I kicked off my boots and dropped my jeans to the floor. Now standing naked with the exception of my socks, I was well beyond ready to start fucking. Without warning, I swept my foot against the inside of each of her feet, spread her legs apart slightly, and guided the head of my stiff cock inside of her at the same time. With the feeling of her tight wet pussy surrounding the shaft, I slowly pushed myself into her until I bottomed out. “Oh, god,” she gasped. “You’re way too big.” I pulled my hips back, revealing my glistening cock one inch at a time. As I watched it slide free of her wet folds, I realized I had no business watching. Keeping my eyes open while I fucked Sienna was becoming a huge problem. She was turning me into a twat in more ways than one, the primary being I was far too deeply in love with her, and the secondary was without a doubt the fact she was more beautiful than any other woman on earth. Hell, I couldn’t even give her a good fucking and enjoy seeing it. Frustrated at the thought of me becoming soft, and feeling the need to give her a good hard fucking, I needed her to stop with the “I’m a tight-pussied little girl” routine. It was just too much.

“Just stop it,” I sighed. She turned and glanced over her shoulder. “Stop what?” I leaned forward, gazed down toward her ass, and watched my cock disappear into her tight hole. I should have turned away. “Oh, god. You’re too big, please, please, Sir. Let me go. Don’t fuck my tight little pussy any more, I’m begging you,” she pouted. You really need to stop that. I grasped her waist in my hands, pulled my hips back, and as soon as I felt the head clear her pussy lips, pushed my hips forward again. As I felt her warmth surround the shaft, I pulled back again. I can do this. I can do this. I pushed myself inside her until I felt myself bottom out. “Please, let me go. Your cock is way too big, you’re going to rip my little pussy to shreds,” she whimpered. You ornery little bitch… I reached down, grabbed her ponytail in my hand, and pulled against it tight. As her back arched slightly, I pressed my hips against her ass, held them in place, and began to grind my cock in and out of her. With my free hand, I reached around and cupped my palm against her mouth. Fucking her deeply with her hair pulled tight, I tightened my grip on her mouth, preventing her from saying a word. Her muffled grunts against my hand, our fucking each other in an abandoned restaurant, the setting sun, and the fact her pussy really was tiny and tight was slowly working against me. I needed to close my eyes. Fuck it. I love this woman, what’s it really matter. “Take that big cock, little girl,” I bellowed as I pounded it deep in her pussy.

She grunted against my hand. “That’s right. You’re getting that big biker dick now, aren’t you? And there isn’t a god damned thing you can do about is, is there?” I grunted. I pressed my chest to her back and moved my face beside hers. She turned her head to the side and widened her eyes. I pressed my hand against her mouth, continuing to muffle her voice into nothing but grunts. “Fuck no there isn’t. You’re fucked. I’m taking that pussy whether you like it or not,” I growled into her ear. “Because I can,” I whispered. I began to fuck her hard, fast, and without reservation. The sound of my hips slapping against her ass echoed down the empty corridor. With each stroke in, I pulled her hair back, causing her to arch her back even more. “You helpless little girl, what are you going to do to stop me? Huh?” I barked as I continued to fuck her. “Nothing. That’s what I thought,” I said as I worked myself in and out of her tight twat. And I released her mouth from my grasp. “Holy shit,” she wailed. Instantly, her breathing became irregular and she began to grind her hips against me. Within a few seconds I felt her pussy contracting around my swollen shaft. I felt the tension building within me with each stroke, and I knew it would only be a matter of time… “I’m going to come in you,” I said. “Please don’t,” she breathed. “Please…let me…let me go…” And that was it. I arched my back, held my cock deep, and as she began to cry out into the room in pleasure, I erupted inside of her, filling her with all the proof I could that I felt the way I felt about her.

After we both collapsed onto the table and lay side by side breathing like we’d just finished a marathon, she turned her head to the side and gave her best pouty face. “You don’t play fair,” she said, her bottom lip pushed out as far as she could push it. I raised my head slightly and gazed down at her. “And you do?” “I’m just a little girl,” she said with a laugh. “With a really tight pussy and a willing throat…” I gazed down at my twitching cock. Just like that, she made me want more of her tight little pussy. She was clearly in control of my cock. There was no doubt I was a big mean motherfucker in the eyes of the fellas and in the minds of all who encountered me. There weren’t a handful of men on earth who I believed could beat me in a fist fight, and none could handle a knife better than me. But Sienna was turning me into a sexual twat with little stamina and no self-control, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. Damn I love this woman.

SIENNA May 10th, 2015 Throughout our relationship, I continued to one-click and read romance novels like an addict, my actions mirroring a meth-head hitting the pipe. I had always wondered if anyone on earth had the same problem with buying and reading books that I had, but at this point in my life I doubted anyone was as bad as I was. I believed I initially started reading love stories to dream. The books were like fuel for my internal fire; giving me hope, providing me an outlet, and allowing me to live through the characters in the books in a manner I was incapable of living without them. Through the books, I was able to live in various places, experience exposure to a very diverse group of people, and do so in the comfort of my home without fear, worry, or ridicule. To me books were like magic, and the authors were nothing short of genius. After I met Vince, I knew I was living a dream and had no real need to continue to read about it, so I wondered if my reading pace would slow. It didn’t. Reading the books now, I didn’t dream as much, but I made comparisons.

And none of the men in my love stories could compare to the reality of Vince. But it was still fun letting them try. I lifted the bottle to my lips, held it in place, and stared at the monitor. Inside Vera, by Claire Puckett, is nothing short of a masterpiece. I began the book and quickly found a down to earth relatable hero, and a heroine who didn’t whine, bitch or do dumb shit. With my interest piqued, I continued. The story unfolded at a quick pace, following each of them through their respective lives in a first person alternating POV format. Finding a different voice for each character must be a difficult task, because many authors simply change the name of the character at the beginning of the chapter, but in the absence of that one declaration, the characters seem to be the same. The personality, the speech, and the characteristics mimic the character in the previous chapter. Many male authors writing female leads are unaware of the female mind’s differences, and many female authors write male characters that seem feminine. Claire hits it out of the fucking park. A boxer running from his past meets a girl who should be running but isn’t (at least physically). She doesn’t realize it, but she is running farther and farther with each passing day, convinced she is loyal to her spouse. She is loyal, but she’s fading fast. The problem is that her husband is an abusive dick. Not the type of abuse that a woman soon recovers from; more the type that requires sunglasses to cover up. The ancillary characters in the book are almost as interesting as the mains, with the exception of one. The best friend of the boxer needs a book of his own (Claire, I’m begging you…) The book continues to follow the life of the boxer and the life of the abused woman, until their lives collide one day. And collide they do.

I cheered, I screamed, I hid under my covers. I almost pissed my pants. I cheered again. I actually stood in the boxing ring. Yes, in the fucking ring; sweat dripping from my chin, my muscles aching, and waited for the opening to swing the perfect right cross into the jaw of my opponent. The book detail sheet said three hundred pages. I was certain it was more like fifty pages. Hell, I’d finished it in thirty minutes, I was sure. I glanced at my watch and eight hours had passed. And, as satisfied as I was, I wanted more. *swallows heavily and takes drink of wine* I grinned, took a long drink from the bottle, swallowed it, and took another. I hoped Claire herself would read the review and appreciate it, but I doubted that would be the case. What was more important to me was that everyone on Goodreads was able to understand my position on the book, and consider reading it. Hopefully, if they did they would enjoy it as much as I did. I took another drink, set the bottle aside, and stared down at the keyboard. After a moment of thought, I continued. So, I’ll close by saying this. The author made me fall in love with a bald-headed 220 pound hot-tempered thug who uses pruning shears to resolve his frustrations (read the book). I would have never guessed anyone could have caused me to feel this level of emotion for such a man, but she did. For her ability to tell a story such as this, keeping my interest and making me cry the entire trip, all the while using characters that are clearly unconventional, I give five stars. For making me fall in love with aforementioned bald guy, two more. For the perfect ending, two more. And, for taking me into a sport I know nothing of and making me feel like I know everything about boxing, another. So…. On a five star scale, I give ten. Thank you, Claire.

Thank you. I stopped typing, studied the screen for a moment, and pressed the button to publish my review. Half a bottle of wine and two reviews later, and I was down to my last review. Of all the books I had read in the last year, I wanted to review this one the least. It was an awful book, terribly disturbing, and not something I would have ever continued to read had I not been persuaded to do so by the author. The thought of writing the review made me feel ill, hence saving it for last. As much enjoyment as I got out of writing reviews, and as entertaining as I found drafting them to be, one thing I always felt terrible about was when an author asked me personally to read and review a book, and the book ended up being awful. Typically, when I received a book I simply couldn’t get interested in, or if I found it to be poorly written, or something I simply felt I would be incapable of reviewing honestly, I would attempt to get the author to allow me to not review the book. No harm, no foul, so to speak. Well, on this particular book, the author refused my request to not review the book, stating that he wanted the book reviewed regardless. In fact, even after I reluctantly finished the book and still didn’t want to review it, he insisted on it. I want your opinion, he said. Believe me, you don’t, I responded. Yet, he insisted. I walked to the kitchen, realized I was just north of a drunken mess, and opened bottle number two. I fully realized I didn’t need any more wine, but I wanted more. I removed the cork, poured a glass, and re-corked the bottle. That’ll make sure I don’t overdo it. I slid the bottle to the side, took a sip from my glass, and stumbled toward the room. After drinking half the glass of wine in one slurp, I pushed it to the side and began to type. A Man, a Woman, and a Knife, by Alton Parsons was a book I would not normally read. At the insistence of the author, I went against the grain of my comfort zone and read the book for review.

And. I can’t brush my teeth enough or drink enough wine to get the foul taste out of my mouth. *bile rises in throat* Thinking about this book is making me sick, which is typically okay, but there was no real reason for the scenes that are making me sick to have been in the book. They served no purpose whatsoever. Don’t get me wrong, I like dark reads. I like books that make me check and double check my front and back doors to make sure they’re locked. I like books that make me cringe, and I love books that make me cough up matter that I wish would have stayed in my stomach. But. I despise books that have subject matter randomly inserted into them for no reason, and were clearly done for shock value alone. In considering what to type next, I began thinking about the book. Thinking about the book caused me to get angry, and my anger immediately turned to thirst. I finished my glass of wine, walked to the kitchen and poured another. Half a glass later, and I was back to writing my review. “Show, don’t tell”, is good advice to all authors. I have always felt the author should allow the reader into the mind of the character, to some degree. But. Don’t tell me he’s angry, have him cross his arms and kick a rock. Don’t tell me “it was a terribly hot day in Atlanta”, tell me “my breath was nearly sucked from my lungs as we walked out of the airport, and the sun bore down on us like a heavy weight as we walked what seemed like a mile and a half to the parking garage…” This book is so full of purple prose that it made reading it feel as if I was being told a story in detail in lieu of seeing it happen in my mind. And, it was full, and I do mean FULL of two hundred pages of graphically detailed violence that need not be in it to tell the story. After the first chapter I fully understood Barton Sole was an animal, a psychopath, and that he had a temper like a human Tasmanian devil. But to continue to beat a dead horse (or in this case, beat a dead prostitute) in the manner the he did (through, of course, the author’s tale) until her

skull was in pieces on the floor and brain matter was on the walls… I lifted my glass and took another drink. And another. And then it was gone. I half crawled half stumbled to the kitchen, poured the last of the wine into my glass, and zig-zagged back to my room. After pouring half the wine on my pajamas and the other half down my throat, I began typing. Fine. The first time, I felt it was okay. A little graphic, but I lived with it because it allowed me to FULLY understand the man was a fucking lunatic. But, the sixteen additional chapters telling detail upon detail of “I’m so angry I think the only way to diffuse this situation is to bash in the skull of another prostitute” is taking it a bit too far. The story told could have been done in eighteen pages (I highlighted each one). Three hundred and three pages were useless graphic bullshit. In short, the book could have been edited down to roughly twenty pages at most, including the ridiculous preface and prologue. Bottom line? This book was nothing short of a disaster. One star. Because I have to give it something to get this review to post (you asked, Alton) I did my best to read the review, and as the monitor’s screen began to sway back and forth in my field of vision, published it. As I stood from my chair and reached for my wine, I fell against the desk, almost tipped over, and eventually ended up lowering myself to the floor rather gracefully, considering all things. After crawling to my bed and climbing up on it, I relaxed into a spinning room. I hate that fucking book.

I covered my eyes with my pillow...

VINCE May 10th, 2015 One thing I never expected to happen with Sienna was to be stood up. Not in a million years would I have thought I would have been left looking like a fool, but then again… It had only been a year. It took me fifteen years to determine my wife was incapable of keeping her promises. Learning after a year should be considered a blessing. I left my mother’s home after an embarrassing one-sided conversation which lasted all evening. After fidgeting with the food for an hour and a half only to force myself to swallow a few small pieces, I finally left and rode my bike to Sienna’s home, praying I would find an answer. What I found was an empty house free of any signs of life. All interior lights were off, the porch

light was off, and although I spent nothing short of a half hour beating on the front and rear doors, no one answered the door. Two women had been allowed into my life. In return for my loyalty I received two broken promises. And one broken heart. Bile rose in my throat. I raised my hand to knock again and realized I was shaking terribly. I inhaled a deep breath through my nose, gazed down at the toes of my boots, and exhaled. The bile rose again. I turned toward the driveway, walked to my bike, and lifted my leg over the seat. As I sat staring out into the street, I knew if I left it would be the last time I would ever pull away from her house. She had done the unthinkable. In Sienna’s own words, what had happened was the unexpected result of the natural development of life. At least now, when it came to women, I would know what to expect. Broken promises. I started the motorcycle, pulled in the clutch lever, and kicked the lever into gear. After a long hesitation and a more than ample amount of time, I released the clutch and pulled out into the street. Alone.

SIENNA May 11, 2015 I opened my eyes, rolled onto my side, and tried to make sense of why my mouth felt like I had someone else’s tongue in it. My mouth was dry, I felt like I’d been ran over by a truck, and I could feel my heart beating in my eyes. I drank way too much wine. With the room illuminated naturally by the setting sun, I narrowed my eyes and studied my surroundings as if they were unfamiliar. A quarter of a glass of wine sat on my desk beside my monitor, which had the screen saver zooming back and forth across the screen. Fuck, I must have fallen asleep. I stretched, walked to the kitchen, and took some Tylenol for my aching head. After finishing my glass of water, I walked to my bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. After a few seconds, I lowered my head into my hands and prayed for it to stop throbbing. Son-of-a-bitch.

After a considerable amount of time, my head felt good enough to stand, and I walked to my desk. The black screen indicated I had been asleep for long enough that my computer shut down, which happened after fifteen minutes. I rubbed my eyes and stared at the monitor. Although I vaguely remembered writing a review, I didn’t really remember writing all of the reviews I was supposed to write, or exactly where I left off or what happened. I wiggled the mouse, cleared the screen of the wiggling blurry ball, and stared at the review. It didn’t look familiar in the least. After a moment of staring blankly at the monitor, I refreshed the screen and stared. The review still seemed strange, as if it was written by someone else, but the time stamp at the side left me slightly puzzled. 14 hours, 38 min ago Fourteen hours ago? How can that be? I glanced at my watch. 7:22. I stared blankly at my watch, tried to make sense of what was going on, but couldn’t. If it’s 7:22, the sun wouldn’t be setting. It would be totally sunny. I walked to the bedroom window, opened it, and peered outside. Fuck. I ran to the kitchen and looked at the microwave. 7:21 Fuck. It can’t be. After a frantic search, I found my purse, got my phone, and looked at the screen. 7:23 AM Mon, May 11 No…no…no, please God, no. ***

After repeated calls to his home went unanswered, I finally left a message, which was not at all what I wanted to do. Three hours later, and still having received no phone call from him, I was scared I had disappointed him much more than I expected. I sat in his driveway frustrated that I had passed out from being drunk and missed dinner. I not only that I had I down Vince, but Anita as well. She took so much pride in her preparation of the meals, arrangement of the table, and found such value in our conversations that my having missed dinner would have disappointed her greatly. I was sure of it. “Gabriel’s Message,” by Sting played over the stereo as I sat and waited for Vince to return. I can fix this. Two and a half complete plays of the CD later, while “Do You Hear What I Hear,” by Whitney Houston played, I hoped Vince would understand, but I had spent enough time playing ideas over and over in my head of how he may react, that I feared he would overreact. As gentle as he seemed to be, and as kind as he was, his temper was beyond what most would describe as hot tempered. His ability to forgive was minimal, and his ability to forget was nonexistent. Fuck. I covered my head in my hands, realizing fully that my actions got me into the predicament I was in, and no matter what his reaction was, I could get through it one way or another. An hour and a half later, and I had convinced myself that I fucked up and fucked up bad. As I sat in the silent car, I heard the unmistakable sound of his motorcycle coming down the street. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed my suspicion, and I saw him coming up the street. Breathe, Sienna, breathe… His motorcycle slowed, he glanced to the side, and upon what appeared to be his recognition of my car in his driveway, he accelerated past the driveway and up the block. Oh no you don’t. I started the engine, shifted the car in reverse, and backed out of the driveway. As the car came to

a stop in the street, he was a block away at the intersection at the end of the block. Think you can outrun this motherfucker? I shifted the car in drive and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. Think again, Vince. The car lunged forward, and the tires began to spin. As the smoke bellowed out from the rear fenders and the car continued to race forward at a very rapid pace, Vince pulled away from the stop sign and crossed through the intersection. I released the gas pedal, frustrated that he hadn’t waited on me, and slowed down for the stop sign. Upon seeing no cars coming from either direction, I opted to stomp the gas pedal again and run through the intersection without stopping. Within a few seconds, I had caught up with Vince and was following close behind him. After a slow-paced cat and mouse game that included covering half of the city and consuming no less than another hour of time, it appeared Vince was riding back toward his house. Fifteen minutes later, and I followed him into the driveway and parked the car. He parked the bike in the middle of the drive, shut it off, and sat on it staring at the garage. Upon realizing he had no intention of walking up to the car and talking to me, not only did I realize that he was angrier than I hoped he would be, but I knew that I was going to have to get out and talk to him about what had happened. So much for having the comfort of my music and my car. I pushed the car door open, cleared my throat, and walked alongside his motorcycle. “So, I was doing book reviews and I guess…” “Save it,” he said flatly. Still staring at the garage, he held his gaze for a moment. As his eyes shifted down toward the gas tank, he spoke again, and as he did, he closed his eyes. “Just go,” he said. Oh shit. He’s really mad.

“Do you want to come over later? Or maybe I could bring some pizza over here, and we could…” He turned his head to the side and glanced upward. “No, Sienna, I don’t want to come over. You broke a promise. You left me sitting at my mother’s house like a god damned fool, and I had no idea…” “Wait, I’m sorry, I just fell asleep…” He raised his left hand in the air and held it between us. “Like I said, save it. I can’t do this.” “Do what?” He pointed his finger at me, and then wagged it back and forth between us. “This. You and me. It’s over.” A lump rose in my throat and I felt hot all over. My throat constricted and I fought to breathe. This couldn’t be happening. As I fought for each choppy breath I was able to eventually take, I was sure he didn’t mean what I felt like he meant. “Wait. Over? What?” the words came out as if someone else had asked them. He reached for the handlebars, started the motorcycle, and shook his head. “Yeah, over. Don’t call, don’t come over, don’t write, don’t fuck with me. You broke a fucking promise, Sienna. I can’t do this again,” he said. My eyes welled with tears, and as much as I wanted to say, to scream, to grab him, to apologize, to hug him, or just stand and talk, I was paralyzed. He released the clutch, slowly pulled forward, and turned around in the yard. As I heard the sound of his motorcycle’s exhaust fade down the block, I realized he was gone. I stood in the driveway staring down at my feet and crying, incapable of doing anything else. It seemed like a terrible dream. As I cried and shook from the heartfelt pain, I prayed for answers. Answers never came because I believe there weren’t any; but eventually, through the many tears, it began to make sense. In Vince’s mind, I was no different than Natalie. To him, the circumstances didn’t matter. The depth or the latitude of the broken promise, as far as he was concerned, was irrelevant. I had unknowingly done the unthinkable. I had broken a promise. And I had done so to the one man who would probably never be able to forgive me.

VINCE May 24th, 2015 It had been two weeks since Sienna didn’t come to dinner, and I hadn’t been back to my mother’s house since. Partially embarrassed, somewhat disappointed, and totally heartbroken, I felt there was no way I would ever be able to face my mother again. I realized in time I would probably change my mind and be able to one day return, but I had no idea when that might be. “I can remember when you said you’d never do anything with a bitch but shove her full of cock, remember that conversation?” I asked. Axton crossed his arms, glared at me, and sighed. “What’s your fucking point?” he asked. “I just made it,” I said. “Never thought I’d see the day you had an Ol’ Lady on the back of your bike.” “She isn’t my Ol’ Lady, she’s a friend,” he said. I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. “Doesn’t matter to me. You’ll learn your lesson sooner or later.”

“Hold up, I wasn’t done…” “I’m done,” I said as I walked out of the office. “God damn it, Vince, you can’t…” I pushed the door closed, walked out into the shop, and fired up my bike. There was nothing I wanted to listen to about him trying to justify some chick who had been hanging off the back of his bike for the last two weeks. As I sat on the bike and waited for it to warm up, I lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was a hypocrite. My parent’s had proven to be the only people who mattered to me that hadn’t eventually let me down. The two women in my life, one who I mistakenly thought I loved lied to me and broke a vow. The other, the only woman I truly loved, broke a promise and left me looking like a god damned fool. Axton seemed like a hypocrite, talking out both sides of his mouth about women. One day he was talking shit about how if the MC wanted a man to have an Ol’ Lady they’d have issued one to all new prospects, and the next time I saw him he had an Ol’ Lady hanging off the back of his bike. Axton may have been the president of the club, and I might have respected him, but he was no friend of mine. I had one friend, and only one, in my entire life. We made a pact. A promise to each other. Best friends forever. That’s what we said. We walked down to the railroad tracks and put pennies on the tracks. Sitting in the row of trees along the tracks we would wait for the train to come smash the pennies, talking about our futures. He was going to be a doctor and I was going to be a fireman; at least when we talked about it the first time. For me, at least, each time we talked my desires changed. But he always wanted to be a doctor. He said doctors saved lives. To be able to take a dying person and redirect the hand of fate, allowing someone to live – when in the absence of your actions they would die – would be miraculous. As a young boy of six his desire to save lives didn’t make as much sense as it made when I was an adult, but the older I got the more I respected him for standing firm in his wishes.

A fireman, a police officer, a tree trimmer, and an ice cream man were a few of my childhood dream careers. I found it funny that as I grew older my view on what was important changed. In my opinion, at least as a boy of six or seven, an ice cream man was much better than a doctor. Although a doctor may be able to save lives, an ice cream man could make everyone happy, the sick and healthy. We lived our lives convinced that a bank robber rode the train through town as a means of escape, and that during his way out of town, he had tossed a bag of money from the railcar. Convinced all we needed to do was find it, we scoured through the weeds and along the edges of the trees to find it. From when we were six until we were ten, we searched along the tracks almost every day, but never found anything. One day, right before his tenth birthday, we were both convinced that was the day we would find the bag of money. With expectations running high, we searched like never before. As the day unfolded and the money was undoubtedly under the base of the very next tree, I asked what he was going to do with his share of the riches. Walking along the edge of the wooden railroad ties while dragging his stick behind him, he shifted his eyes upward and in my direction. Three weeks older, and much wiser in my opinion, I walked along the top of the steel rail, towering above him. I continued to walk slowly, being careful not to lose my balance as I waited for him to respond. After a few steps, he paused and began to tap his stick against the tracks. When he finally stopped tapping the rail, he responded. As he spoke, I continued my balancing act. “Buy a new doctor,” he said. I stopped and attempted to turn around without falling off the edge of the rail. Eventually I felt the need to speak more important and jumped down. “Why would you need a new doctor?” I asked. He cleared his throat, stared down at the tracks for a long moment, and shifted his eyes out toward the tree line. “A cardiovascular pathologist. He’s in Texas.” I’d never heard words that sounded so important, even out of an adult’s mouth, let alone a kid my age. Impressed at his intellect, but now concerned with why he would need an out of state doctor with such a name, I pressed him for more information.

“Why?” I asked. He turned to face me and shrugged his shoulders. “He’s the best.” It made sense. Who would want anyone that wasn’t the best at what they did? Satisfied with his answer, and knowing nothing of the real reason why he needed a doctor, I stepped onto the railing and waited for the command he always gave before we started our journeys. “Lead the way?” he asked. “Follow me,” I said. We never found the bag of money, and Jackson never got to go to Texas. His heart stopped two weeks later, just before he turned ten years old. The school shut down for his funeral, and it seemed the entire city attended. We searched for a spot to park the car for what seemed like forever, and after finding a place, walked along the sidewalk for much longer than Jackson and I ever walked along the tracks. In that time I thought of him, our friendship, the permanency of death; and about losing the only friend I ever had. I wondered if the pain I felt in my heart was similar to the pain Jackson felt from the disease I learned he had. I decided as we walked into the funeral home that if I never befriended another person, I would never be forced to feel the pain again. As the sound of my motorcycle’s exhaust echoed throughout the shop and I stared blankly out into the street, I realized I was wrong. And I suspected this new pain, no differently than the pain I felt from the loss of my best friend, would only be able to be temporarily suspended and not totally eliminated. As an adult, I had learned it wasn’t a doctor or the ice cream man that caused the pain within me to subside, it was a machine. And that machine was between my legs.

SIENNA June 8th, 2015 I had waited a year for the day to arrive. Instead of a celebratory dinner and discussions of our fond memories as a couple, I sat alone under a blanket of pain. A month had passed since I last saw Vince, and although I hoped the pain would eventually stop, it hadn’t so much as decreased. As severe on this particular day as it was the day he rode away, it was apparent living with the pain was something I would be forced to deal with. Over the course of the last month I prayed a lot. Not for Vince to return or for the pain to diminish, but for the ability to continue to be myself and not to fall prey to the evils of anger or hatred. The same fate that brought Vince and me together broke us apart, and for me to reserve gratitude for one and misery for the other would be to second guess the hand of God. I could never claim to fully understand life or all of the rewards, gifts, complications and losses associated with it, nor did I feel I needed to. Living, it itself, was my gift; and I felt it was my responsibility to do so to the best of my ability. Keeping my chin up and my spirits high, despite the pain I was feeling, was not only in my best interest,

but mandatory to me keeping my sanity. Attempting to grow from the situation I had put myself in, I developed my own opinions of pain and healing. I convinced myself the process of healing brought along with it pain; the more difficult the healing process, the more severe the pain. The pain acted as a reminder of the damage done, and in the mind of the wise, a deterrent to repeat the process which brought about the pain in the first place. It made perfect sense, at least to me. A runner with a torn muscle felt pain until the muscle had healed, and the process took weeks. A broken bone was painful until the fracture mended itself, requiring a few months to heal. A burn victim with severe burns over half of their body might take an entire year to heal, the pain requiring a morphine drip to be manageable. Seeing the differences in these damages, the healing processes, and the severity of the pain allowed me to believe one day I would no longer hurt. But I knew the healing process would be a long one. Although I continued to review books over the last month, I hadn’t had a drink of wine since the day I passed out drunk and missed my date with Vince. I didn’t swear off alcohol, or convince myself I had a drinking problem, but I did realize my having drank too much wine on that particular night caused a problem that I wouldn’t have had in the absence of the wine. Coffee, however, was a different story. “So, is that your Continental?” he asked. I turned toward the voice and nodded my head. “Sure is.” “Mid-sixties?” he asked as he pointed to the seat beside me. I nodded my head at his guess of the year, not at his request to sit. “1965,” I said. He sat down and smiled. I did fully expect to one day heal, but in the end I knew I wouldn’t forget Vince, stop loving Vince, or ever be able to love anyone else. My love for Vince wasn’t something I had developed; it had been inside of me for a lifetime, waiting for the person who was entitled to it to come along and claim it. I believed there were many women, who in the absence of finding the right person, convinced

themselves the person standing before them was the right person. I didn’t have to convince myself of anything with Vince, all I had to do was be in his presence. Long before the first kiss, I was well aware he was somehow special to me, and although I wasn’t sure why or to what degree, the first kiss was all it took for me to fully understand what it was he provided to me. He, through his actions, words, wisdom, and expression, provided proof that he was entitled to receive the love which had been reserved within me for a lifetime, and without my expressed consent, he received it. I initially found it odd that I didn’t make a conscious decision to give Vince my love. I almost felt cheated that I didn’t have to convince myself what it was I was feeling at the time, I simply knew, and allowed it to happen. It was natural, it was simple, and it required nothing on my part to exist. It was not developed, nor did it happen over time. I had always felt I would allow someone to have my love, or that I would give it to them, but that wasn’t the case with Vince. Something in me simply snapped as if a switch had been flipped. My love was his and he merely took what he was entitled to. It was then that I knew the love I felt was true. The day of the money shot. “Would you mind sitting somewhere else?” I asked. He ran his hand through his hair, shook his head lightly, and his hair fell down along his forehead. “I just thought you might want some company,” he said. I shook my head and grinned. “I’m in love. I have all the company I need.”

VINCE July 21st, 2015 The Sergeant-at-Arm’s Ol’ Lady had a brother who had been in prison for some time, and according to Axton’s Ol’ Lady, who was a paralegal for a local attorney, he was wrongfully convicted of a crime. The legal firm she worked for requested a new trial, received one, and a mandatory meeting had been declared to attend the trial. It was the opinion of the club that a strong presence at the trial would provide support not only to the man who was being dragged through the court, but to the patched member of the club and his Ol’ Lady. I didn’t dispute the benefits of attending the trial, but I had a man in another state who had skipped bail, and needed to travel with a bail bondsman to attempt to extradite him. After discussing my work requirements with Axton, I was given permission to work in lieu of going to the trial. So, while all of the other members of the MC attended the trial, I rode shotgun in a truck to Omaha, Nebraska. “So the other day, I had this kid that skipped out on bail, and I got a tip on where he was. Kid was 19 years old, and it was a conspiracy to distribute cocaine charge. Kid was facing five years, but since he

skipped out, was probably looking at six or so. Anyway, so I go to this house and knock on the door, and this little fucker answers,” he said. He was about my height, had a shaved head and was covered in tattoos, but weighed an easy fifty pounds more than me, all of which was muscle. He owned his own bail bonding company, and had hired me over the years to assist him with difficult clients. Through the course of doing business, we developed a good business-client relationship, he being the walking intimidation, and me being his physically persuasive partner. It was a good cop bad cop routine we played, and played well. “And?” I asked. “Well, his eyes get all big, and he looks at me and says, ‘Biggs, I was meaning to give you a call.’ Now I fucking know better, and I tell this little fucker we can do this the easy way or the hard way and I ask him to pick.” He paused, lit a cigarette, and offered me one. I shook my head and pulled my pack out of my cut. After we each lit a cigarette and exchanged glances, he continued. “So, he says the easy way and asks me to wait a second. Says he wants to grab something. I tell this little fucker if he tries to run, I’ll shoot his little ass with a Taser, and he agrees. Now this house is a little one bedroom crack house, and it’s nasty as fuck and smells like death. But this little fucker just steps aside, opens a drawer on an end table beside this piss stained sofa, and pulls out a wad of cash.” He paused and puffed on his cigarette. “How much?” I asked. “Hundred grand. In hundreds. Motherfucker says ‘Here, just act like we never saw each other.’ I took a look at the money, took a look at him, and I shake my head. ‘What you gonna get if you take me in?’ he asks me. ‘Damned sight less than that,’ I tell him. Finally I tell this little prick to turn around and let me cuff him or I’m gonna shoot him in the neck with the Taser, and he lets me take him in. But you know what?” he asked. I took a drag off the cigarette, inhaled the smoke, and tossed the butt out the window of the truck. After I exhaled the smoke, I turned toward him and responded. “What?” I asked.

He took another long drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke around the cab of the truck. “I thought about taking the money. I mean, I think I never would have really took it, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t think about it. Weird, if you ask me,” he said. I shook my head. “Good, evil. Right, wrong. It’s just temptation, it happens. Acting on it is what matters.” “You think?” he asked as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette out the window. I nodded my head. “Everyone is tempted.” “I told my pop a lie once when I was a kid, and I tell you what I felt like a damned shit head for about six months. Finally came clean and told him the truth. Fucker beat my ass to a pulp. Not for chewing the tobacco, but for lying to him,” he said. I laughed and shook my head at the thought. “That’s not temptation, that’s just telling a fucking lie.” He exhaled another cloud of smoke and flipped the cigarette butt out the window. “I know the fucking difference,” he said. “Well, I never told my pop a lie, he’d a skinned me alive if I did,” I said. “Not even a little one?” he asked. I shook my head. “Nope.” The thought of telling anyone a lie, especially my father, was incomprehensible. My father was a man of tremendous moral value, and taught me to be the same. Living as a man of my word, being honorable, and always making decisions I felt he would have made himself allowed me to live a life that I was sure would make him proud if he were here to witness himself. “Knowing you, you’re probably right. You’re a weird fucker, you know it?” he asked. I turned to face him, narrowed my eyes, and glared. “What the fuck you mean by that?” “Well, for one, you don’t carry a phone. Who the fuck doesn’t have a phone? You, that’s who. I don’t know one more dude that ain’t got a phone. And when you go on your debt collecting deals, you always act like Samuel L. Jackson in that fucking movie,” he paused and pulled a cigarette from his pack.

After he put the cigarette between his lips, he continued, the cigarette flipping up and down as he spoke. “Pulp Fiction. You give ‘em some speech about right and wrong and breaking promises like you’re some fucker living on the moral high ground. I ain’t trying to say you’re some hypocrite, you’re just fucking weird,” he said with a laugh. He reached for his lighter, lit his cigarette, and glanced at me as if expecting a response. As the smoke rose from the glowing tip and spread over the headliner of the truck, I considered what he said. After a moment’s thought, I lit a cigarette, inhaled a long pull, and held it in my lungs. I turned my head, exhaled the smoke out the window, and turned toward Biggs. “I’m not a hypocrite. I practice what I preach,” I said. “So if you want to call that weird, fucking whatever. I think I’m the last of a dying breed.” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and lifted the end close to his face and stared at it as if something was wrong. “I’ll give you that. You sure are a stubborn prick.” I shrugged my shoulders and flicked my cigarette out the window. “Now I’m a stubborn prick?” He shook his head and sucked on his cigarette. The ashes fell into his lap as we hit a bump in the road, but he didn’t seem to care. “No, you’ve always been a stubborn prick. Like the phone deal. You’re just a hot head, that’s all.” “I get along fine without a phone,” I said. “Don’t doubt that. Like anything else, you don’t miss what you’re used to being without, and you’ve been without for a couple years. Hell, there’s fuckers who ain’t got teeth, don’t mean they wouldn’t be better off with ‘em,” he said. He took another drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt out the window, and took a drink of his soda. “Ninety more miles,” he said. I nodded my head in affirmation, but didn’t speak. “So what? You think you’ll find another that’s better?” he asked.

I turned toward him and stared, feeling as if I must have missed part of something he said. “Another what?” I asked. “Girl,” he said. I turned and stared out the side window, thinking about how to respond. As the fields and farmhouses swept past, I considered my life, living it in solitude, and the benefits of doing so. I loved Sienna and I was incapable of changing it, but unwilling to expose myself to the pain and suffering associated with allowing myself to actively love her. It had been almost three months that we were apart, and it seemed like an entire separate lifetime. Soon, my mind drifted off to thoughts of her and what fun we’d had while we were together. As the fields and farms changed to the skyline of a fast approaching city, I wondered where the time had gone. Ninety miles passed in a matter of minutes. “We’re here,” he said. And although I could clearly see we had physically arrived, I realized in spirit, I was elsewhere.

SIENNA August 2nd, 2015 I sat, baking in the sun in my shorts. No differently than any other sunny August day, it was difficult to breathe the thick humid air, but the warmth of the sun felt good on my bronze skin. Under the cover of sunglasses, a messy bun, and a tee shirt I had spent all day doing yardwork in, I drank my iced coffee and listened to my iPod. As “Come Back to Bed,” by John Mayer played, I closed my eyes and hoped to become one more shade darker by the time I decided to get up and go home. Over the course of the summer I had become quite a fixture at the coffee shop, often spending an entire day relaxing in the warm summer sun. I pulled my feet from my flip-flops, propped them on the chair beside me, and took a sip of my coffee. The song ended and “Modern Age,” by Eric Hutchinson began to play. I closed my eyes and did my best to sing along with the fast-paced song, but quickly found out that I knew only about half of the words and was left in the dust by Eric’s ability to keep up the pace. I had spent my entire life without an iPod, relying on my CD player in my room, car, and living room for music, but after purchasing one, found downloading music and using the shuffle option to be quite enjoyable.

A live version of “Daughters,” by John Mayer caused me to open my eyes, stand from my seat, and sway back and forth on the concrete patio. Certain the patrons in the store and the handful of people outside thought I was absolutely insane, I imagined being at a John Mayer concert with my father listening to the song, and in a short time, wondered if he had ever had an opportunity to hear it before he passed away. As the song came to an end, I pulled the earbuds from my ears and dropped them onto the table. I took a sip of coffee, gazed out into the street, and wondered what Anita was doing, thinking, and most of all, feeling. I truly missed her, Bradley, and the dinners I had become so accustomed to having. It was easy for me to slip into a period of self-pity, but as soon as I recognized what I was doing, I made every effort to change my way of thinking and do my best to become grateful for what Vince and I had for the period of time we shared, and not dwell on what happened or what I lost. I decided what happened was another case of nothing but the unexpected result of the natural development of life, and attempting to call it anything but fate would be to fall back into the state of selfpity. So far, considering the depth of my love for Vince, I was doing rather well, at least in my opinion. I knew I would never recover, and my lifetime would be spent without something I was well aware I needed to be my true self. Living without Vince in my life was much different than living without my father. When my father passed, I quickly came to an understanding of how much I loved him, missed him, and how deeply I wished he was still with me, enjoying time together as a family. In losing Vince, I realized I lost not only a lover and a person who was important to me, but I truly felt I lost a part of myself. Now feeling as if I was incomplete and knowing the feeling would never fade, I wondered if Vince felt the same way and was simply either too stubborn to admit it, or chose, as I did, to accept it. If he accepted it, in a strange sense, it would almost be as if we were still together in spirit, but separated physically. In my odd way of thinking, I liked to believe that was the case; and we were together, but separated by space and nothing else. As I stood in place attempting to cool the concrete with the shadows from my bare feet, the rumbling sound from an approaching group of motorcycles caused me to glance in their direction. Four motorcycles pulled into the parking lot, one behind the other, and parked directly in front of where I was

seated. They weren’t one percenters, didn’t wear colors, and seemed like some friends who were just out riding together, but they reminded me of Vince nonetheless. In being honest, everything reminded me of Vince, but it wasn’t surprising to me at all. There was no doubt in my mind that if Vince allowed someone into his life, be it a lover or a friend, they would immediately be intrigued by him, and never be able to replace him with anyone comparable in quality, diversity, or genuine kindness. Vince was big, mean, tough, and willing to walk into the depths of hell; alone and without fear. Considering this made it difficult to admit, but Vince’s only real fault in life was a fear of being hurt. Not physically, but emotionally. And I had no intention of causing him any additional pain. I loved him far too much.

VINCE Present day I hopped off my bike and stared down at the carburetor. Fuel dripped out of it at a rapid rate onto the floor of the shop, not only making a stinking mess, but causing a fire hazard, and quite possibly preventing me from leaving if it continued. And I had no idea of what to do to make it stop. I lowered myself onto the floor and peered up at the bottom of the carburetor, only to get a face full of gasoline. Fuck. As the pace of the stream seemed to steadily increase, I ran around the shop like a complete and utter idiot, searching for a gas can. Engines, transmission, wheels, frames, and fenders littered one side of the shop, but a gas can wasn’t to be found. The search of a trash can produced an empty beer can, and after some handiwork with my pocket knife, I cut off the top and was using it to catch what little fuel I could.

I exhaled a sigh of relief as I heard an approaching bike, only to realize whoever it was I didn’t recognize as being a Sinner. Fuck. The bike came to a stop outside the door of the shop and a very muscular man in a Sinner’s cut got off the bike and sauntered over to where I was. His hair was short, he had a few days growth of beard, and his odd manner of walking wasn’t something he did, it seemed to be a part of who he was. He walked like he’d served time in the joint, and his walk made a clear statement. It was a don’t fuck with me walk. “Mikuni?” he asked. I turned to face him and shrugged my shoulders. “Excuse me?” “It’s leaking like a motherfucker. You planning on watching it pour out until it’s empty, or fixing it?” he asked. “I don’t know where it’s coming from,” I responded. Without speaking, he turned and walked to his motorcycle, removed the seat, and unrolled a tool kit. After a few seconds, he meandered back to where I stood, knelt down, and tapped something against the bottom of the carburetor. “There,” he said. The gas fumes were atrocious. If someone would have lit a cigarette, the entire shop would have gone up in flames. “There what?” I asked. “It’s fixed,” he said. “But I’d push that fucker in the drive before I started it. You try and start it over that puddle it’ll go up in flames.” “You fixed it?” I asked as I shifted my eyes toward the carburetor. The leak had clearly stopped. He nodded his head. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Hell, I didn’t think I was stuttering, anyway,” he said with a laugh.

I shifted my eyes to the patch on the front of his cut. Big Jack. “Vince,” I said as I extended my hand. “I appreciate it.” “Jackson,” he said as he shook my hand. The hair on the back of my neck stood. I hadn’t heard that name since I was a kid. “You alright, Brother?” he asked as he slapped his hand against my bicep. “I uhhm. Yeah, yeah, I’m good. So, what’d you do to fix it?” I asked. “It’s a Mikuni. Someone took the old Keihin carb off and replaced it with a Mikuni, which was a pretty good call if it’s not a stock motor,” he said. I shook my head and grinned. “It ain’t stock,” I said. “Well, Mikuni’s are pretty finicky when it comes to dirt. How long you had the bike?” he asked. “Long god damned time. Fifteen years,” I said. “Surprised it’s the first time. Just smack the bottom of the float bowl with a screwdriver. The gas is coming out the overflow hose. It’s like a bowl vent. Smacking it’ll fix it every time. Don’t beat on it, just tap it,” he explained. “Appreciate it, I really do,” I said. “No problem. Good looking Shovel, though,” he said. I nodded my head. “I appreciate it. Let me buy your lunch?” “No need for that,” he said. “Seen Slice?” “Axton? Yeah, him, Biscuit, Toad, and the big fucker, Otis. They headed out to Benton to the airport,” I said. He nodded his head and glanced around the shop.

“So, you’re that fella that got out of the joint a month or so back, huh?” I asked. “You got it,” he said with a nod. “Still getting used to being out in the free world. Just making decisions on my own seems fucking surreal.” “How long were you down? Sorry, I missed the trial. Voted for you to get your patch and all, but I wasn’t here when you showed up. I kind of do my own deal, you know,” I said. “Understand that for sure. Been a little of a lone wolf my entire life. I was locked up ten years on a fucking conspiracy to commit murder charge. Got set up by the ATF. Cocksuckers. Slice’s Ol’ Lady wrote an appeal, got my case reheard, and I’ll be god damned if they didn’t let me go,” he said. I felt like I was talking to a ghost. My father was charged with a conspiracy to commit murder charge by the DEA, which in my mind, was no different than the ATF. Feds were feds. The odds of his name being Jackson, spending time in prison on a conspiracy to commit murder charge, and then to be set up by the feds just seemed… It seemed strange to even think it, but it was almost as if he was an angel. “My pop was in the joint on the same charge, the fucking DEA set him up. It was bullshit. He could have talked, but he sat in there, refused to snitch, and they tried to prove a point by keeping him locked down. Only reason they did it was because he was a biker, and was hanging around a bunch of one percenters. They tried to use him to get to the club,” I paused and shook my head. “He ever get out?” he asked. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shook my head. “Died of pneumonia in the joint. This is his old bike.” “Cool that you kept it. Your pop sounds like a good solid dude. Respectful what he did,” he said. “Show respect, get respect,” I said. He turned toward me and cocked an eyebrow. “You been reading my mail?” I coughed a laugh. “What?” “Prison saying. Just seems funny. That’s one of my mottos. Show respect, get respect. Been saying that for a long bit,” he said.

“My Pop’s saying, I got it from him,” I said. “He raised me like that. So many of these young fuckers get patched in and don’t give respect. Then they wonder why no one’ll run with ‘em.” “Damned truth. You’ll never get it if you don’t give it,” he said. “So, you want to grab a bite?” I asked. He grinned, nodded his head, and glanced down at the beer can under my bike. “Remember what I said. Move that fucker out first.” I looked at the stain on the concrete, the half-full can of gas, and realized had he said nothing, I would have hopped on the bike and started it. “Appreciate it,” I said with a nod. “Lead the way?” he asked as he walked away. I couldn’t believe my ears. I pushed the bike forward, nodded my head, grinned from ear to ear, and responded. “Follow me.”

SIENNA I opened the door to the car, got out, and walked up the driveway. I felt out of place without Vince, but I didn’t feel that I was doing anything wrong, it just seemed odd. As I stepped onto the porch, the front door opened. She stepped onto the porch, wiped her hands on her pants, and opened her arms. “Come here, Honey,” she said. “Come give me a hug.” I rushed to her and wrapped my arms around her. “I don’t know what to say.” “Don’t say anything, just let me hold you,” she said. After a long moment of standing there in her embrace, she released me, took a step back, and studied me. “You haven’t changed a bit.” I grinned and wiped the tears from my eyes. “You know, I never used to cry.” “Neither did I,” she said. “But I’ve learned those things change over time.”

I nodded my head and tried to force another smile, but ended up beginning to cry again. Seeing her was just too much. I should have just stayed home. “So what happened?” she asked as she turned toward the door. I wiped my hands on my shorts, and shook my head. “I probably shouldn’t come in, he might…” She paused in the doorway and turned around. “He might what?” I shrugged. “Come over.” “Honey, he hasn’t been here since the night you missed dinner. I haven’t spoken to him. This is what he does, he shuts down. Especially when he’s embarrassed or hurt,” she said. I was shocked. From what Vince had said, he came to his mother’s house every Sunday for dinner. It had been three months since we were apart, and to think I played a part in him severing his relationship and routines with his mother was difficult to accept. “Come on,” she said as she walked into the living room. With some reluctance, I followed her inside. Feeling nervous and slightly guilty, I sat down on the couch and crossed my legs. She sat down beside me a few feet away, straightened the wrinkles from her pants, and turned toward me. As I stared down at my sneakers, she cleared her throat and began to speak. “So, that night, what happened?” she asked. “I reviewed a few books, drank too much wine, and fell asleep until the next morning. When I woke up, I thought it was Sunday night, but after I looked at my phone, I found out it wasn’t, it was Monday,” I said, turning to face her as I finished speaking. “That’s it? That is what happened?” she asked. I nodded my head and shifted my eyes to the floor. “Yeah, that’s it.” “I knew it was something, but I didn’t know what. He left that night to go looking for you, and he called me later and said it was over between you two. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t have it. He never went into detail, and that night was the last I saw of him. He needs his hind end kicked,” she said. I shifted my eyes toward her and narrowed my gaze. “I can’t believe he hasn’t been back,” I said.

“I can. It’s Stephen,” she said. “The most stubborn human being on God’s little green earth.” “I just wanted to see you. I miss you,” I said. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t you dare apologize,” she said. “Would you like some tea?” I glanced at my watch as if I had something else to do. “No, I really need to go,” I said as I stood. “So soon?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “I uhhm. I have to get home, I have some things I need to get done.” “I understand. Come back any time,” she said. I tried my best to smile, but only managed a crooked grin. “I will,” I said. But I knew I wouldn’t. Not without Vince.

VINCE I’d been running with Jackson on an almost daily basis, and riding with Axton, Otis, Toad, and Biscuit more than I ever had since joining the club. Jackson was what I expected my childhood friend would have been had he not died at such an early age. Stubborn, opinionated, and someone who immediately made me feel as if he would always have my back, regardless. “So you’re telling me you loved this woman? Truly loved her?” he asked. I took a drink of my beer and nodded my head. “Yep.” “Bullshit,” he said. I shook my head. “Sure isn’t.” “You still love her?” he asked. I shook my head. “Nope. Can’t do it. She fucked me over.” After hearing the inspirational story of Jackson and Emily, and how she waited for him for ten years without hearing a word from him, it lifted my spirits enough to tell him about Sienna. He questioned

my love, however, because of my ability to walk away after she didn’t show up for dinner. It was without a doubt something he would have never done, and as much as he was harassing me about it, I couldn’t quite figure out what his angle was. All I knew was that the more we talked about it, the guiltier I felt for feeling the way I felt and doing what I had done. Having him give me advice was more like getting it from my father, which made it almost impossible to dispute. “Have my doubts,” he said sarcastically. “Doubt me all you want, I know how I feel,” I said. “Jesus jumped up Christ,” Axton hollered. “What?” Jackson said over his shoulder. “Have a fucking look at this, would ya?” he said as he held his cell phone at arm’s length. “Jaye Campbell’s daughter works with this chick. Girl says she wants to suck a biker’s cock and ride on his bike. Wants some of the fellas to go to her tattoo shop and see if there’s any she likes. It’s the place where that kid I was telling you about gave me the tattoo without an appointment.” “Crazy bitch,” Jackson said with a laugh. “That’ll start a fight for sure.” “No bullshit. Girl says she wants to meet a few of the fellas.” Axton paused, cleared his throat, and gazed down at his phone. “Take five or six with ya and run over there, would ya?” “Sure thing, boss,” Jackson said as he turned to face me. “And you’re going to be one of ‘em.” “Don’t have any business going,” I said. “You’re going for me to prove a point,” he said. “What’s the point?” I asked. “Just do this,” he said. “Come with me and act interested. We’ll have a talk after we get out of there. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to fuck her.” “Well, I wouldn’t even if you did,” I said. “You’re coming whether you like it or not,” he said.

After a few minutes, six of us were all saddled up, and headed across town to a tattoo parlor. After passing it, we cut a u-turn in the street, and parked out front at the curb. I got off the bike, turned to face the shop, and stared at the neon sign. Blurred Lines. “Cool name for a shop,” I said. Jackson nodded his head. “I’m gonna get a quote while we’re in here. Come on.” We all followed him inside, and immediately after going in, the owner noticed Jackson from his childhood. Oddly enough, they grew up together, and hadn’t seen each other for almost twenty years. It seemed Jackson’s presence back in the city was something meant to be, because not only was he helping me deal with many issues and problems, he was clearly making this guy’s day. The girl from the picture on Axton’s cell phone walked up to the counter where Jackson was standing and raised her hands in the air. “Listen up,” she hollered. “I don’t ever fuck with anyone but bikers, and I’ll only fuck with a biker if he’s got a big dick. I’ve got a foul mouth, a shitty attitude, and an insatiable desire. I’m no whore, and I won’t be treated like one. If you’re looking to hit it and quit it, you can forget it. I’m not your girl. If you want an Ol’ Lady who’ll out drink ya, out fuck ya, and probably out cuss ya, I’m your girl.” I stood and stared, half shocked she was so brash. It seemed almost out of character. If I was the type of man to be attracted to someone based on looks alone, she would definitely work for me. She was drop dead gorgeous, had a fabulous body, but it seemed odd hearing her say what she was saying, because she was so damned beautiful. “How many’s that leave?” she asked. “Vince?” Jackson said. I reluctantly stepped to the front and stood with my arms crossed in front of my chest. “What’s your road name?” the girl asked. I pointed to my patch. “Vince.” She started laughing. “That’s your road name?”

Why you little bitch. “Yep. Name’s Stephen. They call me Vince,” I said. “You qualified?” she asked. It was all I could do to keep from smiling. As my mouth curled into a smirk, I responded. “Look, I came up here after Slice showed us your pic at the bar. Thought you were a cute little fucker. Seem a little crazy for my taste now that I’m here.” She stood and stared, and after a moment, her face washed over with concern. I hated to make her feel bad or that I felt like she was unattractive or something, so I tried my best to make her feel better. “I ain’t lookin’ to add a bunch of drama in my fucking life. Shit, I just got rid of an Ol’ Lady for bein’ a drama queen. Well, that and a whore. Nice to meet ya, though.” She placed her hands on her waist, cocked her hips to the side, and glared. “I’m not a whore, and I’m not crazy. I’m just some chick that loves bikes, appreciates the freedom of riding, and appreciates one-percenters for being who they are. I’m a lot of fucking fun, really.” It was apparent she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “What’s a one percenter mean to you? Who am I?” I asked. “Well, being an outlaw. Fuck the man, fuck society. Riding isn’t a fucking hobby, and it’s not really a way of life, it is life. You see that mountain bike outside?” she asked. I tilted my head toward the door. “Chained up by the door?” She nodded her head. “I rode that motherfucker six miles here instead of taking a ride in a cage.” I nodded my head. “Is that so,” I asked. She cocked an eyebrow and stared. “So…” “We’ll go for a ride or something,” I said. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.” She nodded her head. “How long you gonna be?” I asked Jackson.

“Gimme ten,” he said. “Come on, fellas,” I said as I turned toward the door. We walked outside, stood beside the entrance, and waited. As I leaned against the wall and joked with the fellas about the girl with the purple hair, Jackson walked out. “Give us a minute, would ya?” he asked the other four men. They nodded their heads and each got on their bikes. “So, you think she was pretty?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Why didn’t you take her for a ride?” he asked. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, sighed, and shook my head. It seemed foolish to even discuss. “I’m not like that,” I said. He nodded his head. “Only been with two women, right?” “Yep,” I responded. He chuckled and shook his head. “Remind me of me, you fucking weird prick.” “So, answer me this. After seeing this girl, don’t you dare try and tell me a lie, either. What are you…no who are you thinking of?” he asked. I really didn’t have to give it much thought. “Sienna.” “And she’s the girl who you say fucked you over?” he asked. I nodded my head. “And you don’t love her anymore? You feel nothing?” he asked. I uncrossed my arms, pressed my hands into my hips and glared at him. “Why in the fuck are you

so gung fucking ho to get into my love life?” “Call me a hopeless fucking romantic or whatever, I don’t give a fuck. I just know this. After going through what I went through and seeing all the shit I’ve seen, only to find out that my Ol’ Lady waited ten fucking years without me even speaking to her? Well, it kind of makes a motherfucker humble. If you don’t love this girl, well, you don’t love her. But if you’re being a stubborn prick, and you really do love her, but won’t admit it, I want to try and break you,” he said. “Well, I can’t be broken,” I said as I reached for my pack of cigarettes. “We’ll see about that,” he said. I nodded my head and lit my cigarette. “I suppose we will,” I said.

SIENNA I had never been much for having girlfriends. Women seemed too competitive, and much too quick to judge, argue, fight, and lay blame. As a result, during high school most of my friends were male, and eventually most of my male friends ended up being my boyfriend, although some only lasted a few weeks. I attributed some of my reluctance to be friends with girls to my relationship with my father, and a desire to fill a void in my life I felt my father left when he went to prison. Living with my aunt seemed weird at the time, and having my father gone was difficult to say the least. Having a male in my life minimized conflict, filled a void, and more often than not, provided me with someone to have sex with. My patterns of behavior as a high school girl continued into my adult life, and over time, became second nature. As an adult, I ended up with no female friends to speak of, and really never wanted any. The few men who came and went out of my life provided companionship, and my friends on Facebook and Goodreads who followed my reviews provided a constant flow of communication and often gave advice. But now I felt I needed more. I wanted my father, and I needed a friend. I sat at my parent’s gravesite with a fresh arrangement of flowers and swept the dust from the base of the gravestone. After cleaning what little dust had settled into the etching of the headstones, I squatted down and placed the flowers on the stone base.

“You know I love you, but I sure hate coming here to see you,” I said. “Nothing’s changed, we’re still apart. I hate it, but I can’t change it. I went to see his mother, and that was enlightening, but a disaster for me. You know I will never do anything to try and replace mom, but I really like her, Dad. She’s so cool. She’s like what I wish girlfriends were like, but she’s a mom. Heck, I don’t know, maybe that’s what moms are like.” I leaned forward and smelled the flowers. As I moved back to my squatting position, I continued. “But with her it’s hard. She’s so nice, and she makes me feel, I don’t know, kind of like you did. She’s just really fun. And she doesn’t take any shit from Vince, either. But he’s shut her out, and hasn’t been there since. And just so you know, I still haven’t had a drink of wine since that day. Maybe one day I will again, but I don’t really know. So there’s that. Uhhm, let’s see,” I paused and contemplated what else I should say before I said my departing remarks. “I guess I just hope one day we can work things out, but I’m beginning to have my doubts. I think maybe it’ll take a miracle or an angel. Yeah, an angel is probably a good idea, so if you know one who isn’t busy, you can send one my way, you know, being as you’re up there with all of ‘em.” “I wish you could meet him, I really do. And you know what’s funny? I was there for a while wondering if we got married, who’d give me away. So yeah. Not wondering about that so much anymore.” I stood, stepped to the left, and squatted. “I love you, too, Mother. I’ll keep you posted on the progress, but I imagine dad will fill you in. Same goes to you, if you know an angel, send one, I could sure use one. I’ll be back to see you before you know it, and maybe one day I’ll have some good news.” I stood, blew a kiss in the direction of the gravestones, and turned toward the car. If you’re still listening, I wasn’t kidding about the angel.

VINCE As I sat in my driveway mentally preparing my morning, I heard the unmistakable sound of Jackson’s bike coming up the block. The cams he added to the engine gave it a very distinct sound, but the way he rode it was what made the sound of it being ridden stand out as different. He rode it like he stole it. Within a matter of seconds, he was sitting in my driveway beside me. “What’s shaking?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Trying to decide what to do. Got to meet a guy at eleven, but that’s not for three hours.” He hopped off his bike and straightened the bottom of his cut. After going through a ritual of popping his neck, back, and shoulders, he stood and glared at me. “What?” I asked. “Can’t be broken, huh?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m going to ask you some shit, and I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me, and with yourself,” he said. “Always honest,” I said. “We’ll see,” he said with a nod. “You need to just give up,” I said as I got off my bike and lit a cigarette. “Yeah,” he said with a laugh as he pointed to my cigarette. “Have you a smoke.” I took a long drag, nodded my head, and blew a cloud of smoke into the still morning air. “So, you and your pop were pretty tight?” he asked. I nodded my head and took another long pull on the cigarette. “You ever make New Year’s resolutions?” he asked. “What the fuck?” I asked, coughing out smoke as I did so. He folded his arms in front of his chest and grinned. “Just asking,” he responded. “Yeah, make ‘em every year,” I said. He grinned and nodded his head. “Finish that smoke and fire up another, you might need it.” “Get on with it, Doctor Phil,” I said. “You ever go visit your Pop’s grave? You know, go see him or anything, and before you ask, no disrespect here. I’m just saying, I know a lot of fellas whose pop has passed, and a lot of ‘em go to the grave and just sit and talk. You know, some leave notes, and stuff like that. So do you do any of that?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Sure do.” “Okay. Now. You said yesterday when we were at that donut place that the only reason you dropped this girl was because she agreed to meet for dinner, and she never showed up. It’s undisputed you

don’t carry a phone, but she could have called your mom’s place, because she’s got her number, and she could have called your place, even though you were gone, but she didn’t until the next day. You went by that night, and you thought she was gone, but she left you a voicemail the next day explaining that she got drunk and passed out. You see all of this as a broken promise, and how can you trust her if she breaks promises, right? Sound about right?” he asked. “Sounds about right,” I said. He uncrossed his arms and clapped his hands together. “When did you start smoking again?” he asked. It shocked me that he knew I had even quit. The entire time I knew Jackson I had smoked, and was never around during the time I had quit. As far as answering the question, I didn’t even have to think about it. “When we broke up,” I responded. “Figures. Okay, and before that, did you smoke at all? You know, maybe an occasional cigarette?” he asked. I nodded my head. “When I was really pissed.” “Alright. Now, here’s a few questions I want you to either answer, or just stand and stew on for a minute. Let me ask them all,” he said. “And then you can chew on ‘em.” I shrugged my shoulders, pulled out another cigarette, and lit it. “Okay.” He held his clenched fist in the air and extended a finger each time he asked a question. “Did you ever make a New Year’s resolution to quit?” “Did you ever tell your pop you quit? When he was alive or after his death?” “Did you ever go to his grave and talk to him about it, you know, out of pride?” “Did you ever tell your mom you weren’t smoking when you were?” “Did you…”

I held my hand in the air, spit my cigarette on the driveway, and stepped on it. “Stop.” “Something wrong?” he asked. Almost everything he had asked, I had done. I gave up cigarettes, at least initially, as a New Year’s resolution. Before and after doing so, I had gone to my father’s grave, and told him that I intended on quitting, and after having done so, that I had successfully quit. I had also told my mother on a few occasions when she said I smelled like smoke that I wasn’t smoking. I felt sick. Somehow, someway, I had become exactly what I despised. I was a hypocrite. And there was no other way of looking at it. I had made promises that I didn’t keep; to myself, my mother, and to my father. “You look sick, Brother,” he said as he slapped his hand against my bicep. “I feel sick,” I said. “Probably that cigarette. Those things’ll kill ya,” he said. “So, you didn’t answer, you going to?” “Don’t think I need to, you already know the answers,” I said. “How’d you know?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Most people who smoke actually smoke their cigarettes. You take a couple hits and toss it. It told me you either felt guilty or you wanted to quit. I picked the former. Asked a couple of the fellas, and Axton told me you’d gone without for about five years as far as he could remember. And almost everyone who quits makes a resolution. The rest was just a good guess.” I felt as if my entire world had been turned upside down. My entire life had been lived under the premise that I was the one person who had never made a promise he didn’t keep, and I expected everyone who befriended me to do and be the same. And I used my ex-wife’s shortcomings against Sienna, the only woman I truly ever loved, based on

my belief that she had broken a promise. “Think I’m going to be sick,” I said. “You already said that. You’ll be fine. Oh, I got one more question,” he said. I gazed down at the toes of my boots. “I don’t think I want to hear it,” I said. “Don’t rightfully give a fuck, I’m asking anyway,” he said. I shifted my eyes to meet his and nodded my head. “You still love that girl?” he asked. I nodded my head. “Sure do.” He turned toward his bike, threw his leg over the seat, and fired the engine. “Saddle up,” he said. “To where?” I asked. “Sienna’s place,” he said. I shook my head. “I’ll go alone,” I said. “Not an option,” he said. I furrowed my brow and glared at him. “What’s that mean?” “Means it’s not a fucking option. I’ve got a plan. You’ll see,” he said. “I don’t know if I want to,” I said. He revved the engine and grinned. “Don’t give a fuck. Get on, and believe me, you’ll be fine. I’m your friend, Brother, I won’t do anything to disrespect you.” I reluctantly got on my bike, fired the engine, and shook my head in disbelief. After turning around, I pulled alongside his bike.

“Follow me,” I said. As I pulled out of the drive, I felt in many respects like I was a kid again. Starting my life from scratch again with my friend Jackson.

SIENNA I was right in the middle of reading C.J. McShane’s new MC novel, My Brother’s Keeper, and the sound of motorcycles followed by my doorbell ringing sent chills down my spine. I ran from the kitchen to the living room window and pulled the blinds to the side. One motorcycle sat in the center of the drive, facing the street, with a man sitting on it. The other, which was clearly Vince’s bike, sat in the drive facing the street, but he wasn’t on it. I quickly moved to the other side of the blinds and peered toward the porch. Vince stood with his hands in his pockets rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Holy shit. I ran to the bathroom, checked my hair, and made every effort to calm my nerves. I had no idea why he had come to my house, but I hoped it was at least to talk with me like an adult. I couldn’t help but wonder who he brought with him and why. After staring into the mirror blankly for what seemed like an eternity, I ran to the door and opened it slowly. “Hi,” I said.

It sounded foolish, but I had no idea what else to say. It had been four months since we’d seen each other, and as with any other shitty time in my life, the time passed at an extremely slow rate, making the days seem like months. In many respects, I felt I had been away from Vince for a decade. His face wasn’t cleanly shaven, but it was close. He looked like he had a few days growth of beard, seemed slightly thinner than normal, but not unhealthy. The expression on his face seemed to be one of worry. He raked his hair away from his eyes and did his best to smile. “Hi,” he said. I guess I’ll say something. “So…” He raised his hand, cleared his throat, and shook his head from side to side. “Hold up a minute.” I stood in the doorway and wondered just what was going on. As I began to run through scenarios in my head, I wondered if something happened to his mother. Before I had a chance to ask, he cleared his throat again and began to speak. “Look, I made a mistake. I blamed you for things and you didn’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. And me?” he paused, shrugged his shoulders, and chuckled. “I’m far from perfect, and I did everything wrong. I’m selfish, self-righteous, and I apologize for being so blind and stubborn to not even be able to see how imperfect I really am.” I inhaled a breath and considered speaking. He immediately raised his hand again to stop me. “I’m sorry for what I did to you, and I hope you can find a way to forgive me,” he said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All at once, my throat constricted, I felt flush, and I was afraid I was going to faint. But surprisingly, I didn’t say a word. “I’m just going to cut to it. Sienna, I love you and I can’t possibly live without you. Will you take me back?” he asked. I had rehearsed what I wanted to say over and over in my head if this day came. After reading for four months on a daily basis, thinking in my down time, and planting a hundred flowers, I decided if I took him back, I was going to be demanding of some things and do the best that a 125 pound girl could to make him feel like shit.

I widened my eyes and cocked my head to the side. “Take you back? Really?” He nodded his head. “Will you?” As much as I wanted to just say yes and immediately pick up where we left off, I wanted to make sure he understood how I felt. “So?” he asked, standing with is shoulders perma-shrugged. “If I do, there are gonna be some conditions. Gimme a minute, I’m thinking,” I said. I shifted my eyes from Vince to the man in the driveway. I wondered who he was and what he was doing with Vince at this particular moment in time. Obviously a Selected Sinner, and more than likely doing some job with Vince or acting as his muscle on trying to intimidate someone, it seemed odd Vince would bring him to my home. “So, who’s he?” I asked as I tossed my head toward the driveway. “A friend,” he responded. I widened my eyes comically and nodded my head in my best sarcastic manner. “Oh, so you’ve got friends now?” He nodded his head. “One.” Vince didn’t have male friends, and he didn’t run with any of the Sinners that I knew of. My guess was that this guy somehow convinced Vince to come talk to me after a long night or a drunken confession on Vince’s part. “Tell him to come here,” I said. “Jackson, come here for a minute,” Vince hollered over his shoulder. Jackson? “What’s his name?” I asked. “Jackson,” he said. I narrowed my eyes and stared. “Jackson?”

He nodded his head once. “Yeah, Jackson.” Vince had no idea his mother had told me of his childhood friend, Jackson. Hearing the man’s name made goosebumps rise along my arms and caused my heart to race. I gazed over Vince’s shoulder and focused on Jackson, and all of a sudden my perception of him changed. He looked like he actually cared. I grinned. “Jackson Shephard,” the man said as he stepped onto the porch and extended his hand. I shook his hand and smiled. “Sienna Boyco.” As he leaned back and crossed his arms, his mouth curled into a smirk. “What can I do for you?” He looked like a fighter. He was big, muscular, tattooed, and had a permanent smirk on his face like he knew something I didn’t. I gazed back at him knowing ninety percent of the population on earth would run from this guy, but all in all I felt extremely comfortable with him and I didn’t really know why. “Just stand over there,” I said as I pointed to the edge of the porch. “I want a witness.” “You’ve got it, Boyco,” he said as he stepped to the side. I shifted my eyes from Jackson to Vince and gave him my best angry glare. “Okay. Here’s my response. Yes, I will take you back under these conditions. One, we start up right where we left off. Two, you never, and I mean never do what you did to me again. If we ever have an issue that is worthy of creating waves in our relationship, we talk first, react later. And three, you’re going to go to your mothers and tell her you’re sorry, and I mean like now. And Sunday dinner starts again tomorrow,” I paused and crossed my arms in front of my chest in standard Vince fashion. “Take it or leave it.” He didn’t make me wait long. He nodded his head and smiled. “I’ll take it.” I shifted my eyes toward Jackson. “You witnessed it.” Still smiling his shitty little smirk, he nodded his head once and pointed at me. “Sure did.”

Vince cocked his head to the side. “Go for a ride?” “Sure, let me get my glasses,” I said. “Looks like we’re headed to mom’s place next, huh?” Jackson asked as he coughed out a laugh. Vince shrugged his shoulders. “Guess so.” “Good,” he said. “We can stop and get Em.” “Okay, let me get my glasses,” I said as I turned toward the house. I hurried into the kitchen and as soon as I was behind the cover of the wall I pumped my fist at my side and smiled. Yes! I walked out onto the porch, kissed Vince, and followed him to the bike. After I got on, they both started their bikes, and we sat for a few seconds. I had to know. “Excuse me, Jackson?” I asked over the sound of the exhaust. “Yeah,” he said with a nod of his head. “Are you the one who talked him into coming here?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at Vince as if seeking authorization to answer. “Yeah, he is,” Vince said over his shoulder. I fucking knew it. Thanks Mom and Dad.

VINCE I had to be honest with myself before I could be honest with anyone else. Once I realized I was mistaken in my beliefs and opinions of myself, I quickly admitted my faults to God and my mother, and I had one more step to go before I could feel that I was the man I had always portrayed myself as being. “Brought your bike. Tell you what, that thing’ll never die. It’s a beast, Pop,” I said. I glanced around the cemetery. Rows upon rows of headstones did nothing to minimize the loss of my father, but I did feel like I had thousands of eyes and ears making sure what I said was exactly what I needed to say. “So, I came here for a reason. I guess, when you get right down to it, I came here for your respect…” I paused and shook my head. It was far more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. After a moment, I lowered myself to the ground, sat cross legged, and gazed at the headstone. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I want to admit some things to you. I hope I didn’t disappoint you too much, and if I did, I’ll apologize in advance.”

I shifted my eyes up to the trees, and eventually to the blue sky well beyond the cemetery. After scanning the horizon for clouds and finding none, my eyes fell to the gravestone. “Pop, I lied to you. I told you I quit smoking, and I did. But I started again, quite a few times, and I never came back and told you. So I lied. I know you’d see it that way, and I sure see it that way. I lied to Ma, and hell everyone for that matter.” “You know I told you I quit because you wanted me to, and I’m going to try again. I’m going to do my best, but no promises. We’ll just see how it goes.” I uncrossed my legs, stood, and rested my hand on the top of the headstone. “So I’ve got the girl back, and I’m not going to let her go this time. I know how you and mom tried to have kids after me and always hoped for a girl…” “Well, I guess in some ways Ma’s got one now. She sure likes her, Pop. We’re over there for Sunday dinners every week. Brought one of the fellas and his girl a couple of times, and Ma sure enjoyed it. Hell, before you know it we might have that dinner table full of the fellas and their girls. I know it’d make Ma happy to have that house filled with people even if it was just once.” “I’m real sorry if I let you down, Pop. There’s one more thing that’s been bothering me. It’s not a lie in my eyes, but it’s the only other thing I could think of that I needed to admit.” I lifted my hand from the gravestone, crossed my arms in front of my chest, and studied the name on the stone. Vincent Stephen Ames “Vince” “When I was a kid, I used to peel the wrapping paper off the packages, to see what I was getting, and wrap ‘em back up.” I slapped my hand against the top of the headstone and grinned. “I’ll keep you up to speed on the girl, Pop. And I’m sorry, I really am. I guess all I can say is this…” “From this day forward I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

And that’s a promise.

SIENNA Where we left off. That’s what I demanded, and it was without a doubt what I received. From the moment we pulled out of the driveway, things were right back to the way they were. I didn’t need to forgive Vince, my mind didn’t see things the way other people did. What happened wasn’t his fault, it was him acting in a manner that was in accordance with his beliefs and the moral code he lived by. He wasn’t right, nor was he wrong. He simply made a decision. Would I have made it? No. Did I agree that it was appropriate? No. But it wasn’t my place to second guess the man I fell in love with. I fell in love with who Vince was, and who he was played a great part in his decision making. For me to condemn him for being himself would be to admit I wasn’t actually in love with him, only parts of him. And that wasn’t the case.

Not at all. “This back yard is amazing,” I said as I shifted my eyes around the yard. The back yard at Vince’s mother’s house was huge and had been landscaped professionally. The home being built on three lots left a yard three times wider than the other yards on the block, but it had the same depth. There was a large waterfall in the center decorated with limestone rocks that trickled down into a small pond, and the pond was filled with fish. A path from the pond in each direction led to the back side of the yard, each path taking a different route, but meeting at a large gazebo which was placed on a concrete patio. The distance between the back of the home and the gazebo was slightly sheltered by the waterfall, but able to be openly viewed to each side by anyone in the corners of the yard, or the neighbors. The perimeter of the yard was decorated by a flower garden and various small trees, which I suspected were Japanese Maples. I knew very little about flowers or landscaping until Vince and I broke up, and only then did I use gardening as an outlet. Seeing the magnificent yard was breathtaking, but it left me sad for Vince’s mother, who I was quite sure had the work done with the hope of filling it with her children. Children she was never blessed with. “I like what you did with your yard. It looks nice,” he said. “It’s okay,” I said, shrugging my shoulders as I continued to look around. “Come here,” he said as he walked toward the gazebo. He was dressed in jeans, a white tee shirt, and his boots. I lagged behind him intentionally as he walked away, just so I could watch him walk. Something about a man in jeans and a perfectly clean white tee shirt had always made me weak in the knees. As he stepped onto the platform of the gazebo, he turned to face me and grinned. “What?” I asked. “I like that dress,” he said.

I typically didn’t wear dresses, but Vince had bought me the dress to wear for our dinner. It was the anniversary of his father’s death, and it just so happened the day fell on a Sunday. Instead of mourning, he and his mother had a ritual of celebrating, which I thought was pretty ingenious. Vince, Emily, Jackson, Axton, Avery, and I had all come for dinner, and as they were all inside talking to Anita, Vince and I were taking a quick tour of the yard. It was nice to see Vince opening up to the other Sinners, and I especially liked Axton. He was pretty mean looking, but he was like a father to Vince, and even though he was extremely intense and seemed to be harsh at times, he always had Vince’s best interest at heart. “Well, you bought it,” I said. He glanced over each of my shoulders, toward the back of the house. After seeing what I expected he wanted to, he pointed to the wooden table in the center of the gazebo. “Bend over and pull it up,” he said as he motioned toward the table. I turned toward the house. I couldn’t see the back door, but I could see everything beside it, including the windows I knew were in the dining room. “Are you kidding me?” I asked as I turned to face Vince. He shook his head, folded his arms in front of his chest, and glared. “Do I look like it?” “We’re in the yard. And we’ve got to get in there to eat in a minute,” I said. The thought of doing it was a huge turn-on, but actually doing it was another story. As he stood and continued to glare at me, I felt myself getting wetter with each passing second. After what seemed like forever, but was realistically a few seconds, I couldn’t take it any longer. “Are you serious?” I asked. With his arms still folded in front of his chest, he nodded his head once. “I want to finger your little pussy.” With my back facing the house, and the waterfall directly behind me, I was protected from the view of anyone at the back door, but the remaining ten windows in the house had a clear shot at what we were doing. If there was anyone in the great room, dining room, upstairs bedrooms, or bathrooms, they would see everything.

All in all, it was perfect. I walked to the table, bent over slightly, and flipped the dress over my hips. “No panties,” he said as he ran his hand along my inner thigh. “Nope,” I responded, my legs twitching in response to his touch. I felt his finger penetrate me. After sliding it in and out of my dripping wet pussy a few times, he obviously added another finger. I bit my lower lip and began to moan at the pressure of both fingers being forced deep inside me. As I pressed my chest onto the top of the wooden table, I lifted myself onto my tiptoes. Either from intending to do so or by accident, and I didn’t really care which it was, the tips of his fingers were rubbing my g-spot each time he pushed them deep inside of me. I closed my eyes and turned my head to the side, resting it flat on the table, and allowed myself to relax onto the heels of my feet. “Holy shit that feels good,” I said softly. And it did. My love for Vince and his desire to please me made me perpetually wet for him, but being in the back yard while everyone prepared for dinner was book boyfriend dream land for me. Within what seemed like seconds, but was more than likely minutes, I began to tingle from head to toe. “Come on, Sienna,” he breathed into my ear. Just shut up and keep going. “Come on, babe,” he breathed. Shut up. Just…hit…that…spot…again… “Come on, do it,” he said. Please, be quiet. His fingers continued to massage my g-spot, and I did my best to filter out his requests to have me come. I was almost there.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” I heard his mother shout. I opened my eyes, fully expecting to see her. Still sheltered by the waterfall, and out of view of the door, I was safe. I closed my eyes, and realized my heart was beating ten-fold of what was normal. A few more strokes of his fingers, and my breathing was louder than anything else in the yard. I raised myself onto my toes, lowered myself, raised up again, and relaxed. “Oh holy fuuuuuuuck…” I collapsed onto the table and gasped for my next breath. The faint sound of what I thought was his zipper was followed by his hand pressing on my back. Him fingering me in the yard was one thing, but him fucking me was another. If he thought for one minute that I was going to let… I inhaled a slow breath as I felt the pressure of his massive cock slide inside of me. As it reached bottom, I exhaled and grabbed the edges of the table in my hands. As I held the table firm in my hands, I turned and looked his direction over my shoulder. His jeans were around his thighs, and his perfectly pressed white tee shirt was all bunched up around his mid-section. I felt like I should protest, and really didn’t think fucking in his mother’s back yard in the evening sun was the best idea I had ever heard, but it wasn’t necessarily the worst, either. Without speaking, I sighed, turned around, and held the table tight. It must have been all the confirmation he needed. He began to fuck me. Not the type of fucking he had given me in the past when he really wanted to prove a point or show me who was boss. Not like the day he drove the couch into the wall, or the evening he fucked me across the living room carpet until he had scabs on his knees and my ass was covered in carpet burns. Not like that. But a good, solid, steady, deep, predictable stroke. The kind of stroke a girl can get lost in feeling. The kind of stroke only the right man can give; a man with a big, thick, long cock.

The slow stroke that allows a girl to feel every inch of the shaft as it slides in, and every inch of it as it slides out, almost counting the inches with each stroke, anticipating feeling the rim as it passes the lips each time. The stroke that is so predictable she can bite her lower lip just before the head bottoms out, because it’s impossible for every inch of that big thick cock to penetrate her fully. Yeah, that stroke. “Fuck yes,” I grunted as he fucked me. “Right there, that’s it.” His hands gripped my waist, and pulled me back ever so slightly as he pushed himself into me. As he pulled his hips back, he pushed me with his hands, making sure his cock slid right to the point of tickling my pussy lips. He continued to fuck me in the same manner until my head was spinning and I was close to reaching my second back yard orgasm. “You two coming in?” I opened my eyes, recognizing the voice as Axton’s. Vince didn’t change his pace or slow his stroke, but kept fucking me as if nothing was going on. Although I really couldn’t hear our breathing, our skin touching, or his grunting, everything seemed to be amplified now, and I could hear everything. “Where the fuck are you?” Shit, he’s getting closer. Vince’s cock continued to slide inside of me, slide out, and slide back in. The same pace, the same intensity, and the same great fucking feeling. Fuck it. I closed my eyes and bit my bottom lip. The thought of Axton walking around looking for us was weird, but with my eyes closed, it really didn’t matter. Strangely, I felt comfort in not knowing where he was or what he was seeing, but while Vince was fucking me, I imagined Axton standing behind the waterfall watching Vince fuck me. And I liked it. I clenched my eyes tight and focused on the feeling of his thick cock.

“Food’s ready.” Yeah, so am I. A few more strokes and I was done. My pussy began to clench around his cock and I felt him begin to swell inside of me. His rhythmic thrusting continued as his hands gripped my hips a little tighter, and I felt my muscles begin to tighten. I lifted myself onto my tip-toes and held it for a second… And relaxed. The intensity of my orgasm was beyond anything I had ever experienced with Vince or alone. I felt as if my head exploded as he held his cock deep inside of me. For a few seconds of heightened hypersensitivity, I could feel his cock throbbing inside of me. Eventually, my climax lessened and I opened my eyes. “Holy shit,” I whispered as I turned and glanced over my shoulder. Vince slowly pulled his cock from inside of me and started to stroke it rapidly. “What are you…” He raised his left hand to his lips. “Shhh. Watch.” With his jeans around his thighs and his wrinkled shirt dangling at the base of his cock, he jacked it like his life depended on it. Watching him stroke his cock was something I always wanted to see, and seeing it was quickly exceeding my expectations. Within a few seconds his breathing increased and he leaned back onto his heels. “Oh fuck,” he sighed. And he began to erupt. Cum spurted out of the tip of his cock, landing six feet away onto the concrete deck Another spurt, this time landing a few feet away, followed by a third, landing at his feet. Holy fuck that’s hot.

He opened his eyes and grinned. “You didn’t…” I whispered as I nodded my head toward his waist. He shook his head. “I wanted you to see what you do to me.” I tugged at the bottom of my dress, attempting to minimize the wrinkles and the soon to be asked questions. “That was fucking hot,” I said. He pulled up his jeans, buckled his belt, and did his best to make his shirt look neat. “Come on before we get in trouble,” he said as he walked past me. I glanced down at the puddles of cum on the concrete. “Uhhm, what about all that? Someone will slip and fall.” He shrugged his shoulders. I shrugged mine and followed him into the house. Everyone was standing around the table talking. “Glad you could make it,” Axton said. “We were just taking a tour,” Vince said. I grinned at Avery and immediately felt guilty, so I shifted my eyes to the table. “Been talking to Otis?” Axton asked. I glanced up. Axton’s eyes were fixed on Vince’s. “Who’s Otis?” I asked. Axton shifted his eyes toward me. “He’s one of the fellas. His Ol’ Lady’s got a flower garden and gazebo just like what’s out there. They sure like it.” I nodded my head and grinned. Axton shifted his eyes back to Vince and smiled. “They use it a lot.

I was just wondering if ol’ Vince here had been talking to Otis about it. Maybe getting a few pointers.” Axton chuckled and turned to face me. “So how you doing, Kid?” he asked. “Good,” I said. “I bet you are,” he said with a nod. “I bet you are.”

VINCE If I ever felt like something was important enough to be important, it was pretty damned important. “I told you once, I don’t think I should just have to keep repeating myself,” I said. “Well, that is a sketch made on a note pad. A sketch. It’s not a precision drawing, and…” I was done listening to this asshole, and was about ready to either beat the living shit out of him or go elsewhere. “What you think because I’m a fucking biker I’m some dumb fuck?” I asked. He shook his head. “That’s not an accurate statement.” I pointed toward the drawing and tossed my hands in the air. “I didn’t draw that fucker with a crayon; I drew it with an architect’s pencil. That, that right fucking there, that’s what I want.” “Very well. Identical to what is depicted?” he asked.

I nodded my head. “Exactly.” He glanced at the drawing, shook his head from side to side, and sighed heavily. “But, the dimensions, it’s not drawn to scale, and it’s…” “Who says it’s not drawn to scale?” I asked. “Well, I assume based on the disproportionate nature, and the sheer size of the…” “Just. Like. The. Fucking. Drawing,” I said flatly. He picked up the paper, nodded his head, and shifted his eyes toward the parking lot where I had parked my bike. “And, the manner in which you’ll resolve payment?” he asked. I reached inside my cut, pulled out a banded stack of hundred dollar bills, and flopped it onto the edge of the counter. “Cash. That ought to get you started,” I said. He picked up the bills, flipped through them, and grinned. “It certainly will.” “Your name?” he asked as he picked up a clipboard. I pointed to the drawing, shifted my finger toward the money he held, and nodded my head. “Name’s Vince, that’s it. No phone number, no address. I’ll be back in a week,” I said. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Vince,” he said. “Exactly like the drawing,” I said. He glanced down at the drawing, nodded his head once, and grinned. “It will be.” And as far as I was concerned, that was all that mattered.

SIENNA There should come a time in every girl’s life when she feels she can safely exhale. At least that’s what I had always believed. I doubted each and every girl on the earth reached that point, and the thought saddened me that some didn’t, but I did. And I was grateful when the day finally came. “I had no idea there were carriage rides in Old Town,” I said. The man driving the carriage was actually wearing a top hat, which was pretty cool in my opinion. The carriage was white and rather ornate, with carvings along the sides and on the armrests. The seats were red velvet and quite comfortable for a wooden carriage. As the man whipped the reigns up and down the Clydesdale horses picked up the pace slightly. We’d been in the carriage for thirty minutes, taking a tour of Old Town in downtown Wichita. Vince had spent the entire time checking his watch, so I realized he must have had other plans, but I had no idea what they were. The evening was perfect, and for Kansas in the fall, rather enjoyable. It was just under sixty degrees, the dark sky overhead was filled with stars, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. As we sipped our

hot apple cider, the carriage came around the corner. “The Keen Kutter building,” the man said as he motioned toward the brick building on our right side. Vince checked his watch. “Built in 1906 by Wurster Construction, the building was used by Keen Kutter until the early 1920’s when Winchester Arms merged with Keen Kutter to utilize…” Vince checked his watch again. The carriage slowed down slightly, and the sound of the horse’s hooves slapping against the brick street became almost musical. I took a sip of cider and gazed off to the left at the renovated one hundred year old buildings that had been developed into housing, eateries, and bars. Vince checked his watch. I shook my head and turned to the side and watched as two people walked by hand in hand, probably on their way to the wine bar half way down the block. It was almost midnight and the bars were all that was really left open. I shifted my eyes toward the front of the carriage, only to see that Vince had moved to the seat in front of me. The carriage seated six people, and Vince had rented the entire carriage to give us privacy. Although he had been seated at my side all night, he obviously got bored and moved. “What are you doing?” I asked. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and leaned forward. “Sienna, I can say this without hesitation,” he said. “You are the only woman I have ever loved. I know that now, I know it.” “Awwe, thank you,” I said as I leaned forward and kissed him. “I want this to last forever,” he said. “The ride?” I asked with a grin.

He shook his head. “This. You and me.” “Me too,” I said. “So,” he said as he raised himself from the seat. He removed his right hand from his jacket, lowered himself onto one knee, and raised his hand in front of me. I glanced at his hand. Oh God… Vince. “Sienna, I would be the proudest man on earth if you would agree to marry me,” he said. I bit into my lip and nodded my head, incapable of speaking. I mouthed the words “I will” as tears began to well in my eyes. I reached for the ring and nodded my head again. I had read about this moment in thousands of books, but nothing could have prepared me for what was happening. He shook his head, reached for my hand, and slipped the ring onto my finger. I glanced down at the ring. It was a ridiculously huge round diamond, and the sides of the ring were covered in smaller diamonds, fading into small slivers at the bottom. It was breathtaking. “I love you,” I said as I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks. Vince turned toward the man driving and nodded his head. The man raised his hand to his mouth, pulled the reigns downward, and stopped the carriage. As the carriage came to a halt, the man whistled a shrill whistle loud enough for the entire city to hear. “And off to the left, you can see the not so historic Warren Theatre parking garage,” he said with a slight laugh as he pointed toward the structure on the left. Vince turned to the left and stared, pulling me in his arms as he did so. Under the streetlights and illuminated enough for me to see I wasn’t the only one crying, he looked peaceful and content.

I was in heaven. A huge boom, followed by another, and yet another caused me to jump in my seat. The top of the parking garage illuminated underneath the fireworks display over our heads. It was just like the Fourth of July, the sky glowing with pinks, reds, blues, and yellows, one burst after the other. I smiled as I stared out at the display, only to see the someone’s head clearing the top of the roof and peering down below. The unmistakable “Whoop” of Biscuit making a cat-call made me giggle, and I waved at him from the carriage. “Congrats, Motherfuckers!” I heard Jackson scream. “All of this,” I said as I waved toward the fireworks. “You’re amazing.” “No, you’re amazing,” he said. “I’m just surprised…” I paused and shook my head. The next day was November 9th, the anniversary of our first kiss. I found it odd he didn’t wait until the next day to propose. “What?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders and admired my ring. “Nothing.” “Surprised I didn’t wait ‘till the 9th?” he asked. I nodded my head. He pointed to his watch. “It’s the 9th. It’s been the 9th for some time now.” I realized it was past midnight, and the 9th of November. A true romantic, the love of my life had just proposed to me on the anniversary of our first kiss. Directly above us the fireworks continued to explode, illuminating the sky entirely. I pointed up at the sky, down at my ring, and shook my head. “What?” he asked.

“This,” I said. “What about it?” he asked. “This is the money shot,” I said. He grinned and pulled me in for a kiss. “It sure is.” And it was. The perfect night. The perfect man. The perfect romantic moment. If our lives were ever written into a book, it would be the perfect… Money shot.

EPILOGUE AXTON BISHOP The fellas in my club weren’t simply friends, brothers, or people who I expected to have my back when times were tough. Each and every one of them was a part of a machine. In the absence of one man, the machine would be incomplete. In the absence of some men, the machine would break down. It took time, but Vince had become a critical component in the machine. Without him there was no doubt in my mind, the machine would cease to exist. I held my head high and walked as straight as possible. It was something I had never imagined I would have to do, but I agreed to do so as a matter of respect. Well, that and I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it with such devotion. The slight tug on my right arm reminded me of my commitment. I blinked my eyes, lowered my chin, and waited. He shifted his eyes upward and gazed at me blankly. “Who gives this woman to be married to this man on this beautiful day?”

“I do. Axton Bishop,” I responded with a proud nod. “And, Mr. Bishop, do I have your blessing to move forward with this ceremony of marriage?” he asked. I lowered my chin and smiled. “Yes, Sir. You do.” Sienna pinched my arm. You little shit. The pastor motioned for her to come forward. I stepped aside, turned and walked to the open seat beside Avery and sat down. It seemed strange for me to be dressed in a tuxedo for a biker wedding, but I should have known Vince wouldn’t do anything traditional to the one percenter. He was a romantic at heart, and I admired him for it. The pastor shifted his eyes throughout the crowd. The entire yard was decorated and filled with chairs, a stage, band, and rented dance floor. Vince’s mother’s home was perfect for the wedding, and she sure seemed excited to plan the event entirely; no expense had been spared. “Marriage is a solemn institution to be held in honor by all, it is the cornerstone of the family and of the community. It requires of those who undertake it a complete and unreserved giving of one's self. It is not to be entered into lightly, as marriage is a sincere and mutual commitment to love one another,” he said. He turned and exchanged glances at Vince and Sienna. “This commitment symbolizes the intimate sharing of two lives and still enhances the individuality of each of you.” “Will rings be exchanged as a symbol of this union in marriage?” Vince nodded his head and motioned toward the ring bearer. Biscuit grinned, raised the silk pillow, and waited as Vince removed the rings and handed them to the pastor. “A ring is a circle with no beginning and no end. Love without end is what we hope to achieve in marriage. As this ring is placed upon your fingers remember that it is your love for one another that has brought you here, and it is that love that will guide you down the pathways of your lives.”

The pastor turned toward Vince and nodded his head. Vince gazed into Sienna’s eyes and held the ring in his hand. “I promise to you to have all the patience required to comfort you through the life we share and as we grow and learn to love one another. I promise to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and understanding of all you may need, desire, or require of me. Above all, I promise to love you today and every day following no less than the previous, and to never anger beyond what words cannot repair.” The pastor nodded his head. Vince slipped the ring on Sienna’s finger. The pastor turned to face Sienna. She grinned, reached for the ring, and held it between her fingers. “I promise to be understanding of your needs, accepting of your shortcomings, and open to your requests of me. I promise to be loving of you now, tomorrow, and for every day we share, and to place my love for you above all other needs. Above all, I promise when you do anger, to be patient, and allow time to pass and wounds to heal, for man is imperfect, and the world knows this to be fact.” The pastor nodded his head. Sienna placed the ring on Vince’s finger. “Repeat after me,” he said. “With this ring I make this vow to you before God, before witness, and before my brothers.” They each repeated the vow. “Stephen Vincent Ames, do you take this woman to be your wedded wife? Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health, remaining faithful to her as long as you both shall live?” “Yes, Sir. I do,” Vince said. “Sienna Ghee Boyco, do you take this man to be your wedded husband? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him in sickness and in health, remaining faithful to him as long as you both shall live?” “I certainly do,” Sienna responded. The pastor glanced at each of them and bowed his head slightly. “Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

They kissed a kiss I damned sure wouldn’t have kissed at my wedding. After a few get a room remarks were shouted by various Sinners, they separated and turned to face the crowd. I couldn’t have been more proud of one of my boys and his new wife. I turned toward Avery, smiled, and kissed her. “I love you,” I said. “I love you,” she responded. Avery looked remarkable in her dress. She made me proud in what she had done with Jackson, work, life, and finally making amends with her parents. One day I would make her my wife, I was sure of it. When the day came, I would stand proud before my brothers and take the vow with honor and respect. As the evening turned into night, and the alcohol became part of the occasion, the DJ tapped his finger on the microphone and got everyone’s attention. “I’d like to make an announcement,” he said. “It’s time for the father-daughter dance. The song chosen was by the daughter, and I want to make sure everyone in attendance is ready. Axton?” He motioned toward me with his free hand. Oh shit, that’s my cue. It was the least I could do for a member of my family whose father was deceased. Participating in the dance was a matter of respect. I turned to the side and reached for Sienna’s hand, fully expecting a slow dance. She raised her hand in the air and pulled it away from me as she shook her head. When she kicked her shoes to the side, I realized I might be in trouble. I wrinkled my brow and stared. Her mouth curled into a smirk as she turned her head and shouted over her shoulder at the DJ. “Hit it,” she said with a nod. The music started and the floor began to shake. It wasn’t what I expected, but I had given my word I’d do the dance with her. Without hesitation, I grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pulled it off, and tossed it

to Anita. I couldn’t wear a jacket and dance to the song she’d chosen, there was no way. I glanced around the dance floor. Every person in attendance had their eyes on me. And as “Christmas in Hollis,” by Run DMC played, I came to realize although we were all Selected Sinners, we were all different. But for that moment, Sienna and I were exactly the same. And I danced like it was the last time I would ever have a chance.



HARD CORPS Scott Hildreth



DEDICATION Alec Jacob is a fictitious character, but there are many like him on earth. They are sheep dogs. They protect the sheep of this earth from the wolves who attempt to prey on them. Without the sheep dog, the sheep would certainly perish, one by one, until the flock is gone. The sheep dog does what he does not for pay, or even recognition, but because he was born a sheep dog. Before you fall asleep, say a prayer for the sheep dog who allows you to relax into the state of slumber without worry, without fear, and without shedding a drop of blood. When you sleep, sleep soundly and without reservation. Because the sheep dog is out there. Waiting. For a wolf to make his move. To the protectors. The sheep dogs. This one is for you.



AUTHOR’S NOTE THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. All names, locations, club names, and incidents in this book are a figment of the author’s imagination, and are depicted in a work of fiction. Any likeness to fact is pure coincidence. The club depicted in this book does not exist; it was created for this book. Lastly, the colors depicted in the cover and described in this book are a creation of graphic artistry, and are not actually the colors for any Motorcycle Club known to exist by the author.



COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. Hard Corps 1st Edition Copyright © 2016 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth



PROLOGUE Unconditional love was something I deeply desired, but until I met Alec Jacob I wasn’t sure actually existed. After meeting him and experiencing his ability to love first hand, I knew I could never live without him. He was more kind than any man I had ever met, and as much as I expected his kindness to eventually diminish, it never did. The few who were foolish enough to cross him were always met with a warning, and if they chose not to heed it, were dealt with accordingly. A predictable man in many ways and quite misunderstood in others, he was somewhat of an enigma. As much as we were in love and as close as we had become, I still found him to be the most intriguing individual I had ever encountered or expected I ever would encounter. The first day I saw him ride up on his motorcycle I was attracted to him, but any woman would have been. His body was perfectly proportioned and his face was constructed in a way that any female would be drawn to him, but it was his mysterious eyes that provided a clear warning to proceed with caution. And I did just that. The more I learned about him, the more attracted to him I became. As handsome as he was, and as much as his chiseled torso made my mouth water, it was who Alec Jacob was that made him more attractive to me than any other man on earth. He accepted me for who I was, never asked me to change one thing, and assured me he would always protect me from all of what was evil on this earth.

And the earth was filled with evil, there was no doubt in my mind of that. Alec was a war hero and a highly decorated Marine. I was well aware not only that he had killed, but that he had killed many. Not all, as much as I hated to admit it, being a casualty of the war he fought in. But as capable as he was of administering what he believed to be justice upon those he deemed to be the deserving recipients, he was not an evil man. He was kind, he was caring, and he was loving. And he was mine.



CHAPTER ONE Summer 2003, Al-Anbar Province, Iraq The days seemed to last forever and as much as I hoped I might be able to defend my life and the lives of the three men I was in charge of, I had no expectation all of us would make it home alive. My belief was that prior to the war ending, at least one of us would be shipped back to the states in a casket with a flag neatly draped over the top. Deep in my mind, a picture was embedded. Taken from the tail end of a C-130 into the cargo area, the image was haunting. The sight itself, one coffin neatly positioned perfectly beside the other – each with an American flag covering the casket – was one of dignity, selflessness, sacrifice, and freedom. I fully realized the image should not have troubled me in the manner it did, but it tormented me nonetheless. As much as I was willing to fight, I didn’t want to be shipped home in a box or a bag. There weren’t many assurances during war, but one remained true throughout all wars ever fought. Men died. Damned good men. Truly believing any other option was possible, at least while in combat, was unrealistic. I steadied my M4, glanced in Grayson’s direction, and gave a slight nod of my head. He kicked the door right beside the makeshift lock. So many of the homes didn’t appear to be houses in a conventional sense. What seemed to be a commercial building may have an entire family

living inside, most sleeping on a thin mat that had been tossed on a dirt floor. Other identical buildings may have half a dozen insurgents hiding inside, prepared to kill whoever entered without any warning whatsoever. Knowing what was on the other side of the door prior to entering was close to, if not totally, impossible. Me again. Keep my men safe. The wooden door swung open with a bang, revealing what appeared to be sleeping quarters for six or more people. I entered first, with the other three Marines immediately following me. As my eyes darted around the room, a tingling sensation ran along my spine. Although there was no one visible in the room, there was something about it I didn’t like. With the buttstock of the M4 against my right shoulder and my finger indexed along the side of the trigger guard, I quickly scanned the room for any signs of life. The floor was covered with bedrolls, blankets, clothes, and supplies, but there appeared to be no munitions or occupants. The stucco-like inner structure of the building was cracked, damaged, and dirty. The blankets, positioned around the perimeter of the open room, were the only sign of life. Even seeing everything the room had to offer, it was unclear if it was an insurgent hideout or the home of a local family. As I stood, staring at the pile of dirty bedding, the smell of stale sweat filled my nostrils, providing only an indication of the space once being occupied, but nothing more. I felt like spraying the piles of blankets with a few dozen rounds from my weapon, making certain no one stood from the piles of rubble and shot me or one of my fellow Marines, but I knew better than to do so. If I did, there would undoubtedly be women and children sleeping under them, and I would find myself being court-martialed for the murder of civilians. As Cunningham was turning toward the door, mumbling something about yet another lost opportunity to cleanse the world of all living al-Qaeda, I noticed one of the blankets move slightly. I raised my left hand in the air and clenched my fist as I lowered the barrel of my weapon toward the movement. With the room eerily silent compared to the sound of our entry and quick search, the passage of time seemed to come to a complete stop. I suspected to whoever was beneath the blanket, the same was true. As much as I hoped the person hiding was friendly, my first tour had taught me to assume everyone was a threat. I fixed my weapon on the pile of blankets. “Raweenee edeek.” Show me those hands, motherfucker. The pile of bedding remained motionless.

“Raweenee edeek!” I said in a more demanding tone. As the mound of blankets began to move ever so slightly, I recognized the unmistakable shape of the barrel of an AK-47 as it exposed itself from the cover of the bedding. My vision narrowed to the threat, and I could actually hear my heart beating. My throat constricted and instantly went dry. Everything surrounding me became distant, and the only thing that mattered was the location of the barrel. The AK-47 was the weapon of choice for the majority of the resistance against us, and had become a common sight. Although there was no doubt whoever was beneath the blanket had the means to resist, so far they hadn’t actually done so. The fine line we were required to walk regarding the use of deadly force had cost the life of many a Marine, but was a requirement nonetheless. Until the person with the rifle became an actual threat, the possibility existed that they were prepared to turn over the weapon and surrender, and we were required to treat them as such. Until he pointed the weapon at us or fired it, we were to treat him as if he were friendly. I stood firm, anxiously waiting on whoever was beneath the blankets to reveal themselves. “Weapon!” I heard Grayson shout. “Shut the fuck up, Private. I see it,” I said over my shoulder as I maintained focus on the tip of the barrel. “Raweenee edeek!” I shouted in an attempt to get him to release the weapon and show his hands. A thin man jumped from the blankets without any warning, and the barrel of the weapon swung toward where I was standing. It was all that was necessary for me to act in self-defense. Without thought, the tip of my index finger slipped inside the trigger guard and pulled against the trigger twice. His body jolted from the impact of the two bullets, and his hand instinctively pulled the trigger, discharging a few rounds into the far wall. As he dropped his weapon to the floor and fell to his knees, his eyes revealed the unmistakable regret he felt for doing what he had done. “Hold your fire,” I said flatly as I watched him collapse. On his knees, staring up at me with hopeful eyes, he held out his weathered hand. Why? Why didn’t you fucking surrender? I kicked the weapon to the side. “Someone secure that weapon, and get this bedding searched.” I shifted my gaze to meet the blank stare of the man I had shot. His eyes appeared to be that of a thirty-year-old man, but the sun damaged skin of his face seemed to be sixty, common for the people of

Iraq. “He’s alive. Cunningham, get a Corpsman in here and see if you can find a Terp,” I shouted. “Fuck that Haji motherfucker,” Grayson blurted as he kicked along the pile of blankets positioned around the perimeter of the room. “Find me a Corpsman and a fucking interpreter!” I demanded. Just hang on for a few minutes, I’ve got help en route. I glanced down at his wounds. One of the rounds struck him in the left side of the upper chest, and the other slightly higher, closer to his clavicle. With quick medical attention, he might survive, but the chest wound needed immediate action if he was going to live. I reached for his outstretched hand, held it in mine, and waited for a Corpsman. As he looked into my eyes, he calmly spoke in a manner and tone I perceived as apologetic. Although I had learned a few of the necessary phrases, I was not fluent in Arabic, and needed an interpreter to not only understand what he was saying but to interview him before he died. Determining the locations of any other resistance we were likely to encounter would be helpful, and I had learned a dying man was more willing to be truthful than one who believed he was free from the threat of death. In seeing as many men die as I had, there seemed to be one common thread in the few seconds immediately preceding death – regardless of race, religion, or skin color. Death took the dying to a peaceful place. I positioned my weapon over my shoulder, knelt in front of him, and cut the front of his shirt open. The chest wound was considerably lower than I expected it to be, and was discharging blood with each heartbeat. If he didn’t receive medical attention immediately, he would undoubtedly be added to the long list of men I had killed in my 16 months of combat. “Anyone got a chest seal or catheter?” I asked over my shoulder as I studied the wound. The sound of shuffling boots and a few light sighs was my only response. With our eyes locked, he blinked a few times before his mouth curled into a shallow smile. It was a smile not of joy, but of comfort. I silently studied him, wondering if he had a family, kids, or a wife. I wondered if he was forced to fight, did so out of a feeling of need, or if he was simply guarding what was once his home. As he continued to gaze at me and smile lightly, I did my best to return the gesture. A few seconds later he released his grip on my hand and slumped against me.

Well, fuck. Killing was not complicated, and had become more of an instinct than a decision I consciously made. Dealing with death, however, was different. I released his hand, frustrated that he had chosen to point the weapon at me, but feeling no regret for the action I had taken. I turned toward the entrance and walked through the room, gazing blankly beyond the walls and into the dusty street as I did so. “How many is that?” I heard Grayson ask. I tapped a cigarette from my pack, raised it to my mouth, and lit it. As I watched the smoke slowly rise from the tip, I bit into the cotton filter and spoke through my teeth. “How many is what?” “Kills. Cunningham said you killed a bunch of these sorry motherfuckers,” he said. I glared at him, capable of answering, but not necessarily feeling doing so was warranted – at least not to him. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed into the street at the children playing. “God damned Muslims, we should drop a motherfuckin’ bomb on this son-of-a-bitch if you ask me. Turn this sand to a fuckin’ sheet of glass.” I closed my left eye, took a long drag from the cigarette, and studied him with my open eye. As I exhaled a cloud of smoke into the space between us, I responded in the only manner I saw fit. “Well, Private Grayson, nobody asked you. And we’re not fighting Muslims, dumb fuck. We’re fighting terrorists.” I paused and took a long pull from the cigarette. I stared down at the toes of my boots and exhaled the smoke from my lungs. After a few long seconds of staring blankly at the dirt floor, I shifted my gaze upward and studied his eyes. A replacement for a Marine who had been killed by an IED, and all of eighteen years old, he would more than likely be dead in a matter of weeks if his attitude didn’t change. As he looked back at me with the eyes of an over eager inexperienced Marine, I continued. “I’m not here to condemn a man for his religious beliefs, but I’ll send one straight to an early grave for his stance against the United States of America or one of my fellow Marines. You’ve got a lot to fucking learn, Private,” I said, making sure he understood that I was not only aware of his military rank, but that he was as low and as inexperienced as a Marine could possibly be. His eyes went wide as if I had slapped him in the face.

He stared beyond me for a moment, shifted his eyes to me, and gave a slight acknowledgement of my condemnations. “I’ll do my best, Corporal Jacob,” he said in an apologetic tone. As I turned and walked out of the building, I considered Grayson’s initial question, and wondered why I didn’t accurately respond. I bent my knees and lowered myself into a squatted position beside the opening of the door and gazed into the street. The length of the deserted dirt road was littered with pieces of brick and chunks of concrete, a reminder of the many bombs dropped before our arrival. A young boy played with a soccer ball, bouncing it from his knees onto his chest and shoulders, oblivious as to what was going on around him. As I watched him balance the ball on his upper chest, I tried my best to recall the lives I had taken. I wasn’t ashamed, nor was I proud. Killing the enemy was something that had happened, and if given the same circumstances to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. As far as I was concerned, there was only one thing that really mattered – if I didn’t kill the men who were trying to kill me, my objective would never be reached. My objective? At the end of each tour of duty, I needed to make it home for one reason and one reason only. To hold my wife in my arms. I looked out into the dusty street. The boy was gone. The sound of small arms fire echoed in the air like distant music. I stood, raised my hands to my face, and rubbed my tired eyes. No matter how much I rationalized ending the lives of the men I had killed, the details of each of their deaths lingered in my mind, playing over and over like a slow-motion scene from a horror movie. It was the price I paid, I supposed, for doing something so contrary to man’s religious, moral, and spiritual beliefs. So far, I had killed thirteen men to reach my objective. And holding her in my arms was all the justification I really needed.



CHAPTER TWO Fall 2003, Wichita, Kansas, USA I pushed my hand into my pocket and removed my wallet. As I thumbed through the bills the driver turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Thanks for your service.” I shifted my eyes from the meter to my wallet, and removed a $10 and a $20 bill. “Meter says $18.80. Here’s $30.00. Keep the change.” He shook his head. “I mean it. Keep your money. I’m not just saying it; I appreciate your service to the country. When they flew those planes into the towers, I wanted to have the guts…” He paused as the car rolled to a stop. After shifting the gear selector into park, he turned toward the back seat. He was roughly my age, but his shoulder-length hair and full beard made him appear slightly older at first glance. “Not all of us have the courage to do what you’re doing. Me? I get to drive this cab and make an honest living because people like you are willing to fight to keep this country free. Keep your money. I mean it,” he said. “I appreciate it,” I said as I folded the money and pushed it between the back of his seat and the bottom cushion. He would find it at some point in time, probably the next time he cleaned his car. I’d never been one to accept charity, and felt I was required to pay for everything I obtained in life, one way or another.

“Going back?” he asked as I opened the door. I got out of the car and adjusted my pack as I responded through the open window. “Until they tell me I can’t, or it ends.” “Good luck,” he said. I nodded my head in appreciation. Luck. Some called me lucky. Others described me as gifted. Personally, I felt that I had a sixth sense; one that allowed me to see things as they truly were, and that wasn’t always the way other people perceived them. Knowing what I believed to be the truth allowed me a second or so to react without contemplation or thought, which was often all it took to survive. I folded a piece of gum and poked it into my mouth. As I chewed it and shoved the wrapper into the pocket of my trousers, she opened the front door. Her strawberry blonde hair was well past her shoulders, several inches longer than the last time we had seen each other. “Oh my God. You didn’t say…” she gasped. Short of writing letters, I hadn’t spoken to her in seven months, and hadn’t told her specifically when I would arrive. Although many of the Marines used the calling centers or morale calls on SAT phones to call home, I felt the distraction on both ends was too much if we were to attempt to communicate by telephone. An old fashioned letter delivered in the mail, however, was something nice to read, and it could be read over and over, providing much more than a few moments of pleasure. My eyes fell to her feet, and slowly inched their way up her body until stopping at her face. I stood in awe, recognizing her natural beauty, but trying the entire time to hide the excitement of seeing her again. She looked every bit as gorgeous as she did on any other day, which was more beautiful than any other woman who had ever graced the earth with her presence. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” I said, twisting my mouth into a smirk. Unlike many of my Marine brethren, I was devoted to Suzanne wholly. Cheating or even lusting over another woman was completely out of the question. I was hers, and only hers, and she knew it. It was a large part of what allowed me to travel to another country and devote myself to a war while leaving her at home without her worrying about my commitment or loyalty – or me questioning hers for that matter. I knew, no matter when I showed up, she would be alone and waiting for me. “God it’s good to see you,” she said as she ran down the steps.

“Come here, Babe,” I said as I dropped my pack to the sidewalk and opened my arms. I extended my arms and gazed into her green eyes. They were the most inviting eyes I had ever seen, and they were attached to the most beautiful woman to ever exist. Seeing her cry – even if they were tears of joy – was heartbreaking. “No need to cry, Babe,” I said as I wiped the tears from her cheeks with my thumb. “I’ll be home for a while. I’ve got some leave before I have to go back.” “But you’re going back?” she said, half asking, half stating. I pulled her into me and held her tight to my chest. “Until the war is over, or they find me unfit to fight, I’ll keep going back. I don’t have a choice.” As she nodded her head in acknowledgement, I pressed my nose into her hair and inhaled a slow breath. I viewed my time at war as an opportunity to serve my country, and never really felt sorry for myself for what I was required to forfeit to do so. Each time I returned home, I was reminded of the things I missed, and although seeing Suzanne proved to me that God existed, inhaling a hint of her scent was much more satisfying. It reassured me that she existed. After swallowing my gum, I reached down, lifted her chin slightly, and kissed her. The kiss wasn’t aggressive, extremely long, or close to what most Marine wives received upon their husband’s return to the states, but it was appropriate, respectful, and provided all the support she needed to understand where it was I had placed her. On a pedestal above anything and everything on the earth. Most men, upon returning home from the war, more than likely greeted their wives or girlfriends with the tip of their dick. I believed there was a time and a place for sex, and was actually quite fond of fucking the woman I loved, but for the next hour or so I needed to simply hold her in my arms, inhale her scent, and talk to her. She’d been through this routine enough times that she knew what to expect from me. Sitting down, eating a meal together, and talking allowed my mind to return back to civilization, and at least for the amount of time I was home, feel like things were different. “God, I love kissing you,” she said as our lips parted. She leaned back and shifted her eyes up and down my frame. “You look like you’ve lost weight. Come on, let me make you something to eat. Are you hungry?” I reached for my pack, lifted it to my shoulder, and nodded my head. “I could eat.”

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat, and then we’ll curl up in a ball on the couch.” She turned away, walked up the steps and held the door open. I paused at the first step and glanced at the front of the house before allowing my eyes to openly gaze around the yard. Leaves had filled the gutters, and the yard was littered with the various colors of fall. Most men would perceive a yard full of leaves as a pain in the ass. Work. Time that could be spent watching a football game. Me? I saw it as exactly what it was. Beautiful. I grinned, exhaled, and followed her into the house. God, it feels good to be home.



CHAPTER THREE Early Spring 2004, Fallujah, Iraq The First Battle of Fallujah. I grew up the only son of high school sweethearts who fell in love, married, and remained true to each other until my mother passed away. My father never remarried after her death, claiming his only love to be my mother, and further explaining that allowing another woman into his life, at any level, would be disrespectful to his deceased wife and only love. I respected him for his position on love, relationships, and as a father. As a child, my friends often claimed their hero to be a television character, someone in a movie, or even a superhero from a comic book. Me? My father was my only hero. He took me deer hunting for the first time when I was twelve. Although I was young, I had spent my short life around weapons, learning to respect them, understand their inner workings, and how to properly handle them safely. My father described me as a natural, claiming one day I would be in the Olympics as a marksman, but I knew otherwise. I wanted to be like my uncle, who was a former Marine and a Vietnam war veteran. My father’s brother, and a man who didn’t demand respect – but received it from those who understood him. He was less apt to speak than any other of my relatives, but when he did, his advice was always well thought out

and easy to apply to life. As we sat in the tree stand waiting for a deer to cross the trail a hundred yards ahead, my father questioned whether or not I was ready, and, ultimately, if I was ready, would I be able to make a shot at such a distance? I later learned after they were shot, most deer ran through the woods for a hundred yards or more before finally bleeding so much that they expired from blood loss. A perfectly placed shot – straight up from the back side of the front leg, half way between the bottom of the chest and the back – was the only thing that would drop a deer in its tracks. Filled with confidence, and hoping to make my father proud, I waited for a deer to cross the path in front of us. As the morning sun began to rise above the base of the trees, a buck stepped into the clearing, raised his head, and sniffed the air as if something was wrong. As his shoulder twitched from either fear or an inner knowledge of impending threat, I squeezed the trigger. The deer fell where it stood. Two days later, as we sat and ate a meal of venison steaks, potatoes, and an apple pie my mother had prepared, I began to understand the permanency of death. My father, while describing the impossible shot I had made to my mother, was filled with pride. As I listened to him speak, I didn’t necessarily feel proud, but I was far from ashamed. I felt powerful, large, and almost invincible. The taking of a life wasn’t something every man was able to do, but I understood death as the completion of the cycle of life, and something completely necessary for all living things to endure at some point. Making the choice to end the cycle of life wasn’t something I took lightly as a child, or as an adult. As I grew older, I eventually stopped hunting. My belief at the time was that it wasn’t necessary. For me at least, hunting was a sport; and killing – for sport – was something I decided was wrong. *** “We need to get off this roof before he shoots all of us,” the young Marine complained. In searching the building for insurgents, we had encountered a Marine Scout Sniper and his spotter. The sniper had been shot, was close to death, and the spotter appeared to be in slight shock. There

was no doubt he had received considerable training to be a spotter for a Scout Sniper and to be a combat ready Marine, but nothing could ever replace the experience from actually being in combat, which was something he obviously hadn’t had the luxury of experiencing. “First tour?” I asked as I crawled toward the abandoned sniper rifle. “Yes, Sir. We got here two days ago for this operation,” he responded nervously. “We really need to get down from here. We’re sitting ducks.” “Well, that’s not going to fucking happen. Your sniper has a hole in his shoulder the size of a baseball, and I intend to kill the motherfucker who shot him before he shoots someone else. Now, take a breath, remember your training, and give me an accurate fucking distance to my target,” I barked as I leaned my M4 against the parapet of the roof. I flattened myself into a prone position and placed my cheek against the buttstock of the sniper’s rifle. After pulling off my helmet, wiping the sweat from my brow, and closing my left eye, I peered through the scope toward the target. The man on the rooftop who had been taking pot shots at an approaching convoy was taking a new position at the corner of the roof and lowering his rifle to what appeared to be a sandbag rest. I’m guessing eight hundred plus. The mid-day sun provided aggravating temperatures, but also made finding my target rather easy. With half of a mile between us, the bullet from the .308 caliber rifle would reach him in roughly one second. In that same second, he could take a shot, change his position, or take cover behind the upper roof line. If his intention was to shoot Marines, I knew I didn’t have a second to waste. I compared the four story building across the street to the building half a mile away and decided the distance based on the reduced appearance in size. After I studied the blowing dust for a moment, I reached up, and began to adjust the scope for an 800 yard shot. The wind was from my right to my left at what I guessed to be 6 miles an hour, which would carry the bullet from the right to the left slightly in the 2,600 feet it had to travel to get to the target. As Cunningham and Grayson sat in wait and Whitmire tended to the wounded sniper, the spotter peered nervously through his spotting scope toward the target. I inhaled a deep breath and paused. “Eight hundred and twenty meters. Wind from your immediate right to your left. Push right point two,” the spotter said. Point two is too much, kid. We’ll do this my way.

I exhaled all of the breath from my lungs. Sorry, motherfucker. I’ve got to make it home to see my wife, and to do so, I need to make sure you don’t make it home to yours. I gave no acknowledgement of the stats provided by the spotter. After squeezing the trigger, I waited for him to acknowledge the kill. “Holy fucking shit. Target down. Enemy KIA,” he said excitedly. I inhaled a shallow breath, turned toward the spotter, and nodded my head. The sound of small arms fire continued from every direction as the report of mortars thumped in the distance every few seconds. All but immune to the sounds and sight of death, I turned toward the three Marines I was in charge of. “Whitmire, we need to get him to our fucking Corpsman. Hell, I don’t give a fuck if you’ve got to find one of the 82nd’s medics, we need to get him off this fucking roof,” I said. As I raised myself to a crouched position, hiding behind the cover of the parapet, the spotter moved his scope to the side and shifted his eyes toward me. “Nice shot,” he said as he scanned my blouse for my name. “Sergeant Jacob. Nice fucking shot, Jacob.” “We can swap spit later. I need to get your sniper to a medic,” I said. “Roger that,” he said as he stood from his bench. What the fuck are you doing? I waved my hand from side to side and pointed toward his feet. “Stay down, god damn it! You don’t know if…” The thwack of the bullet hitting his chest was sickening. His eyes widened with concern as he stumbled back, eventually falling onto the roof between where I was crouched and where Cunningham was positioned. “God fucking damn it,” I shouted as I gazed down at his body. I shook my head and stared off in the distance, wondering how much longer the sniper would be able to last with the fist-sized cavity in his shoulder. After securing my weapon, I bent down to pick up the fallen spotter. As I peered into his eyes, I realized I didn’t need to check for vitals, he wasn’t WIA, he was KIA. Son-of-a-fucking-bitch.

I reached between his legs with one arm and grabbed his wrist with the other, raising him over my shoulder. I clenched my jaw at the thought of one more dead Marine and one soon to be dead Marine, and thanked God the three men under my command were still alive. “Cunningham, lead the way. Take the rear staircase. Whitmire, behind me. Grayson, secure the M40, the spotter scope, and the rest of their gear, and take the rear,” I said as I tossed my head toward the staircase at the rear corner of the roof. Upon reaching the street, we were met by a First Lieutenant, obviously new to combat, half-lost, and out of his element. As the driver sat nervously and waited, the Lieutenant stepped from the Humvee and waved his arm toward the adjacent buildings. “We’ve got a sniper on the roof six hundred meters east, and…” “Sir, the enemy sniper has been eliminated. I’ve got one Marine KIA and one Marine WIA, soon to be KIA. We either need a Corpsman or to get this man to a hospital,” I said as I lowered the dead spotter from my shoulder. “That sniper KIA, is it confirmed?” he asked. It was as confirmed as I needed it to be. “Yes, Sir,” I responded. He nodded his head eagerly. “Who are you with?” “We’re with the two-seven,” I responded. “I’m the Fire Team leader, and we were separated from our squad. We’re searching…” “Sergeant Jacob, two-seven. Got it. Load those men in the back,” he said as he waved his hand toward the rear of the Humvee. Apparently he didn’t give a shit who we were with or what our objectives were. I motioned toward the rear of the Humvee, helped load the two Marines, and turned away. As I watched them speed away, I realized for us, nothing had changed. We had been separated from our squad, and the entire city was a chaotic mess of gunfire, RPG’s, and mortar fire. We’d be lucky if we lived through the night. The Marines, no different than any other branch of the military, had a command structure. The structure was in place for a reason, and was necessary in the eyes of every Marine. It never ceased to amaze me, however, that while in combat and taking heavy fire, things seemed to go to hell in a

handbasket at every level of the command. I shifted my eyes back and forth between each of the men, “We’ve got no radio, no support from our squad, and no NCO other than me.” I flinched as a mortar impacted the building directly beside us. I gazed up and down the street for any signs of the enemy, relieved to see nothing or no one. Buildings were smoldering, half of the structures were collapsed from bombs we had dropped, and what remained was being searched by the Army’s special forces and Marines, none of which I immediately recognized. The enemy, as always, was hiding in wait. Our trip onto the roof had eliminated a sniper and potentially saved the lives of many, but left us with very little support or immediate hope of finding the remainder of our squad. “We’re going to try to make it back to our squad, and if you listen to me and follow my command, I can’t make any promises, but I haven’t lost a man on my team yet,” I paused and surveyed the area for anyone I recognized. To describe the scene as lawless would be to grossly understate the truth. In every direction, men were firing weapons. Marines and the Army’s 82nd Airborne fired M16’s, M4’s, M203 grenade launchers, and SAW’s at buildings, noises, who they perceived as a threat, and down the alleys between buildings. Fire was returned sporadically, but not from an identifiable location. As I mentally found a path for my fire team to take to safety, I felt tremendous pressure in my thigh, and then my upper chest. “Fuck,” I said as I glanced down at my thigh. “We need to double time it toward that mosque.” “Jacob, you’re hit,” Cunningham said. “I’ll be fine,” I assured him with a nod of my head. “Head for the mosque.” I wiped my left hand along my upper chest and returned a hand full of blood. I did my best to take a step to lead my men to safety, and everything around me slowly became small. As the silence encompassed me, I wondered if upon arriving at the gates of heaven if it was truly guarded by US Marines. I had no idea if the stories of Marines guarding the gates of heaven were true, but as I felt like I was slowly being lowered into a pit with no bottom that was filled with the essence of Suzanne’s perfume, I was sure I was going to find out. Everything around me faded from a blur into complete darkness and my body went numb.

But her scent remained.



CHAPTER FOUR Fall 2004, Wichita, Kansas, USA I gripped the sides of the weight bench and pressed the extensions to their limit. After holding my legs straight until my muscles began to fatigue, I bent my knees and lowered the weight to the machine’s stops. I sat up, wiped the sweat from my face, and stood from the bench. My leg was in as good of shape as it was before I was shot, and there was no doubt in my mind I had recovered 100 percent. Shot twice and determined to be still fit for duty, I felt fortunate to be able to return to a war I was convinced couldn’t be won by either side. As I felt Suzanne’s presence in the room, I turned toward the doorway. As our eyes met, she spoke. “You’re really going back?” I stood and buried my face in the towel I held. I couldn’t expect her to believe she was as important to me as she was and also understand my overwhelming need to return, at least not without some kind of an explanation. I pulled the towel away from my face and did my best to reassure her I was doing what was best for everyone, her included. “Babe, I’m sorry. But until this damned thing is over, I’ll go back. I’ve got to. I don’t have a choice,” I said. “You do have a choice,” she murmured. I shook my head. “I don’t. My men need me. I can’t let them down. I took an oath and gave my word, you can’t expect me to go back on that, you just can’t. The man who never gives up, is always there for those in need, and provides what others can only dream of is the man you fell in love with. For you to

ask me to stay here would be to ask me to change who I am. To change who you fell in love with.” “I can’t change that maple tree out in the yard into an apple tree, and I sure can’t turn myself into a man unwilling to fight and willing to break his word.” I flipped the towel over my shoulder and pointed both of my index fingers toward my chest. “You fell in love with this man. The man that’s going back to fight against the very terrorists who attacked our country and killed innocent civilians. And I’m going back to do my part in making sure they don’t do it again to our children,” I said. “Our children?” she asked, her voice faltering as she spoke. “God, I love you, Alec.” I nodded my head. “Yes. Our children.” She smiled and wiped her eyes. “I can’t argue with you. You’re right. I fell in love with the man who never gives up. The man who wouldn’t take no for an answer when he asked me out on that first date.” She paused and dropped her eyes to the floor. “But I’m scared to death they’re going to kill you,” she said as she shifted her eyes to meet mine. “My promotion to Sergeant was already in for this spring, so it was a given. After killing that sniper and being shot, I received a meritorious combat promotion, Suzanne. They kicked me up to a Staff Sergeant. I’ll be in charge of over forty men. I won’t really even be fighting any more, just commanding infantry troops. And there’s never going to be anything worse than that fucking mess in Fallujah, so there’s nothing to worry about,” I said, doing my best to not only convince her, but to assure myself there would be far less risk of me being killed in my new position. “Not even fighting, huh? Nothing to worry about, alright. I’ll keep telling myself that. So, when do you think the war is going to end?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe one more tour?” Her eyes widened slightly. “Really?” I nodded my head, hoping to convince myself the war was nearly over. Her mouth curled into a smile. She fought against it for a moment, and eventually shifted her eyes down at the floor. After a few seconds, she lowered her head slightly. Her blonde hair fell beside her face, hanging from her head like strands of straw-colored silk. She raised her hand and flipped her hair over her shoulder, lifting her head – and her gaze – until it met mine. “You think this will be your last?” she asked as our eyes locked.

“I hope so,” I said. It wasn’t much of a reassurance, but I really hoped it would end soon. I didn’t see that there could ever be a clear winner in the war we were fighting, but if nothing else we were making a statement. The people we were fighting weren’t the people who mattered, and the people who mattered weren’t anywhere to be found. Continuing at the pace we were would prove nothing and gain very little. “I just…I can’t imagine…I can’t imagine losing you,” she said. I shook my head. “Don’t. Don’t imagine it. Imagine me coming home one day for good, and you and I having a family. Imagine that.” She grinned and nodded her head. “I will.” The thought of losing Suzanne wasn’t something I was prepared to digest. My only desire, short of making it out of the war alive and in one piece, was to have a family with her and live a new life to the limit of my mental, physical, and spiritual abilities. I stood and gazed at her, and as I did, realized my desire to have a family with her was deeply etched into my being. As she began to walk in my direction, no doubt to hold me in her arms, it saddened me slightly to know that my commitment to protect my fellow Marines was etched just a little deeper.



CHAPTER FIVE Early Winter 2004, Fallujah, Iraq The Second Battle of Fallujah I stood and listened to my orders, not wanting to believe we were going back into the very depths of hell that I had barely made it out of alive. Fallujah was not only occupied by insurgents, but had been taken over completely. Operation Phantom Fury was being spearheaded by the United States Marine Corps, with the assistance of a handful of Navy SEALS, and a light offering from the United States Army. “Sixty-five hundred Marines?” I asked, attempting to understand the complexity of the operation. “That is correct, Staff Sergeant,” he responded. “And fifteen hundred from the Army?” I asked. He nodded his head and continued in a stern tone. “Affirmative. Three six-man SEAL teams, a thousand Iraqi troops, and roughly five thousand British troops. You have reservations about going back into that shit storm, I need to know it now.” I straightened my stance and barked out my response like the devil dog I was. “No, Sir, I’m ready, willing, and capable.” “Well, Staff Sergeant Jacob, be advised,” he paused and lifted his chin slightly. “You are one tough son-of-a-bitch, that’s a given. You command your troops well, and make splitsecond decisions like no other Marine under my command. But. And this is a big but, son. This battle? I can’t guarantee you much, but I can god damned guarantee you this. This son-of-a-bitch will go down in

history as one of the, if not the, worst battle of urban combat in the history of my beloved Marine Corps,” he said. “Oorah,” I grunted. He slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Drinking gas and shittin’ fire. You’re one gung ho sonof-a-bitch, Jacob. Wish I had a dozen more just like you.” Considering the living hell we were going into, I wished he did too. *** Two days into the operation, and it was already described as the bloodiest battle of the three-year war. Marine commanders were calling it the heaviest urban combat in Marine Corps history. All I cared about was that the forty men under my command were returned home alive and in one piece. Our convoy was approaching an unoccupied intersection in the southern region of the city. The eerily quiet section of street had concerned me, but as we were almost to our destination, I was preparing to exhale a sigh of relief. The earth beneath us exploded. The bomb blast sent the Humvee in front of us ten feet straight into the air. The vehicle I was in, the third vehicle, drove into the void of earth the bomb had left, and the airborne vehicle landed on the hood of ours, crushing it completely. Deafened by the explosion, I was able to feel the sounds and voices around me, but not quite capable of hearing or comprehending them fully. Realizing if I didn’t make quick decisions and maintain my composure as a non-commissioned officer that I would lose every Marine in my command, I swung the door of the Humvee open and surveyed the damage. The four men in the damaged Humvee were all alive, but wounded. The blast appeared to be remotely set, and not detonated by pressure, which – at least in this circumstance – was good. As fate would have it, the person with the remote switch detonated the bomb a fraction of a second too late, hitting the rear of the vehicle with the brunt of the blast, dislodging the rear axle, but causing minimal damage to the occupants. If it would have been a pressure device, the front tires would have caused the explosion. Someone was watching us.

A quick head count assured me that although all of the Marines in the bombed vehicle were wounded, they would live if provided medical attention. “Blast was late, it was remote. They can see us,” I shouted. “Take cover beside the vehicles” The intersection had rubble from bombed-out buildings on our right side, and still erect but heavily damaged buildings on our left. There was no doubt the buildings to our left were where the enemy was watching us from, and to protect ourselves, we needed to take cover behind our vehicles. As the wounded Marines were dragged to cover, we began to riddle the buildings with machine gun fire and grenades. “Todelli! Take your team across the street and see if you can get a visual,” I shouted as I turned and glanced toward him. He was covered in blood, but appeared to be willing to follow the commands I had given. As he turned to command his men, I shouted at him again. “Todelli, are you hit?” I asked. “Everyone’s hit, Jacob. Shit, you’re hit,” he shouted in return as he waved his free hand toward me. My head was throbbing, my ears ringing, and my heart was beating at a rapid rate. My hearing was slowly returning, and the dull drone between my ears was almost as deafening as the bomb blast. I shifted my eyes down along the front of my blouse, only to see that I was covered in blood from head to toe. Filled with adrenaline, and numb to whatever pain I may have felt in its absence, I waved my hand to the other side of the street. Todelli and his fire team ran across the street and began to patrol along the side of the damaged buildings. As I watched them work their way toward the corner of the intersection, a second bomb blast shook the ground beneath my feet with so much force it dropped me to my knees. God fucking damn it, I’m not ready to die. Not yet. As I attempted to stand, I glanced over each shoulder. It appeared that my entire platoon of Marines was almost all injured by shrapnel, and all of the vehicles in the convoy were damaged to the point of being useless. Our only way out of the mess we were in was to fight, and I would be damned to hell if they were going to continue to detonate bombs at will without one hell of a fight from me and my platoon.

Still on my knees, I stared down at the ground. Incapable of standing on my feet, but confused as to why, a short study of my uniform provided the answer. My left leg was crimson colored and my hip had a piece of steel in it the size of a deck of cards. The exposed piece of steel burned into my fingers and the palm of my hand as I gripped it between them and pulled against it. As the pain reached a peak, I released my grip and stared down at the piece of shrapnel. Half way there, Jacob. I gritted my teeth and gripped it in my hand again. The smell of burning flesh rose into my nostrils as I clenched my jaw and pulled with all my might. As it finally came free from my trousers, I released my grip, exhaled, and collapsed onto the ground. I peered up into the morning sky, realizing my left leg was incapable of functioning. I shifted my eyes toward the abandoned civilian vehicles on the other side of the street and gripped my M4 tightly in my right hand. I don’t ask for much, but I’m asking for a little assistance right now. I’m crawling across the street, and I’m protecting my Marines. Any help you can give me would be appreciated. “Call in a medevac, and get these men treated by our Corpsman. I’m going to find these sons-abitches,” I shouted toward Cunningham. I turned toward the burned-out Toyota truck and began to crawl across the open street, dragging my damaged leg behind me. Using my elbows and one knee, I crawled the thirty feet against the pain, leaving a trail of blood behind me. As I reached the corner of the truck, movement in the open window of a bomb-blasted building across the intersection caught my eye. The building, facing the intersection, was at a ninety-degree angle of the convoy, and almost completely out of sight of the Marines taking cover behind the Humvees. Excited to have found the insurgents, but not so foolish to let them know I had done so, I signaled to the Marines of second squad to come across the street and assist in taking out the enemy. As soon as the first Marine stepped from behind the cover of the Humvee, he was shot. I watched in horror as the second Marine, directly behind the first, was shot as he tried to pull his fallen comrade to safety. You motherfuckers. I gave the signal to hold tight and turned toward the building. I had a straight line of sight to the window, but apparently the enemy had been focused on what he was able to see of our vehicles and hadn’t seen me crawl across the street. I watched as three men with rifles sat and waited for another

opportunity to shoot at my men. So far, they hadn’t noticed me. Realizing I could probably get one or possibly two shots off before giving away my position, I crawled toward the front of the vehicle, hiding the majority of my torso underneath the front of the truck. With my chest, shoulders, and head exposed, I flattened myself into a prone position and took aim at the man on the far right. Going home in a wheelchair is better than going home in a box. You can do this, Jacob. One shot, one kill. I squeezed the trigger. The man slumped out of sight, obviously killed instantly by the impact of the bullet. Two more, but you better be quick. As I took aim at the second man, he and the third began looking frantically to determine where the first shot had come from. Now shooting toward the convoy, but causing damage to nothing but the vehicles, their silhouettes were clear in the open window of the building. Squeeze, Jacob. Don’t pull, squeeze. I squeezed the trigger. The second man fell out of sight. The Marines taking cover behind the convoy began to cheer and scream. Out of my peripheral I saw one of them point in my direction. And I wasn’t the only one who saw it. Fuck. While the sniper in the window began to take aim at me, the sound of approaching Humvees shook the ground beneath me. As the approaching convoy came to a halt, the whizzing sound of a bullet and a puff of dust bursting from the street beside me told me the shot he had taken was off by no more than a few inches. There was no doubt he was choosing to shoot me over shooting the arriving Marines. As I heard them loading the wounded Marines into the convoy, I took aim at the one remaining threat. “Jacob, hold tight. I’m sending two men to get you,” I heard a voice shout.

I lifted my left hand in the air and clenched my fist. If they tried to cross the street, he’d cut them down one by one. “Do not approach. That is a fucking order,” I shouted as I closed my left eye and attempted to gain sight of my target. The shrill impact of the bullet into the hood of the truck I was using for cover startled me, and the following pressure in my left leg assured me that although the steel hood may have slowed the path of the bullet, I had been hit. Son-of-a-fucking-bitch. As the bullet burned into my flesh, I knew I had to act fast if I was going to kill him before he killed me. I tightened my jaw and steadied my rifle. “Tandy, Rickman, get him out of there before he gets himself killed,” I heard someone shout from the direction of the convoy. “I gave a fucking order, and I’ll see to it that you are god damned court-martialed if you cross that fucking street,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Get my fucking Marines medevac’d. You can drag my corpse out of here after I shoot this prick,” I said. The impact of another bullet into my upper back pressed me into the ground, but I could tell it wasn’t a through shot, probably either a ricochet or a deep surface wound. You. Mother. Fucker. I felt like a piece of Swiss cheese. I could no longer hear anything. Either from the massive amount of adrenaline I was producing, from being shot repeatedly, or from the loss of blood, I had gone completely deaf, but the warmth of my own blood pooling beneath me made my loss of hearing seem inconsequential. As I saw a few of the vehicles pull away out of my peripheral, I exhaled the remaining breath in my lungs. It didn’t matter if he shot me again or not, I fully realized I had only a few minutes to live either way. You either put me here to die, or to administer your will. I don’t know which it is, but all I need is one more shot. A bullet slammed against the heel of my boot. It felt like I had been hit in the foot by a sledgehammer. Out of time, completely out of energy, and almost out of blood, I regained my line of sight, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger just as he was preparing to take another shot at me.

As I watched his body collapse over the edge of the window opening, everything around me slowly disappeared. And the sweet smell of Suzanne’s perfume engulfed me.



CHAPTER SIX Late Winter 2004, Landstuhl regional Medical Center, Landstuhl, Germany Incapable of moving anything but my head, I shifted my eyes around the room. Everywhere I looked, white. White walls, white floors, white curtains, and white medical equipment surrounded me. I had been in and out of consciousness for days, and was well aware a reasonable amount of time had passed since sustaining my injuries. Somewhat convinced I was paralyzed, but sedated to a point of near delirium, I tilted my head from left to right and gazed down along the edge of the bed. After blinking my eyes a few times and allowing them to come into focus, I realized my arms and legs were secured to the bed with restraints. What the fuck is going on? I pulled against the restraints, but my movement was something the medical staff was obviously trying to prevent. Shifting my body from side to side caused tremendous pain in my hip and lower back, and twisting my unrestrained torso was all I was really capable of doing. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my dry mouth and pried my chapped lips apart. “Nurse?” I murmured. The distant sounds of monitors and an occasional muffled moan were all I could hear. I attempted to swallow and tilted my head back slightly. “Nurse! Nurse! I need a fucking nurse!” I weakly shouted as I fought against the restraints.

Within a few seconds several members of the medical staff were in front of me, all speaking at once. “Stop. Everybody stop. I can’t fucking understand a word you’re saying. Who’s the senior…” I paused, realizing they weren’t Marines, but Army doctors and nurses. “Who’s in charge?” I asked. A doctor and what appeared to be two nurses stood at the foot of the bed and returned stares of disbelief. “I’m Doctor Nguyen. I’m the doctor assigned to you,” the doctor said. “Alright. Why am I restrained? I’m not a prisoner, am I?” I asked. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, inhaled a shallow breath, and shifted his eyes toward the nurse on his left. She returned a glance of uncertainty. The tone of my voice changed to one of concern. “Am I?” I asked. The thought of being charged with crimes against the Geneva Convention began to run through my mind, but as close as I was able to recall, everything I did was according to policy, procedure, my standing orders, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. “What the fuck is going on?” I asked at the same time the doctor raised his hand to speak. “No,” he responded. “You are not a prisoner, and that is not why you have been restrained.” The two nurses that flanked him looked at me with concerned eyes as he continued. “You sustained multiple severe injuries,” he said with a nod of his head. “A concussion, lacerations, puncture wounds, a broken jaw, and four gunshot wounds were the most severe wounds.” “You had been treated at the Combat Support Hospital in Baghdad, Iraq, and flown here for…” “Where’s here?” Where the fuck am I? Where are my men?” I asked, interrupting him as he spoke. I gazed into the corridor and watched as two doctors rushed a bloody body down the hallway. As I shifted my focus back to the doctor, I knew one thing, and one thing only. If I wasn’t being charged with a crime, I needed to get the fuck out of there and get back to my Marines. As I pulled against the restraints I noticed the audible signal of my heart rate increase on the monitor. I alternated glances between the nurses and the doctor as I waited for a response.

“Mr. Jacob, I’m trying to explain, please settle down and listen…” “Staff Sergeant. I’m Staff Sergeant Jacob. Mr. Jacob is my father, and where are my Marines?” I asked. “Staff Sergeant Jacob. I will have you sedated if you don’t settle down,” the doctor said. I relaxed onto the bed and did my best to remain calm. “I’m calm. I have questions, and I expect fucking answers. Where am I, and where are my men? Are any of them here?” “You are in Landstuhl, Germany at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center. I have no information regarding your men, Marines, their whereabouts, or their medical condition,” he said. Confused, groggy, weak, and not wanting, but needing to find out about my Marines, having them remove my restraints, and allowing me to return to combat was my priority. As my mind fumbled with ideas of ways to coerce them to release me, the doctor continued. “You attacked your nurse on several occasions. That was our reason behind the restraints. Now that you’re conscious and coherent, if you’ll promise to comply with our medical recommendations and requirements, I will have the restraints removed,” he said. As I did my best to nod my head, two Marines in dress blues, both officers, walked past the partition. A few seconds later, they stepped into the opening and stared. The silver and gold oak leaves on their uniforms informed me that they were a Lieutenant Colonel and Major. And I needed to stand at attention when they entered the room. “Staff Sergeant Jacob,” the Lieutenant Colonel said as he entered the makeshift room. “Sir,” I responded with authority. “If you can give the order to have these restraints removed, I’ll stand at attention, Sir.” “As you were, Staff Sergeant,” he said, relieving me of the requirement to stand at attention. Personally being visited in the hospital by a Lieutenant Colonel and a Marine Major was something only a handful of Marines could claim. Knowing for certain that something was wrong – and terribly wrong – to prompt them to fly halfway around the world to pay me a visit, I silently waited for them to advise me of their reason for the visit. “How are you feeling,” the Lieutenant Colonel asked as he approached the foot of the bed. “Rested and ready to return to combat, Sir,” I barked in response. He glanced at the Major and coughed a light laugh.

“Quite a mess your platoon stepped into in Fallujah,” he said. “Yes, Sir. I was only protecting my Marines, Sir. That’s all it was,” I responded. He reached toward the Major with an open hand, and the Major handed him a piece of paper. As he unfolded it, my heart raced at the thought of what crimes they were going to charge me with. “I’m not going to bore you with all of this, Staff Sergeant Jacob, but I’ll hit the highlights,” he paused and inhaled a shallow breath. “Without hesitation and with complete disregard for his own safety, Staff Sergeant Jacob, while acting as a Platoon Sergeant during the Second Battle of Fallujah, exposed himself to enemy fire while commanding his fellow Marines to maintain a position of safety. After giving the order to provide medical attention to Marines in his command, he advised First Squad Leader Todelli to carry out a flanking maneuver, distracting the enemy as he crawled across an open street further exposing himself to enemy fire. After sustaining life threatening injuries in the deadly blast of an IED which completely disabled his convoy, Staff Sergeant Jacob positioned himself behind the cover of an abandoned vehicle and single handedly eliminated the three snipers who had been accredited with the death of no less than nine US Marines prior to his platoon’s arrival. In doing so, Staff Sergeant Jacob sustained four gunshot wounds, a broken jaw, multiple lacerations, and shrapnel wounds. His actions, however, preserved the lives of his entire platoon. By his undaunted courage, bold fighting spirit, and unwavering devotion to duty in the face of almost certain death, Staff Sergeant Jacob reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the United States Marine Corps.” He paused and lowered the sheet of paper. “Son, you’ve been put in for the Bronze Star with Combat ‘V’. You’re an official war hero,” he said with a smile. Feeling elated to a point of almost shedding tears, and incapable of doing much more, I returned a blank stare. “I envy your courage,” he said as he nodded his head in my direction. Tied to the bed, filled with emotion, and now with a mouth much drier than it was prior to his speech, I couldn’t speak. I glanced toward the side of the bed at the pitcher of water sitting on the table. “Get these restraints off of my Marine,” he bellowed over his shoulder as he reached for the pitcher of water. The two nurses immediately came to the side of the bed and removed the restraints from my arms and legs. After pouring glass of water and handing me the cup, I took a slow drink, realizing as I did so, it would take time for me to fully recover from my wounds. Aching from head to toe, but unwilling to admit

it, I shifted my eyes to the Lieutenant Colonel and cleared my throat. “My Marines. They’re all accounted for? No KIA?” I asked. “That is affirmative. Your actions saved the entire platoon,” he said with a nod. Thank God. I exhaled what little breath remained in my lungs and tried to sit up, only to learn the pain in my hip was much greater than I realized. “Permission to speak freely, Sir?” I asked. “Granted,” he said, his mouth curling into a slight smirk as he spoke. “With all due respect, I don’t want – nor do I need – a medal of valor, Sir. I need someone to get me out of here. I don’t belong here. I need to get a ride on a transport back to Fallujah and command my men through that operation,” I said. He chuckled and glanced at the Major. As he shifted his eyes in my direction, he continued. “Your commanding officer advised me of your gung-ho hard-charging attitude, and I, we, hell the United States Marine Corps appreciates your willingness and desire to fight, but you’re going to be given a medical discharge after what you’ve been through. They’ll be shipping you stateside.” Stateside? Home? You’re shipping me home? Emotionally, I collapsed. I felt like he had plunged a knife into my chest. Going home would mean no longer being a Marine, and I couldn’t fathom the idea. My heart sank. The mere thought of leaving, especially after seeing the level of fighting we were exposed to in Fallujah made me feel useless, weak, and as if I was letting down the men I had risked my very life to defend. There wasn’t another man on earth who would give the level of devotion to my platoon that I had. Under anyone else’s command, there would certainly be lives lost, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. Going home was not an option. Not if I was alive and able to fight. I fought against the pain and did my best to sit upright. I fixed my eyes on the Lieutenant Colonel. “I need to get back to my platoon. I don’t want discharged, Sir. I can’t be. The two-seven needs combat experienced Marines who have proven themselves. I’ve never been one to beg for anything, but I’m begging you, Sir. Send me back into combat.”

His mouth formed into a full-blown grin as he broke my gaze and turned toward the Major. “Three years into this war, and Staff Sergeant Jacob’s got two Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star with Combat ‘V’, and a ride home on a bird. And all he can think about is the welfare of his Marines and how to get back into battle.” He cleared his throat. “You remind me of someone, Staff Sergeant. My grandfather, who fought for our beloved Corps in the Battle of Bataan in World War II. Crazy bastard begged to be sent back into battle twice after having being wounded, just like you. Marines like you aren’t trained, Jacob, they’re born. Born and raised by men who I can’t help but admire. I tell you what. You get yourself cleared medically and mentally, and I’ll get you back to your war.” As much as it wasn’t what I should have done from a medical standpoint, and as contrary as I was sure it would be to the doctor’s best wishes, I gritted my teeth, moved my legs to the side of the bed, and allowed them to fall to the floor. As the doctor began to protest, I pulled against the hoses of the I.V., giving myself a little more room. The Major raised his hands toward the doctor. “Let him be,” he said sternly. As I stood on my rubbery legs, I cupped my hands and pressed them to the outside center of my thighs, and stood erect. Marines differed from the other branches of the armed forces, with the exception of the Navy. Marines did not salute officers indoors while not under arms or ‘on duty’. As I wasn’t wearing my uniform or on duty, a salute wasn’t proper protocol. But standing at attention was. I fully realized he had no expectation of me standing at attention and acknowledging his order. I didn’t do it for me, or to show off, prove anything, or gain his approval. I did it as a matter of respect, and because as a Marine, I felt I had to. “Make myself mentally fit and physically capable. Aye-aye, Sir,” I said as I clenched my jaw muscles and fought back the tears. Both he and the Major stood erect. “As you were, Staff Sergeant,” he said. I exhaled, did my best to perform an about face maneuver, and collapsed onto the bed.

That afternoon as I slept out of sheer exhaustion, I dreamt of raising a child. A son. One with the same moral values that were instilled in me by my father. And I slept more peacefully than I had in longer than I cared to try and remember.



CHAPTER SEVEN Early Winter 2005, Wichita, Kansas, USA She asked, and because she did, I had to tell her the truth. One thing I had never done – and never would do – was tell a lie. My concerns were whether or not she would be able to accept the truth as being what was in our best interest as a couple. “You can’t. They’ve got to let you out. Alec, you’ve been shot to pieces. You have pieces of metal inside of you. You were…” She paused and began to cry. I reached for her shoulder and pulled her against me. “Babe, don’t cry.” She sobbed for a moment, caught her breath, and leaned away from me. With her face filled with a combination of concern and fear, and her eyes still dripping droplets of hope down her cheeks, she continued. “You were in the hospital for two months, Alec. Two months. You’ve been…you’ve been shot over and over. I asked Steve. And I’ve looked on the internet. I know. You can get discharged. Have they offered you a release?” she asked as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Steve, my best friend since childhood, was a trauma surgeon at the local hospital, and an excellent source of information and support for her. Since my first deployment, she had used him as a sounding board for her concerns, always receiving well thought out replies and opinions. A wealth of knowledge and a very sensible man in general, I trusted him with not only my life, but Suzanne’s. Truthfully, if it wasn’t for him, I suspected Suzanne may have given up on me many years in the past.

“Let’s have a seat,” I said. She raised her hands to her face and nodded her head as she rubbed her fingertips against her eyes. I realized she probably felt embarrassed for crying, as it was something she never did, but I didn’t view her as weak for doing so. As easy as it was for me to want to return to the war, it was impossible for me to fully understand why I had the desire to continue to fight. My beliefs on the matter were mine and mine alone, and came from nothing other than a self-performed diagnosis of myself. “You can barely walk,” she said as she sat down on the couch. I sat down in the chair across from her. “I ran three back to back six minute miles this morning.” “You have a limp,” she said. I chuckled. “Marine Corps swagger.” “Alec…” she said sarcastically, her voice trailing off as she shook her head. I nodded my head in acknowledgement of her sarcastic tone. “My hip hurts a little, but it’s much better than it was. And my heel is tender, but it’s getting better too.” “So you’re justifying it? Going back? Can you get out? Have you asked?” she asked. I pressed the palms of my hands together and held them in front of my chest for a moment as I studied her. She was a beautiful woman, and not only in her appearance. She had remained by my side through four years of me fighting in the war, and she had done so, for the most part, alone. Suzanne was one of the strongest people I had ever met. Her ability to accept what most would be incapable of even considering was instrumental to our success as a military couple. I realized I had to tell her the truth, but explaining how I felt would be difficult – if even possible. I folded my cupped hands open, lowered my face into my hands, and sat for a moment, breathing into the palms of my hands. After a moment’s thought, I slid my hands from my face, and gazed across the room at her. “Let me try to explain,” I said. She wiped what little remnants of tears remained on her cheeks. “I’m listening.” “While I was in Germany, two officers came to let me know I was going to be pinned with a medal for valor in the Second Battle of Fallujah. They told me I could get a medical discharge…” “Take it,” she blurted excitedly. I raised my hand as I cleared my throat. “Hear me out.” With wide eyes, she nodded her head eagerly.

Damn, I hate to do this to you. “I begged them to let me stay. I talked to the doctors, and I lied to the psychiatrist to get a clean psych-eval. He granted it, declared me fit for service, and I denied the discharge. I’m sorry, Suzanne, but I’m going back,” I said. She sat, far less emotional than I expected her to be, and glared at me. After what seemed to be an hour, but was probably a matter of thirty seconds, she stood, turned away, and began to cry. I stood from my seat. With her back facing me, she raised her right hand and held it in the air between us. “Just give me a minute.” “Suzanne…” “Give me a minute, Alec,” she said, her voice filled with emotion. I sat down in the chair and waited, wondering how many other men in my position would have taken the offered discharge and walked away. There was no doubt in my mind that the war had changed me, but as I sat waiting for her to gather herself, I wondered just how much I had actually changed. I raised my hands to my face, pressed my palms to my cheeks, and covered my eyes with the tips of my fingers. I had always been able to think more clearly with my eyes closed, and sat hoping some newfound clarity would wash over me. My mind immediately went to thoughts of my Marines, and I filled with guilt for sitting in the living room with Suzanne while they were dodging bullets and returning fire under someone else’s command. Someone far less capable of protecting them than me. “You know,” I said as I lifted my head. “Most of the men think I’m lucky or something.” She turned toward me and wiped her eyes. “And you think you have some sixth sense about danger or whatever.” I nodded my head. “Men are going to die in this war, Suzanne. I can’t change that. But what I can do is do my best to protect the men in my command. In my platoon. And in doing so, we rid this earth of what is evil, one bad guy at a time.” “You know what’s sad? I can’t argue with you. I want to, but I can’t, because you won’t listen. You think you’re a superhero or something. It’s been almost five years, Alec. Five years. Five years of me sitting here crying myself to sleep, waiting on the next letter, and hoping each time I go to the mailbox I’m not going to be met by two Marines in dress blues who are here to tell me the man I love is coming home in a god damned flag covered box.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only one worried about me coming home in a casket. I stood from my seat. “I can’t sit here and let my men die.” She stomped her foot on the floor so hard she shook the pictures hanging on the wall. “You’re not obligated to protect them. Your obligation is to be my husband.” I pressed my cupped hands to the outside of my thighs and stood erect. After clearing my throat, I recited the oath I had taken upon entry to the Marine Corps. "I, Alec James Jacob, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God,” I said, pronouncing each and every word clearly and precisely. She blinked her eyes and stared. “I took an oath before God, before the flag, and in the presence of an officer of the United States Marine Corps; and, I took an oath to be your husband. You took one as well, Suzanne. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Well, this is the worse and the sickness. I’m upholding my end of the two oaths I took. I’m still your husband. And, until this god forsaken war is over, I’m going to be a Marine,” I said. “You’re always right, aren’t you?” she asked. I cocked my head to the side, shrugged my shoulders, and smirked. “Go find Osama or Saddam or whoever it is you’re trying to find, kill that son-of-a-bitch, and come home, okay?” she said as she slowly walked in my direction. “So, we’re good on this?” I asked as I spread my arms wide. “As good as we’re going to be,” she said as we embraced. And that was all I could have asked for, because even when Suzanne and I were at our worst, we were better than any other married couple on earth. And I loved her for it.



CHAPTER EIGHT Summer 2005, Haditha, Iraq In a briefing with my commander, I learned a six-man Marine sniper unit had been overrun outside the city of Haditha, and all six men were eventually killed. Five of the Marines died relatively quickly, possibly executed as soon as they were identified as US Marines. The one Marine who lived – while covered in blood and stripped of his uniform – was paraded through the city with the five dead members of his unit, and the event was videotaped and played on Iraqi television. Later, the sixth Marine’s throat was cut by his captors. Two days later, Operation Quick Strike began, and 1,000 Marines were sent into the city – not as a retaliatory action – but in an attempt to identify and capture the insurgents who had overtaken the city. At the onset of the operation, an amphibious assault vehicle carrying 16 Marines hit a roadside bomb, and 15 of the 16 Marines were immediately killed in the blast. The one living occupant was burned over most of his body, and wasn’t expected to live. The crater left in the earth by the bomb was large enough to fit a four-bedroom home inside of it. On the second day of Operation Quick Strike, it was determined the US Marines were outnumbered, and command likened the city to Fallujah, only worse. House to house searches, close quarters combat, and gun battles in an area the size of a living room were a common occurrence. In short, savage extremists had taken over the city, and were going to any length to kill the US Marines or the civilian population who opposed them. Every Marine being sent into the city wanted revenge for the deaths of their brethren. The 115degree daytime temperatures, severe wind, and blowing sand only added to the tension. Our convoy

arrived at 0800, and the sun pressed down on us like a heavy weight. As we approached the city, smoke bellowed from the tops of half of the homes and buildings. Bombs exploded every few seconds, and the earth beneath our Humvee shook repeatedly as we slowly rolled into the city. “We’re going to fucking die in this one, Staff Sergeant Jacob,” Parsons complained as we hit the outskirts of town. I shifted my eyes toward him for a split second. He looked no different than anyone else in my platoon. He was scared, and his eyes clearly showed it. Given the amount of insurgents in the city, and the temperament of the group who had executed the Marines, we were likely to be in for one hell of a fight and everyone realized it. Price tilted his helmet up slightly and shook his head. “Jacob is immortal. Only motherfucker that can kill Jacob, is Jacob.” “Enough about dying. Nobody’s fucking dying. We’re going to stomp in this motherfucker, capture insurgents, and send their asses to Al Asad Airbase for interrogation,” I said. “And then we’re going to finish that fucking football game.” “Oorah!” Price grunted. I didn’t think I was immortal, but I was beginning to believe I was something. After five solid years of fighting, I had sustained many injuries, but no one had killed me. The eerie vision of the C-130 filled with caskets still haunted my dreams, and I suspected it always would. Be it luck or the gracious hand of God that kept me from it, however, my body had yet to be shipped home in a casket. And I was grateful. “First and second squad take the far side, and third squad will go house to house, just like we discussed. If you think they’re insurgents, they’re insurgents, is that understood?” I asked as we assembled alongside the edge of the street. “Oorah!” the squad leaders barked. “We need to capture as many of these motherfuckers as we can. If you’re threatened, don’t think, just kill. Understood?” I asked. Another Oorah rang out from the squad leaders and the Marines in the accompanying squads. The sound of small weapons fire in the background filled the air. With my eyes filled with sand, and my uniform soaked from sweat, I gave the signal to begin the house to house search.

Fifteen minutes into the search and we had captured four insurgents and found two weapons caches, one large enough to supply a battalion of men. Both weapons caches were in the homes of civilians, making it immediately apparent not only that we were in the right place, but that the city had been overrun by insurgents who were taking over the homes of civilians in their attempt to blend in. As the Marines of third squad searched another home, an argument broke out between the occupants of the small house and the squad leader. In an effort to keep things as peaceful as possible, and to prevent tempers from flaring even higher than they already were, I stepped into the home to evaluate the situation. “This motherfucker ain’t sayin’ shit, Staff Sergeant. Got twenty fucking AK’s hid behind that shitty fucking bed over there, and he just grunts when we try to ask him anything. Vingelli’s got a woman and a little girl in the back, and they’re both fucking screaming,” he said excitedly as I stepped into the small home. The homes in Iraq, at least the ones I had been inside of, were far different than the homes in the United States. I was aware that the country also had mansions, and homes similar to Beverly Hill’s offerings, but the typical civilian home consisted of one large room where the family stayed, and a place to cook; and that was it. Some, but not all, had bathrooms. To the typical civilian in Iraq, having a rug thrown on the floor was a luxury. As I stepped into the rear room of the house, I found a woman and a girl who was no more than twelve-years-old being detained by two of my Marines. The woman remained quiet until the girl began to scream, then the woman would begin to plead with the girl, obviously telling her to remain calm. The scene was far from calm, and I realized as soon as I entered the room if I didn’t take charge of the situation I would have two dead civilian women in my daily report. “Settle the fuck down. I assume no one speaks English?” I asked of the two Marines. “Fuck yeah they do, but they ain’t sayin’ shit. Cocksuckers got AK’s in the front room. They’re fucking al-Qaeda,” one of the Marines responded. I turned to face the woman. “English. Do you speak English?” Both she and the girl responded in Arabic, shaking their heads as they spoke. The woman seemed nothing but concerned for her family’s welfare, but the girl seemed to have something she wanted to say, and wasn’t interested in being quiet. Although it wasn’t a common occurrence, women and children had opposed Marines in previous battles, shooting small arms, using grenades, and detonating roadside bombs. As sickening as it was to do so, on occasion, women and children had to be killed. In determining whether or not the person was a

threat to my men, I couldn’t let gender come into play. Every person must be assumed a threat until it was determined they were not a threat. That determination came by no other than me, and was based on nothing other than my gut instinct. To date I had yet to be wrong. “Vingelli, go get the Terp. I think we’ve got a situation here, but this woman and her daughter aren’t al-Qaeda,” I said as I studied the eyes of the girl. Her eyes told me she was scared, but not of my men. Her fear was deeper. In my opinion, she feared the men who had left the weapons in her home. Unintimidated by my uniform and weapon, she made eye contact with me, opened her brown eyes wide, and pressed her tanned hands against the hips of her red cotton pants. She began to babble so quickly even if I spoke Arabic I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Calmly, I reached over and brushed the dust from the floral pattern shirt she wore, and earned a grin as I did so. “They might not be, but the old man is. He isn’t responding to a god damned thing we ask him. He’s keeping fucking secrets. Ship his ass to Al Asad and let the CIA water board him for an hour and he’ll give it up,” Vingelli said as he turned away. With two of my Marines guarding the front door of the residence, and the entire family in the kitchen, I studied each of the people we detained. An entire family incapable of speaking with nothing other than their eyes, they needed to say no more as far as I was concerned. They feared the same men we were searching for and wanted to simply be left alone. They were one of the reasons I was fighting this war. To provide them with the freedom to live a life free of fear and the threat of harm would satisfy me to no end, but after five long years of fighting and seeing no progress, I had my doubts if it could or would ever happen. “Who’s got candy?” I asked as I reached into my pocket. I found one sand covered peppermint in the pocket of my trousers. “Fuck these motherfuckers. I say we load up the weapons and kill these cocksuckers; that little girl included,” PFC Mann said. I clenched my jaw, inhaled through my nose, and turned to face him. “And it’s a good god damned thing you’re not in fucking charge, PFC Mann. I’ve been fighting in his god forsaken war longer than you’ve been in the Corps, and I’m the NCO of this platoon. One more suggestion like that out of you, and I’ll bring charges against your sorry ass, is that understood?”

He lowered his chin and shifted his eyes to the floor. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.” “God fucking damn. We’re here to protect people like this, not kill them,” I said as I turned toward the sound of someone entering the home. The platoon interpreter came into the small room, making it far more crowded than I was comfortable with. “Everyone out except the Terp and me,” I said as I waved my left hand toward the front room. “Ask the little girl who’s weapons they are,” I said as I handed the girl my peppermint. She accepted the candy, unwrapped it, and poked it in her mouth. As her eyes changed from worry to what I expected was the surprise of the candy’s sweetness, the interpreter began to question her. He questioned her in Arabic, and she immediately responded, tossing her dirty black hair from side-to-side as she spoke. “She says men brought them here over a month ago. They’ve been forcing the residents to provide them shelter, food, and weapons storage,” he said. I turned toward the girl, smiled, and nodded my head. “Ask her why her father isn’t speaking,” I said. Another line of questioning in Arabic by the interpreter, and the girl, clearly frustrated, began to cry. After a moment, she turned to her father, who shook his head from side to side. I pursed my lips and studied the father. As he shifted his eyes to meet my gaze, I spoke to the interpreter. “Tell her, hell, tell them all. Tell them if they don’t tell me why he isn’t responding, I’ll assume he’s al-Qaeda and take him to Al Asad and lock his ass up. Between you and me, I know he’s not, but he’s keeping something a secret and I want to know what it is,” I said, my eyes still locked on his. He alternated glances between them all as he spoke. Calmly, as he explained everything in Arabic, the girl began to scream her response. “Holy shit,” the interpreter said as he raised his hand and covered his mouth. “What?” I asked as I shifted my eyes from the elderly man to the interpreter. As he shook his head from side to side and lowered his hand the girl and the woman began to cry. “What?” I asked again.

“The men who came here were Saddam Hussein supporters. She said they demanded they be allowed to keep weapons here. Her father opposed them.” He paused and shook his head. As he turned toward the elderly man and nodded his head, he continued. “The father told the men when they came that Saddam Hussein was a coward and a murderer. He went on to tell them the US Marines were going to capture and kill Saddam, and that they should surrender.” He tilted his head toward the father. “They held him down and cut out his tongue for opposing Saddam.” I released my weapon and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Motherfucker. Do they know where these cocksuckers are hiding? Ask the little girl.” “I think she does,” he responded. “Well god damn it, ask her,” I said as I shifted my eyes to the girl. A lengthy exchange followed, and the interpreter sighed heavily. “She does. She said she’s been following them nightly. She wanted to get revenge for what they did to her father, but she said she’s too small,” he said. “Tell her I’m big enough. And how many of them?” I asked. “How many of these motherfuckers can she lead us to?” After a quick series of questions, he sighed heavily. “Twenty. And get this. She said they’re the ones who cut the Marines throat in the street the other day.” I shifted my eyes toward the girl. “Is she sure?” “Don’t need to ask, she already answered. She’s sure,” he said. “Vingelli!” I shouted. Vingelli rushed into the room. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.” I lowered myself into a crouched position and reached for the girl’s hand. After a few seconds, she reached out and gripped my hand in hers. Her eyes lowered to my free hand, studied it, and slowly shifted back to meet mine. “Get on the radio and find the LT. I need him in here immediately. And get first and second squad’s leaders in here. I want the entire first squad guarding the front of this house, and the second squad at an oblique to the rear, by the alley. Anyone tries to get in, and I mean anyone, I want them detained. If they oppose, kill ‘em. And no one gets to this girl, is that understood?” I said, attempting to refrain from

sounding excited. “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” he responded. “And get me as much candy in here as you can,” I said as he turned away. “Candy. Roger that,” he said. It sickened me to think of what was currently going on in the country, and what atrocities had been happening for years before our arrival. The ethnic cleansing of families in the north, mass graves filled with women and children, and the torture of civilians for opposing the ideas or actions of savage leaders was common. The attacks on the United States soil started the war and brought me to Iraq, but as the war progressed and I was exposed to more and more locals, the thought of making the country a better place for people like the three before me was what kept me there. I was quite sure my ideas, beliefs, and mental support system was different than most of the other Marines, but for me, it kept me fighting for something I truly believed in. *** “With all due respect Lieutenant, I’ve been in this motherfucker since it started. If we don’t get them out of here and protect them, they’ll be killed five minutes after we pull out,” I said. “We don’t have the ability to protect them,” he said flatly. “We do have the ability,” I said, raising the tone of my voice slightly. “It appears one of us doesn’t have the desire.” He shifted his eyes from me to the girl and back. “How do you know she’s telling the truth? She’s what? Ten years old for Christ’s sake?” “Kids and drunks are the two most truthful motherfuckers on earth, Sir,” I said. He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not a good enough reason.” I fixed my eyes on his and glared my best don’t fuck with me glare. “I’ve been shot six times. Six, Sir. I’ve survived two bomb blasts, killed four snipers, and fifteen other insurgents who were trying to kill either me or my Marines, while you, Sir, were humping your desk. The only fucking reason I’m standing here alive right now is because I know things other Marines don’t, you included. The girl is

telling the god damned truth.” As he narrowed his eyes the muscles on his jaw flared. “Humping my desk, Staff Sergeant?” I tightened my jaw and shifted my eyes to meet his. “That is correct, Sir. Humping your desk. I understand rear echelon Marines are needed, but it’s the front line Marines, Sir, who are required to live and breathe this shit. And no one who’s spent the last five years sitting behind a desk with their cock in their respective hand is going to tell me right from wrong on the front lines,” I said. “War hero or not, Staff Sergeant, I could have you demoted for speaking to me in that manner. I am an officer, and need I remind you, although you are a non-commissioned officer, you are an enlisted Marine, not an officer. You will address me with respect, and you will…” “How many times have you been shot? How many battles have you fought in? How many Marines did you hold in your arms while you waited one motherfucking minute too long for a Corpsman or a medevac? How many of your officer brothers died, Sir, in your god damned arms? Shit, Sir, how many times have you even fired your fucking weapon?” I interrupted. The muscles in his jaw loosened, and he stared back at me blankly, remaining silent. That’s what I thought. “I’m not sure I can trust an Iraqi girl to…” he began. I shook my head from side to side. “My reputation is on the line, Sir, not yours. Radio the Battalion Commander, Sir. Advise him this girl can lead us to the men who murdered the Marine sniper unit. See what he says. If you don’t want to radio him, don’t. We’ll pull out. But be advised, Sir. My daily report will be accurate, truthful, and detailed. And in it, Sir, I will not only detail the girl’s message to the Terp, but mine to you – including your denial of my request to find the men who murdered the six Marine snipers, Sir.” He inhaled a long slow breath through his nose, studied me, and eventually exhaled through his mouth. My fuck off glare didn’t change one bit. “Get me a radio in here,” he shouted to the Corporal guarding the door. He left the room and spoke on the radio in private. Five minutes later, he returned with a whole new attitude. I stood in the corner of the room facing the door, holding the girl’s hand in mine. With her mouth full of candy, and her mother and father waiting for a response from the Battalion Commander, I shifted my eyes to meet the Lieutenant’s.

His face stern and his eyes fierce, he shifted his gaze toward each Marine in the room. “Be advised, we are to protect this family at any and all costs. Staff Sergeant Jacob, advise the family they will not return to these quarters. Search the premises thoroughly and secure the weapons. After the family gathers their personal effects, escort them out the rear of the residence and to the vehicles. Any effort to detain this family is to be met with deadly force. Staff Sergeant Jacob, that little girl is your responsibility.” “Aye-aye, Sir,” I said. I turned toward the interpreter. “Tell them what he said. Tell them we’ll protect them, and they’ll more than likely be given a new life in the United States. And tell the father I’m sorry for what he’s gone through, but tell him I’m personally going to make sure I make the men who did this to him pay for what they did.” As the interpreter began to speak, I gazed down at the girl. Her mouth filled with candy and her eyes filled with hope, she listened intently as he explained what we were going to do. “Tell them that I appreciate their courage,” I said. As he explained what I said, the little girl squeezed my hand and smiled. I didn’t speak her language, but I didn’t need to. Her eyes told me all I needed to know. She trusted me. She trusted me because I placed trust in her. Two days later, using a map we prepared based on the information we received from the little girl, we captured the insurgents responsible for killing the Marines in a raid of their hideout. Two of the insurgents were killed in the mission, one of which was killed for resisting, but only after he admitted to cutting the tongue out of the mouth of the girl’s father. The remainder of the men were detained, interrogated, and eventually sent to a P.O.W. camp. No Marines were injured and I was offered a promotion based on my intuitive nature, stellar performance in the field, and quick thinking. The promotion would have all but assured me free passage through the remainder of the war without being harmed. I denied the promotion. Because real Marines don’t hump desks.



CHAPTER NINE Fall 2012, Wichita, Kansas, USA Twelve years after the war started, and only after the last infantry Marines were shipped out of Afghanistan, I returned to the United States. With a chest full of medals and a soul full of pride, I landed at an airport and was met by no one other than a man trying to sell me cell phone service. There was no celebration, no parade, and no welcome home banners. The aisles in the airport were not lined with appreciative citizens. No one shook my hand for playing a large part in keeping the country free of terrorists. Not one person patted me on the back for the pieces of shrapnel I would carry with me for the rest of my life, or for the bullet holes my body was riddled with. After giving my country and the residents in it all I had to give and watching so many of my Marines die attempting to do the same, I felt as if the country wanted to believe the war didn’t even happen. I knew better. I lived with the recollection of it every moment of every day. I did my best to put the war behind me and focus my attention on the one woman who supported me unconditionally throughout the war, my wife. My escape from the day to day difficulties associated with civilian life was riding my motorcycle, and I soon found comfort in riding in a motorcycle club with a few old friends and some men I never met, but quickly grew to trust. Teddy reached up, wiped the bottom of his beard with a napkin, and turned toward Erik and then

to face me. As he placed what was left of his hamburger onto his plate, he cocked one eyebrow and leaned into the edge of the table. “This fuckin’ hamburger’s the biggest son-of-a-bitch I ever seen. I fuckin’ swear, how in the hell can an establishment sell a burger like this for five fucking bucks and make money?” he asked, shifting his eyes back and forth between Erik and me. Teddy was six foot two at least, and weighed probably 260 pounds. His beard was full and an easy four inches long, covering his entire face. His club name for years fit him well, Bear. In a recent drunken stupor, he had wrecked into a long line of bikes in front of a bar, and knocked all of them over, earning the new club name of Crash. He was a practical joker, uneducated, and as funny as any comedian. He was also trustworthy, and I gave him the same trust I gave my Marine brothers. I nodded my head toward his mug of beer. “What’d that mug of beer cost?” He gripped the handle and raised the glass into the air. “This big fucker? Six bucks. But god damn, look at this monster.” I swallowed the bite of burger I was chewing on and chuckled as I studied the glass mug. The walls of it were an inch thick, and the bottom of it was two inches thick. The interior of the mug, if filled to the top, might have held twelve ounces of beer. On the outside it appeared to be filled with much more beer than it was. “So, they make money by charging fools like you six bucks for twelve ounces of beer, but they deliver it in a cool mug,” I said, laughing as I spoke. “Bein’ over there in that sand pit for the last ten years fucked up your sense of measure, Brother. You’re probably thinking in centimeters and meters instead of inches and feet,” he said with a nod of his head. “This fucker’s twice the size of that bottle.” I glanced at Erik. Although something seemed to be bothering him, he forced a smile and leaned back into his seat. The most sensible of the group of men I was riding with, and the president of the motorcycle club, he was a psychiatrist by education, but lived off of his wealth and didn’t practice medicine. Considering his education, it came as no surprise his club name was Doc. “Whether he’s measuring it in inches or centimeters doesn’t matter, Crash. The fucking mug is thick glass and holds very little liquid,” Erik stated. Teddy narrowed his eyes and stared in disbelief. “What do you know about beer? Shit, Doc, you don’t even drink.” Erik leaned forward and rested his tattooed forearm on the edge of the table. “I know if I took the

radius of the interior of that mug in inches, squared the number, and then multiplied by 3.14, and then multiplied by the depth in inches, I’d have the volume. Then, smart ass, if I divided that by 2, I’d have the amount of ounces that cup held. Roughly speaking, that is.” “Well, I ain’t a fuckin’ rocket scientist or a fuckin’ doctor, Brother. I’m a biker, a fighter, and I know a good burger and a cold god damned beer when I see ‘em. But I also know you two fuckers are full of shit,” Teddy said as he drank the remaining beer in his mug. The waitress walked up to the side of the table and grinned as she pressed her hands into the sides of her hips. “Big burger, huh?” Teddy nodded his head. “Sure as fuck is. Good son-of-a-bitch, too.” “Can I get another beer?” I asked. “Sure,” she responded. “Anything else?” “Bring me another frosty mug,” Teddy said as he raised his empty mug in the air. “Bring him a new mug, would you?” I asked. She nodded her head and grinned. “Sure.” “So, Doc and I was talkin’,” Teddy said as he reached for his burger. “You been gone for a bit…” I shrugged my shoulders and stared. “You and Doc decided I’ve been gone for a bit? And I thought you said you weren’t a rocket scientist,” I said sarcastically. “No, god damn it, just listen. I wasn’t fuckin’ done talkin’. So Doc and me was talkin’, and we kinda decided we needed to have a talk, you know, like just bring you up to speed on…” He paused and leaned to the side, shifting his focus to Erik. Seated beside Erik, I turned to face him. Still maintaining eye contact on Teddy, he narrowed his gaze and relaxed into his seat. “What?” Teddy snapped as he tossed his hands in the air. “I don’t know what to tell him.” The waitress slid a mug and a bottle of beer onto the table. “Anything else?” “The check,” I said as I raised my index finger. She nodded her head. “Be right back.” “First things first,” I said as I poured my beer into Teddy’s empty mug.

The mug held the twelve ounces of beer, and had an inch to spare. It looked identical to the mug of beer he was delivered. He stared at the mug, shifted his eyes to his new mug, and slid the new mug beside the one I had just filled. They were identical. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the two mugs. “How big of bottle is that?” he asked. I pointed at the label and held it between us. “Twelve ounces.” “No wonder this fucker’s got cheap burgers,” he murmured. As the waitress placed the check on the table, a guy seated three booths down from where we were seated raised his hand in the air and whistled a loud shrill whistle to get her attention. Still standing at the end of our table, she glanced in his direction and turned to face our table again, rolling her eyes as she faced us. He whistled again, this time louder. I pushed myself out of the booth and turned toward the whistler. As his eyes met mine, he slumped into his seat. I nodded my head toward Teddy. “You can finish your story when I get back.” “Stay here,” I told the waitress as I stood. “Oh shit,” I heard Teddy say as I walked away. I walked to the table, glanced at the two men who were seated across from each other, and fixed my eyes on the one who was whistling. Both were in their mid-twenties, looked like former high school jocks, and were dressed in hockey jerseys. “You lose your dog?” I asked as I folded my arms in front of my chest. “I was just, I was trying to just…” he stammered. I raised my hand in the air to stop him from continuing. I wasn’t interested in hearing whatever he had to say. “She’s a woman, not a dog. Do you understand me?” I asked. He nodded his head. “Do you fucking understand me?” I asked through my teeth. “Yes, Sir,” he responded with a nod of his head.

I uncrossed my arms and flexed my chest. “That’s better. Now, when she comes to help you, if she comes to help you, apologize. And don’t do it again. It’s rude, and it makes you look like an asshole. In the future, if you want the waitress, wave at her and smile. Understood?” “Yes, Sir,” he said. I turned, walked back to the table where we were seated, and sat down. As I shifted my eyes toward the waitress, I tilted my head toward the whistler. “He wants to apologize.” “Thank you,” she said with a grin. As she walked away, I glanced at Teddy. “You were saying?” Teddy lifted his mug of beer and spoke over the top of the glass. “Doc?” “What the fuck is going on?” I asked, shifting my eyes back and forth between them. “I’m going to cut right to it,” Erik said. “Your wife. She’s been spending a lot of time with that friend of yours, Steve.” I shrugged my shoulders. “He’s a friend. Hell, he’s my best friend. I’m sure he was just comforting her while I was gone.” Teddy lowered his mug, fixed his eyes on mine, and raised his eyebrows. I turned toward Erik. He shifted his eyes to the table, stared for a moment, and met my gaze. “You need to have a talk with her,” he said. As much as I didn’t want it to, my heart hurt. Regardless of what comfort she had found in Steve while I was away, I was sure we could get through it with a little conversation. What most men would perceive as inappropriate I would probably accept. I was away for a little more than a decade, and to think my wife wouldn’t seek comfort from someone would be foolish. “I’ll do that,” I said as I reached for my wallet. I opened the bill folder only to find the ticket had been paid. A cash receipt sat in the folder. “I was going to pay for this,” I said. Teddy nodded his head toward me. “Half a dozen bullet holes and a pound of steel in your ass? I think you already did.” “I appreciate it,” I said with a nod.

“Appreciate what you done,” he said. “Just have that talk with your wife.” I lifted my beer and held it between us. He lifted his half-empty mug and clanked the glass against mine. “As soon as we’re done here,” I said. I wanted their opinions to be wrong, but if the war taught me one thing, it taught me to expect the unexpected. But in this particular circumstance, I wasn’t prepared for the unexpected.



CHAPTER TEN Fall 2012, Wichita, Kansas, USA I sat across the street from the coffee shop and watched as Suzanne pulled in, walked inside, and met Steve with a hug. After a few minutes of sitting and drinking coffee, they stood, hugged again, and went their separate ways. Certainly nothing that would have alarmed me in the past, but considering the input from my brothers in the MC, I decided their meeting warranted a slightly more in-depth investigation. Still sitting in the adjacent parking lot on my motorcycle, I pulled my cell phone out and dialed Suzanne’s number. “Hey, Babe, where are you?” I asked. “On my way home,” she responded. “I just stopped at the gas station. Want to get a coffee?” I asked. “Actually, I’m pulling into the drive now, I’d have to turn around,” she said. That’s a lie, you’re two miles from the house. “Alright, I’ll be there in a bit. What’s for dinner?” I asked. “I was going to make burgers,” she said. “Sounds good, see you in a bit,” I said. “Okay, love you,” she said.

“Love you, too,” I said. I hung up the phone, pushed it into my pocket, and sat on the seat of my bike staring blankly toward the western sky. As the late fall sun came to a rest along the horizon, I started my bike and took the short ride home. They were the longest two miles of my life.



CHAPTER ELEVEN Fall 2012, Wichita, Kansas, USA I wiped my hands on my napkin, reached for my glass of tea, and took a slow drink as I studied her. I didn’t want to believe anything had changed while I was away, and I still hoped it had not, but I was prepared to find out. I needed to have her full attention when I spoke to her, so my manner of questioning her needed to be more formal than informal. “Suzanne, we need to talk,” I said. “Okay,” she said as she looked up from her plate. I pressed my elbows onto the table and rested my chin in my hands. “So, while I was gone, did you and Steve ever become more than friends?” Her eyes shifted downward slightly. “No.” Bad question. Lead her into it Jacob, just like an interrogation. “Explain your most intimate encounter with Steve,” I said. “What? Why?” she asked. “Some of the guys I ride with said they’ve been seeing you two together a lot,” I said flatly. “We’re friends,” she responded. I nodded my head. “I realize that. Entertain me. Explain your most intimate encounter with him.”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” she said. “Well, I am,” I responded. “Our most intimate encounter,” she said. “Well, you know, we met for coffee, and we met for dinner, just to talk while you were gone. He comforted me, Alec. He’s a great friend to us both. Uhhm, I’d say,” she paused, and her eyes immediately darted to my left side and slightly upward. “Well, we hugged on several occasions, and he kissed me several times, but not kissed me, kissed me. You know, on the cheek,” she said. She’s lying. “What did he typically wear?” I asked. “Wear?” she asked. “Yes. What did he wear? You know, typically.” I asked. “That’s a weird question,” she said. Her eyes shifted to my right and upward. “Normally he wore his scrubs, but sometimes he wore jeans and a tee shirt. Mostly his boots. I can’t believe you’re asking me this.” Well, that was truthful, at least. I didn’t know to what degree they had been intimate, or if they even had, but I did know she was lying about their intimacy. To what degree she was lying would be hard to tell. As I sat and studied the woman I absolutely adored, my blood pressure increased with each tick of the second hand on my watch. “He ever stick his cock in your mouth?” I asked. She glared at me and her mouth went agape. “I can’t believe you asked me that.” “And I’m not surprised you didn’t answer,” I said as I stood. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked as she stood and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You lied to me,” I said. “What? Lied to you? I can’t believe…” she began. “Suzanne, you know that I’ve been trained to interrogate people, right? You realize I can tell when you lie? When I asked what was your most intimate encounter, you made up everything you said. You lied.

Now, I’ll ask you one more time, have you ever had his fucking cock in your mouth?” I asked in what she had always described as my mean voice. And she began to cry. “Please don’t do anything to him,” she said as she began to sob. “God fucking damn. Did you fuck him?” I asked. Her eyes fell to the floor. “Please, don’t do anything to him.” I couldn’t believe it. I could almost dismiss it if she had fucked some random stranger one night in a hotel while I was gone. But to fuck my best friend, and while I was fighting for the same freedoms that let her be the independent woman that she was… As my head began to spin and my mind immediately went to violence as a means of resolve, I mentally admitted I had been gone for twelve years on and off, and I fully understood the time I was away had to be extremely tough on her. I needed to be understanding of the difficulties she went through, not quick to condemn or react. “Alright, listen. Whatever happened, happened. It’s over. Never again. We can get through this. We can,” I said, more in an effort to reassure myself than to reassure her. I folded my arms in front of my chest and gazed down at the floor. As she continued to cry, I provided no comfort, only serious thought on the matter before us. As I shifted my eyes up toward her face, I had very little sympathy for how she felt. I was sure I felt worse, for many reasons. “Do you love me?” I asked. “With all my heart,” she blubbered. “Well, that’s all we need. We’ll make this work. I’ll talk to him…” “Don’t hurt him,” she begged. “I’ll talk to him, that’s all. But you are done seeing him, meeting with him, everything,” I said sternly. “Do you understand me?” I asked. She nodded her head. I inhaled a deep breath and cocked one eyebrow. She continued to sob. “Yes…Yes, I…I understand.”

“No dinner, no coffee, no secret meetings, no nothing,” I said. “Okay,” she murmured. That night, as I stared up at the ceiling of our bedroom, I wondered just how separated from me she had become in the twelve years I was at war. Regardless, I convinced myself we could get through it. Because in the end, I still loved her. And love was the most powerful thing in my arsenal.



CHAPTER TWELVE Fall 2012, Wichita, Kansas, USA Two weeks after my discussion with Suzanne, she called me stating she was going to be late from work, and explained that she was on her way to get something to eat. As we spoke on the phone, I recognized the music in the background as being Steve’s favorite indie rock artist, The Weeks. Knowing Suzanne’s car didn’t have satellite radio, and that local stations didn’t play that particular artist, I questioned her as to whether or not she was with Steve at the time. An oh my God, he knows we’re together whisper followed, and that was all it took. I regretted being as considerate as I had been regarding her relationship with Steve. I felt used, cheated, betrayed, and alone. After completely losing my composure in the telephone conversation, I warned her to never come back to the house we had lived in. After gathering my weapon, sat loading the magazines with bullets. With each round of ammunition, my mind went to thoughts of each of them, and what I felt they had taken from me. I pressed another round into the half-filled magazine. This one is for the day I carried you from the treehouse with the broken arm. With my jaw clenched and my mind wandering to thoughts of what I perceived to be justice, I pressed another round into the magazine. This one is for believing you were the woman I could spend the rest of my life with. I grabbed another bullet from the box.

For allowing you to call me a true brother. You’re no brother of mine. And another. Teaching you something I truly loved, how to ride a motorcycle. I’ll make sure you’ll never ride another. And another. For sharing something as sacred to me as sex with you. I grabbed another round and pressed against the bullet in the top of the magazine. Incapable of pressing the bullet into the device, I stared down at the rifle magazine. It was clearly completely full. But I had many more reasons for detesting each of them for deceiving me. Armed with my rifle, ammunition, knife, and a carton of cigarettes, I drove to his home and parked in the street across from his residence. I sat and blankly stared at her car as my level of anger slowly rose to a point of being unhealthy. No one is worth your sanity, Jacob. Just walk away. I had sent a text message to her and to him, and left them both voicemail messages. In the texts messages and in the voicemail, I explained that if I saw either of them through an open window, I would kill them. I further warned if any police arrived, I would kill them, and that the blood of the officers would be on Steve’s hands, as calling the police would be his choice. Now in the middle of a waiting game, I recalled a lifetime of friendship Steve and I shared, and not only how we used to do everything together, but how he considered joining the Marine Corps with me. I tossed my cigarette butt out the window and onto the pavement, alongside the other two dozen just like it. I checked the rearview mirror as a car drove past, and blew the smoke out the window and into the night air. Our friendship, even as children, seemed to be a lie. Everything we had learned, experienced, and shared led to the event that had me sitting at his home with a rifle, ready to kill him at first sight. I lit another cigarette and studied the home. All of the windows in the front of the house were in my view, and were dark. The interior lights were now off, and had been for some time, but I had my doubts the two occupants were sleeping. After having sat and quietly waited for either of them to show their faces in a window for over eight hours, I was tired of the aggravation that was building inside of me. I chuckled to myself, knowing I had not only the knowledge – but the ability – to enter the home, kill them both, and leave without so much as a trace. I took a long drag from my cigarette and considered

why I had chosen not to. I exhaled the smoke, tossed the butt out the window, and stared down at the pile of cigarette butts. It was apparent I had no intention of killing them. I had a habit, not unlike many combat Marines, of policing my cigarette butts, leaving no trace of my existence and no DNA. The littered street was proof that subconsciously I had not only let go of Suzanne, but that I had not intended to harm them, only to express my inner anger and disappointment in what I felt they had done to me. Controlling a person’s love, I decided, was impossible. If a woman could fall in love with me, who was to say she couldn’t fall in love with someone else? It was quite possible she had actually fallen in love with Steve, and if that was the case, for me to stand between them would be selfish, shallow, and no better of an act than what they had done to me and my marriage. I reached over, picked up my phone, and sent a text message to them both. I’m filing for divorce in the morning. Enjoy your lives together. I will not harm you as long as you never intentionally cross my path. I pressed send, lit another cigarette, and gazed down at the proof of my existence. As I laughed to myself as to what they must have been feeling, I pulled away, knowing my future life would be an interesting one. At least, I decided, I would have the ability to move about the earth freely. I realized I would always have to return to Wichita to see my father, but I had serious doubts I would be able to stay, considering all things. As large as the city was in population, it was still reminiscent of a small town, and I knew myself all too well. Killing my former best friend and ex-wife wasn’t something I really wanted to do. At least not unless I had to.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN Spring 2014, Austin, Texas, USA Eighteen months had passed since my divorce from Suzanne. Thoughts of the war still lingered in my mind, stuck there permanently like an ugly stain on the cloth of my life. My once clean mind was now littered with bits and pieces of recollections of the war, screaming Marines as they took their last breath, and the eyes of the men I had killed as they held on to the hope of being able to be saved from the permanency of the very death they hoped to cast upon each of the Marines they fought with. I had no regrets over what I had done, but the constant replaying of events in my head told me my subconscious mind viewed things much differently. My time had been spent, entirely, riding my motorcycle and being as free as I believed any citizen of the United States could be. Tied to no one, bound to nothing, and living off of my military retirement and combat pay, I rode with my newfound brethren, my MC brothers. Although I made no effort to contact Suzanne or Steve in the time that had passed, from time to time I would catch sight of them at their favorite coffee shop. Each time I did, my temper flared slightly, fueling my desire to get out of town. A club ride to Austin, Texas had been scheduled for a few months, and as the date approached, I found myself itching to make the ten-hour trip by motorcycle. The motorcycle club I rode in decided to look into starting a new chapter in Austin, Texas, and while we were in the area, planned on looking for a clubhouse. As we rode north on Interstate 35 on our way back to the hotel at the end of the weekend, it wasn’t a potential clubhouse that caught my attention, it was a billboard at a local gym advertising a fundraiser for amateur fighters. The same gym was advertised in a flyer for the bike rally we planned on attending the following weekend, and after noticing

the sign, I decided to I wanted to see if the gym was open. Riding in the front of the group right beside the president, Erik, I raised my hand and motioned toward the sign. He nodded his head and signaled for the group to slow and then motioned for everyone to exit the highway. As twenty of us pulled into the parking lot of the small gym, the sound from our exhaust was deafening. After parking under a light pole I got off the bike, stretched my legs, and gazed at the gym. A Harley sat in the parking lot beside the front door and at least some the lights seemed to be on in the front of the building, although the entire side of the building facing us had no windows, we decided to see if they were open for business. I glanced at Teddy, tilted my head toward the door, and walked up to it. After checking the handle and finding it unlocked, I pulled it open. In the summer, I typically rode with my leather vest and no shirt. In as good of physical shape as I was when I was at war – or maybe even better – I would have described myself as an intimidating man. The man who stood on the other side of the door when I yanked it open however, was an absolute monster. Wearing a pair of sneakers, cargo shorts, and boxing gloves, he stood beside a petite woman and glared in my direction. His upper body and arms were covered in tattoos, which certainly wasn’t anything new to me, but his presence told me he was no amateur to boxing or fighting. “What can I do for ya, Brother? We’re closed, we were just locking up,” he said as he cocked his cleanly shaved head slightly to one side. To make sure he fully understood I wasn’t intimidated by his size, I stepped inside the door a few feet and cleared my throat lightly as I flexed my chest. “Well, we rode into town for the ROT rally coming up. The flyers for the rally said you were having fights next week. I boxed in the Marines, and while we were at the bar I made a bet with the president of our motorcycle club. He’s boxed a little, and we’d like to see if there’s two spots open.” He glanced over his shoulder at the woman who stood beside him, nodded his head slightly, but didn’t respond. “To tell you the truth, we didn’t think anyone would be here. We were just going to see if we could find the place and saw the scoot in the lot. You ride?” I asked. He nodded his head once. “Yep.” Man of few words, huh? I folded my arms in front of my chest and grinned as Teddy stepped up beside me. “So, have any

spots left?” “Yeah, we got some paperwork to fill out in the office, but it’s locked. Can you come back in the morning?” he asked. I nodded my head and lowered my arms. “We’ll be back in the morning. Can you save me two spots? One of the other fellas said he’ll fight if there’s another spot. Kind of an inside bet with the club. Bragging rights. Hell, if you ride, you know how it is.” He nodded his big bald head. “I’ll tell the boss. His name’s Kelsey. There’s at least two left for sure, ain’t had much traffic on it yet. What’s your name?” I extended my hand. “My name’s Alec Jacob, but I don’t really go by that. You ride, so you call me either Train or A-Train.” He reached toward me, realized he was wearing boxing gloves, and chuckled a light laugh. “I’m Mike Ripton, you can call me Ripp. Pleasure to meet you, A-Train.” I glanced around the gym and nodded my head. It was small, but it was extremely tidy. It reminded me of the gyms at the Marine Corps base in Camp Pendleton. “Alright. Well, it’s a nice place you have here, Ripp. We’ll leave you to it. Appreciate the help.” I turned around and pulled the door closed behind me. “So, you and Doc going to do some boxin’, huh? Hell I’d get in that little ring and fight, but I ain’t the kind of fucker that follows rules. Probably get my big dumb ass tossed out on my ear if I tried it,” he said. I glanced over my shoulder toward Teddy. There was no doubt in my mind that he was a tough man. Hell, I’d seen him in a few fights. But he had no finesse, no style, and no formal training. He was just a big brawler who did his best to protect those he cared for and what he believed in. I, on the other hand, needed to get into a fight just to keep my sanity. Being in a good fight was similar to being at war. It kept my adrenaline level up, gave me a little excitement, and allowed me to appreciate the mundane pace of my day-to-day post-war activities a little more. With absolutely no excitement in my life, I yearned for something to keep me on edge. The violence of a fight was miniscule compared to the violence of war, but the same principles applied. The adrenaline, excitement, and uncertainty of a fight allowed me to believe – if even for a short period of time – that I hadn’t stepped so far away from the war I desperately missed. “So what did they say?” Doc asked as I climbed onto the seat of my bike.

“Said to come back tomorrow. Seems they’ve got a few spots left, but there’s still time to back out,” I said with a laugh. Erik was a massive man, but built like a natural athlete, not a bodybuilder. He was big, muscular, and physically fit, but he didn’t look like a gym rat. I’d never seen Erik in a fight, and had only heard stories about his quick fists and keen eye. He boxed his way through college, and fought in the golden gloves arenas, but it wasn’t something he yearned for. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his chest. “Back out? That’s not going to happen, Train.” I flipped the switch on my hand controls and started the bike. As the engine came to a roar, I tossed my head toward his bike. “Well, we better get the fuck out of here, then. You’re going to need some sleep, Old Man,” I said. He shook his head and coughed a laugh. “Saddle up!” As we rode to the hotel I wondered if there would be a chance I could fight the big fucker at the gym. Ripp. Fighting that guy would put me in a damned good mood. One that just might last for the rest of the summer.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN Spring 2014, Austin, Texas, USA We went back to the gym to fight in the boxing matches we had signed up for, only to find out Ripp had been arrested and was being detained for murdering a man. The stories around the gym varied, and his best friend, the man who was scheduled to fight for the Heavyweight Championship of the World, Shane Dekkar, shared a little information which I suspected was the only real truth we would hear on the matter. It was still unclear exactly what prompted it, but someone did something to Ripp’s little sister, and when he went to question the man who did what he did, the man pulled a gun. He reacted the way I probably would have by fighting the man, and somehow, in the fight, broke the man’s neck. Now in jail facing murder, his girlfriend, an attorney, was preparing his defense. Although I really didn’t know Ripp, I felt compelled to talk to him about the challenges not of going to trial, but of living with the horror of taking another man’s life. There weren’t many people a man could talk to regarding such matters, and I felt I could offer him a little advice, possibly helping him accept what happened as being God’s will, and further allowing him to focus on the upcoming trial. We proceeded with our fights as scheduled, with me feeling uneasy the entire time, knowing Ripp was being forced to deal with so much emotion. I recalled the first time I killed someone, and how difficult it was to accept it as being what was just, proper, and acceptable in the eyes of God. At the time, I had other Marines to talk to, men who had experienced the same things as I. Ripp had no one, or at least I expected he didn’t. Mentally, as we prepared to begin the fights, I considered staying in Texas for a while, hoping to provide Ripp a little support.

The small gym was crowded with people hoping to catch a glimpse of the local hero, Shane Dekkar. Erik knocked his opponent out in a matter of seconds, but his challenger was some kid with a big mouth and a jaw made of glass. As soon as Erik hit him once, the kid wadded up in a ball like a crab. My opponent was a local who was about as big as Ripp, and twice as pretty. As the crowd cheered in anticipation of me losing my respective ass against the guy, we stepped to the center of the ring and touched gloves. An extremely informal match, and really for nothing but fun, I had hopes of not only lasting the entire match against the guy, but giving the crowd one hell of a show. It was my understanding the money was going to a good cause, so I felt giving the crowd a good show would allow them to feel they got more than what they paid for. As the bell rang, I shuffled to the center of the ring and studied my opponent. An apparent righthander, or at least fighting right-handed, he was in for a surprise. I was ambidextrous, and could fight southpaw or right-handed. I stepped to him right-handed and waited to see what he had planned. He swung an immediate right hand directly in front of my face. I don’t know if that was for show or you intended to land it, but you were off a mile, Big Boy. I leaned back, and as the punch passed my face, I swung an uppercut that landed against the bottom of his chin. A quick left hand to his ribs was rewarded with a shallow cough of breath from his lungs. As I mentally prepared a left cross, he leaned into me and tried to hug me. A three round bout for charity and you’re going to try and dance? I shoved him off, and as our bodies separated, swung a left jab and a right hook, the first connecting with his lower chest, and the second with his mid-section. His wild punch that followed was countered by my left jab – again landing against his chest. I thought they said you were a pro? I’m nothing but a retired Marine, let’s see what you’ve got. I stepped away from him and waved my gloved hands toward my chest, indicating I was ready for a fight and he wasn’t bringing it. The small crowd began to cheer, and I heard Teddy begin to talk shit to my opponent. In an actual boxing match what I chose to do would have been considered extremely disrespectful. In the match we were fighting, it was enough to rile the crowd into a wild cheering session. He clenched his already tight jaw even tighter, and came to me like a madman. It was just what I was after. He swung a well-telegraphed uppercut, and I leaned back and let it fly by my face. As he stumbled

from the shock of missing the punch completely, I leaned toward him and unleashed a five or six shot combination of punches to his face, connecting all of the punches solid. The small crowd was in an uproar. As he again began to stumble, trying to keep his footingI continued with my advance, pummeling him with a series of punches, each one unanswered. It was exactly what I needed. I felt alive. Every ounce of my frustrations that had built up over the years was being exerted with each punch. As I leaned forward for what I expected to be the punch to end the fight, the bell rang, signaling the end of the round. Shit. I went to the corner for a short breather, and was met by Erik and Teddy. “Holy shit, A-Train, you’re fuckin’ that dude up somethin’ fierce. This fuckin’ crowd is lovin’ it,” Teddy said. With a mouthpiece in my mouth and no trainer to remove, it, I simply nodded my head in agreement. “You’re not even breathing hard,” Erik said with a laugh. I did my best to grin and shrugged my shoulders. I ran almost every day, and did strength and weight training on a daily basis. There weren’t many men at any age that were in better physical shape than I was, and I attributed it to my Marine training, and still living the life of a disciplined Marine. As I mentally prepared to step back into the center of the ring and give the crowd what they seemed to enjoy, an elderly man ducked under the ropes and waved his hands. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this fight is over,” he said. I widened my eyes and shrugged my shoulders. With his eyes fixed on mine, he shook his head from side to side and walked to the corner of my opponent. Well, fuck. After Erik unlaced my gloves and removed them, I pulled my mouthpiece. A few seconds later, and the old man in charge of the gym was outside the corner of the ring beside Teddy and Erik. Standing beside Erik in sweats, a silk jacket with the gym’s logo on the back, and Kelsey stitched on the front, he pressed his hands into his hips and shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Ripper said you were

some Army guy that fought on a military base. You were beating the hell out of my boxer. Just who the hell are you?” I grinned at his question and did my best not to sound arrogant in my response. “I’m a Marine, I wasn’t in the Army, Sir. And I’ve fought a little.” “You’ve fought a lot,” he growled, his voice old and gruff. “That guy you were educating on the sport is a local who was undefeated and we’d like to keep him that way. His trainer stopped him from a serious old fashioned ass whipping, that’s for sure. You ever think about considering boxing as more than a hobby?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I might.” “Let me know,” he said with a nod. “And that’s a mean left hook you’ve got.” I nodded my head toward him as he turned away. “Appreciate it.” “But you need work, a lot of work,” he growled over his shoulder as he walked away. As I stepped away from the ring and toward the locker room, I considered what he asked. I had planned on leaving Kansas, coming to Texas for seven to ten days, and going back to Kansas. Considering Ripp’s situation and my need to find an outlet for my frustrations associated with the war, maybe making a few changes would be in my benefit. As Erik and I changed clothes, I made up my mind. I didn’t say anything to him just yet, but I decided to stay in Austin. At least for a while. I knew one thing for sure – the more space there was between my ex-wife and me, the better off I would be.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA The MC rode back to Kansas, leaving me in Texas. It was understood when the time came to start a chapter in Austin, I would be the president of the chapter. After a few trips back to Wichita to get my truck and most of my belongings, I was happily living in a rental house in the sunny state of Texas. I found the people of Texas to be quite different than the residents of Kansas, primarily due to their hospitality. While riding my motorcycle down less traveled county roads, off of the highways and interstates, everyone waved at me as if they knew me. While walking past someone in the grocery store I was generally met with a howdy or how are you doing? At first, I dismissed it to the people I was encountering being intimidated by me and their hospitality, at least in person, was done in an effort to comfort themselves. After multiple daily trips to the store to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, and seeing nothing change, I realized it wasn’t done out of intimidation or fear, but simply out of kindness. I quickly developed a friendship with Ripp, finding him to be someone who caused me to feel comfortable in his presence. His offered friendship was genuine, and although I would have guessed no one could be, he was funnier than Teddy. It was our common bond of dealing with the taking of life, however, that immediately brought us together. I found another friend in Shane Dekkar, and the old man that managed the gym but claimed to be nothing more than a trainer, Kelsey. Kelsey was gruff, unwilling to smile, and had an all business attitude, but as difficult as he probably was for most people to understand, I felt I knew exactly how he felt. His stern attitude was a front. He cared deeply about the men he trained, and he took their success

or defeat as his own, leaving him no room for an outward friendship. Personally, I admired the man greatly. I found it entertaining that every time he saw me in the gym training, he asked what I was doing there. He fully realized what I was doing there, but his opinion was that I wasn’t going to stay in town for long, leading him to antagonize me about it. I felt a slight guilt, at least initially, about being away from Kansas, which I had always considered to be home. As time passed, I realized as an adult, I had spent all of my time at war, and if I had to claim a place as home, it would be in the war-torn country of Iraq. For the time being, I accepted Texas as my home, and did so without reservation. My mind seemed to quickly clear itself not of the images of war, but of thoughts of Suzanne. After considerable thought, the love I had always believed I felt for her was dismissed as comfort. I met Suzanne when I was young, and although I wouldn’t consider myself as ever being a foolish man, I came to believe I attached myself to her to replace what I was missing in my mother’s absence. Suzanne supported me. She comforted me when I came home from the war after each deployment, cooking me meals, holding me in her arms, and providing me an ear willing to listen and a mind hoping to understand, rarely challenging me or my thought processes. In short, she was a motherly figure to me. In the days leading up to and including Ripp’s trial, I felt different. I would never be able to change who I was or what I had done, but my mind, soul, and spirit felt as if they had opened up, revealing a new me. A person who had, in the almost two years since I had left Suzanne, become willing to allow myself to once again feel emotion and become more human and less mechanical. I knew I would always remain methodical, and slightly OCD in my behaviors, but I hoped the way I was feeling would remain for a lifetime, allowing me to be at peace with myself, the war, and the decisions I had made. I learned in the time I had spent with Shane that he met a woman who was in an abusive relationship, and that she eventually left, but only after her partner of ten years decided to beat her unconscious. At the time, Shane and the woman were simply good friends, and Ripp, as any true friend would, refused to let Shane react to the situation. He insisted on handling it himself, for fear if Shane tried to resolve it, it may tarnish his career as boxer, and more than likely would land him in jail. A true friend, doing what he felt needed to be done to protect his friend and brother. In dealing with Shane’s girlfriend’s abuser, Josh, Ripp lost his temper and hit the man in the face with a hammer, knocking out almost all of his teeth. He followed up by cutting off the man’s index finger

with a pair of shears, and took the finger home as a prize. Hearing the story, I couldn’t help but laugh, because it sounded exactly like something I would have done. Now, however, with Ripp seemingly winning his trial against the charge of murder, the prosecution was calling the former lover of Shane’s girlfriend, the man with the missing finger, to the witness stand. It appeared the prosecutor felt the fingerless fool’s testimony would convince the jurors of Ripp’s desire to resort to violence in an effort to solve problems. The problem, in my mind, was not Ripp. It was the two men who had abused the women. One Ripp’s sister, and the other Shane’s girlfriend. The comparison between Ripp and me came easily, me protecting my Marines, and him protecting his sister and best friend. He was willing to go to any length, including taking a life to protect the people he loved. And so was I. Very few men shared our opinions, ability, and willingness to act. Although I had no experience in losing my freedom, I likened being in prison to being dead, and believed if someone like Ripp was going to spend a lifetime in prison for protecting his sister, the sentence should just as well be death. Watching a friend die wasn’t something I could ever do. I sat in a park south of the South Congress Bridge and waited for sunset. 750,000 pregnant female bats showed up every spring, each giving birth to one offspring. For the entire summer, 1.5 million bats lived under the bridge, coming out on a nightly basis to hunt for their food. The sight of the bats leaving the bridge was peaceful for me, horrifying to some, and a ritual for others. There was no doubt people’s perception of the nightly event was different. Each night, the bats flying out from underneath the bridge by the hundreds of thousands at the same time darkened the still sunlit sky to black, providing a perfect comparison between dark and light. Many considered the bats evil, carriers of disease and transmitters of rabies. I found them to be far from it – a necessary evil of this earth – ridding the planet of bugs that were a greater nuisance than the bats themselves. As the sun lowered itself over the tops of the downtown buildings, a wave of bats blackened the sky as they flew in formation off in the distance to find their meal of a few flies or other flying bugs. I thought of the bat population doubling, and that for each adult bat, there was an offspring. Each year, from what I had learned, the mother bats returned, but the offspring did not; leaving the parent and the child separated for a lifetime. As much as I distanced myself from some, distancing myself from my true friends or family for a

lifetime seemed like an impossible task, and as I watched the last of the bats flying out over the river, I realized I had, although not necessarily intentionally, separated myself from my father since the end of the war. Be it from embarrassment or from a desire to keep to myself regarding the events of the war, I differed very little from the bats. I sat, staring at the bridge, realizing the bats would soon return to their home – but wondered when, or if, I ever would. After a few more minutes, the sun went down completely, and the sky darkened into blackness. I stood, walked to my motorcycle, and once again felt as if I was right where I needed to be. In the home I had created for myself.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA I parked a considerable distance from the home and walked up the block. As I approached the driveway, I verified the address, walked to the garage, and removed the length of wire from my pocket. After fishing it through the upper trim on the garage door, I released the security latch, raised the door, and walked inside. The entire process took no more than a few seconds. Breaking into someone’s garage took a matter of seconds, and as long as they left their door from the garage to the house open, getting in the home took no more than turning a door handle. It amazed me how people never forgot to lock their front or rear door to the home, but historically left the door leading to the garage unlocked. I walked to the door leading into the home, turned the handle, and grinned as it opened. Based on my study of Josh, he should have been arriving in roughly thirty minutes. I calmly walked into the home, sat down on the living room couch, and waited for him to come home. As I heard the key in the front door, I slumped in the seat and waited for him to come. After confirming he was alone, I stood from the couch and began to walk in his direction. “What the fuck? I’ll give you whatever you want,” he said, no doubt confusing me for a burglar. Holding my pistol in my right hand to help convince him I was serious, I spoke calmly, but with a convincing tone. “I’m not here for your belongings. I’m here to make sure your testimony tomorrow doesn’t land my

friend in prison,” I said as I walked toward him. “I uhhm, I…” he stammered as his eyes shifted to my pistol. “Listen, I’m going to make this simple,” I said as I placed my pistol on the kitchen counter. “I won’t testify,” he murmured. I gazed over the counter and nodded my head. “Yes, you will.” “And,” I paused and shook my head from side to side as I studied him. “Unless I ask you to speak, do not speak again, or I will cut off one of your ears.” His eyes went wide as he raised his right hand to the side of his face, touching the bottom of his ear as I continued. “That, Sir, is not an idle threat. It is a promise. I’ll add it to the collection I already have. Make note that I do not like you or those like you. People like you make me feel sick, is that understood?” I said. I sighed as I pulled my knife from the sheath. I glared at him, wanting acknowledgement of my question. “Nod your head,” I said. It wasn’t my intention to try and intimidate him by how I acted, or how I appeared, only make him aware of his options. The more I looked at him, however, the more I grew to dislike him. He nodded as I placed the knife on the counter beside the pistol. “I’m sure you still have nightmares about our mutual friend visiting you and relieving you of a finger and a few teeth. Smile and hold up your hand,” I said as I lifted my chin slightly. I had yet to see Ripp’s handiwork, and had only heard stories. Josh was obviously scared to death, but did his best to fight against the urge to cower and piss his pants as he forced himself to smile, revealing snow white teeth. As I admired his porcelain replacements, he held up his right hand, which was missing seventy-five percent of the index finger. A small, almost unnoticeable stub remained. As I studied his missing finger, I nodded my head. “That cleaned up quite nicely. And those teeth look remarkable. They’re nice, really nice. Well, for what it may be worth, Josh, I’m not at all a pleasant person.”

His eyes remained fixed on me, filled with uncertainty and fear. I’m not like Ripp, “I continued. “You were given an opportunity by our mutual friend to keep your mouth shut. You made a poor decision, and chose to speak. I do not know, nor do I fucking care to know the circumstances surrounding your involvement with the authorities. I will say this. I hate most cops about as much as I hate you.” As I pressed my palms against the edge of the countertop and flexed my biceps his eyes fell to my chest and quickly raised to meet mine as I began to speak again. “Now, your testimony. You spoke to police, and I suspect you told them of the removal of your finger, the ass whipping, and the fact your teeth were knocked out. They now expect you to testify tomorrow regarding what happened and why. That, Sir, will not happen. I will not allow it. It will not. Do you understand me?” I asked. He remained silent. “Speak.” “Yes, I understand,” he responded. “Did you ever file a police report on your loss of teeth or finger?” I asked. “Speak,” I said after a few seconds of silence. He shook his head. “No.” “Until this particular case, did you or have you ever discussed with authorities your loss of teeth or the finger?” I asked as I ran my finger down the edge of the knife. “Speak.” “No, not until now.” I nodded my head as I studied the blade of the knife. “Alright. You will testify tomorrow. I will make clear what you will say. Phrase it how you prefer, but you will say this; you will state, when asked, that your association with Mr. Ripton is through your former girlfriend. You will further state that you chose to concoct an utter lie regarding the loss of your finger to attempt to get back at her, because she is friends with him. That, in effect, is all you will say.” He stood and stared as if confused. “Is that understood?” I asked as I rotated my wrist and twisted the blade of the knife back and forth.

He nodded his head. “I need to hear it. Speak,” I sighed. “Yes. Understood.” The more I looked at him the more I wanted the world to be rid of him. My problem with eliminating him prematurely, as much as I wanted to, was that I historically gave everyone a chance to correct a mistake, my ex-wife included. It was a weakness of mine. I glared at him and continued. “You see. I find the entire process disappointing. You being smacked with a hammer and having a finger cut off has nothing to do with this case. Not one damned thing. One has nothing to do with the other. But, if the jury hears what you have to say, they’ll assume Ripp is a violent man and they’ll certainly side with the state. They’ll find him guilty. If you don’t testify, they may find him innocent. In all honesty, they should give him a good Samaritan medal for doing what he’s done. It irritates me to have to be here. People like you disgust me. You need to understand that.” He nodded his head. At least he was willing to entertain me. “Now. I will close with this. I like killing people. I really do. It’s the only fucking way I can make that God forsaken war make sense in my head. If I stop killing people, it means all the killing I did for years over there was wrong. And, killing people that wreak havoc on others must be God’s will for me, because the government paid me for over a decade to do it. I like to think it was justified, killing all of those people.” I paused and considered what I was saying. It seemed as I was speaking, I was not only convincing him of how I felt, but convincing myself. I was raised to understand killing was wrong. After all, it was one of the Ten Commandments. The Marines, at a time of war, took every adult male that was willing and capable and taught them how to kill. They didn’t teach Marines how to obtain a home loan or balance a checkbook. Upon my returning to the states, they didn’t encourage me to make any changes to my mental process regarding killing. They merely expected me to flip a switch and become human again. A lesson or class in how to un-do what they had spent so much time doing was necessary. “You know, the only way I can convince myself it was justified, all of the killing, that is, is to continue killing people that take from society. You’re a taker. And I administer justice by attempting to balance the scales. I do, however, believe people can change. I hope you’re one of them. I’m assuming Ripp’s previous visit left a little doubt in your mind. I want to remove that doubt. I want clarity,” I said with a nod of my head.

I was convinced my speech was not only informative to him, but cleansing to me. “Are we clear?” I asked as I looked up from the blade of the knife. As he stood and silently stared, I felt as if I was playing Simon Says on the schoolyard as a child. “Jesus fucking Christ. Speak.” “Yes, Sir. I understand.” “Now, I will not be in court tomorrow. Would you like to know where I’ll be?” I asked as I picked up the pistol. He shook his head. “Humor me. Say you want to know,” I said with a laugh. He swallowed heavily and stared. “Speak,” I said. “I want to know where you’ll be tomorrow,” he said, his voice quaking as he spoke. “Josh, I’ll be where ever you go. But you won’t see me. You’ll never see me. If you testify as to any other facts than what we discussed here, I will find you. And, I can assure you of two things after I find you. One, I will torture you. And two, when I get bored with torturing you I will kill you. I will promise you those two things.” I placed the pistol into the holster and nodded my head sharply. “Oh, and one more thing,” I said as I slid the knife into the sheath. His eyes widened as I watched his Adam’s apple raise and lower. “Never, regardless of the circumstances, come in contact in any way with Kace again. Are we clear?” I asked as I stepped in his direction. He nodded his head. I tilted my head to the side and rolled my eyes. “Say it.” “I, uhhm. Yeah. It’s crystal clear. Never again,” he responded. I turned and walked toward the front door. “I’ll let myself out,” I laughed as I walked to the door. As I reached for the door handle, I looked over my shoulder toward the kitchen. Josh remained

standing by the countertop, staring down at his feet with his hands at his sides. “You see, Josh, the entire world can be separated into two groups; those that give, and those that take. Those that give provide something to the rest of the people on the earth. Something useful.” I paused and opened the door partially. “The takers? Well, their only concern is themselves. They take from society, providing little, if anything, to others. In the future, start asking yourself what you’ve done lately for society. For other people. If the answer is nothing, you’re doing something wrong.” Ripp didn’t ask for my assistance, but he didn’t have to. I was able to help him out, and I did. It was the least I could do for a friend. Hopefully my visit to Josh would persuade him to do what was right. In doing so, maybe I could help save a life instead of taking one.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA Disappointed I wasn’t there to witness it, Ripp was found not guilty. I was invited to a celebration dinner at his parent’s home, and I eagerly accepted. Upon arriving, I found his mother, father, two sisters, girlfriend, Shane Dekkar, Shane’s wife, Kace, and a friend from the gym, Austin, were all in attendance to celebrate. I had heard the phrase everything is big in Texas many times. The table, the meal, and the crowd held true to the statement. The table had ten people seated at it and had room for four more. The homecooked meal of chicken, countless side dishes, bread and iced tea was plentiful and reminded me of meals at home before my mother died. Mr. Ripton turned toward me and lowered the fork that dangled from the tips of his fingers. “It’s a shame your friends couldn’t make it, Alec.” My friends from Wichita had all come to Austin to support Ripp throughout the three-day trail, and watched intently as the procedure unfolded. Ripp’s parents were appreciative of the support, and expressed it throughout the trial. “They just came down to support Mike, Sir. As soon as the trial was over, they had to get back to Kansas. As early as it ended, they were able to get back tonight,” I said, making certain to use the name

Mike instead of Ripp. I had been warned by Shane about Ripp’s parents, and their rules regarding the use of nicknames or cussing at the dinner table. “I knew it was all over as soon as Vee said Boom! Too late, you made the wrong decision and blew on her finger. That sent chills down my spine. I like you, Vee,” Kace said. Ripp’s girlfriend and attorney throughout the trial, Vee, chuckled. “Pretty dramatic, I know. And I like you too, Kace.” The story I had heard regarding the end of the trial, was that Vee had provided an exceptional closing argument. In her close, she asked the jurors what they would have done if the man in question, the deceased, would have pulled a gun on them in a drunken stupor. As the jurors sat and shrugged their shoulders, trying to decide how they’d react, she shouted, “Boom! Too late. You made the wrong decision. You should have reacted differently.” Leaving them all sitting with open mouths, realizing during such a situation, the person on the receiving end of the gun has only seconds to react. In the end, she made her point and won the case. “Ma’am, the chicken is fantastic,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward Ripp’s mother. Ripp’s younger sister, Katie, interrupted. “I cooked it, thank you. Have some more.” She made eye contact as she lifted the platter of chicken and held it in the air. She was beautiful, blonde, and I would have guessed her age at mid-twenties. I raised my hand and waved it toward the platter. “I want to make sure everyone gets enough. No, thank you.” “No, really. There’s plenty, have some more,” she insisted. I grinned and nodded my head. “Alright, just one more.” Ripp’s father looked up from a chicken bone he was gnawing on. “Called Bug and told her the news. Told her to get to cookin’ ‘cause we was comin’ home. Glad that mess is over.” “No nicknames at the table,” Ripp interrupted. His father reached for his fork, pointed it at Ripp, and waved it as he made his point. “It ain’t a nickname, and you know it. We been callin’ her Bug since she was a baby. Katie Bug. It’s her god damned name, Mike.” “No cussing at the dinner table,” Mrs. Ripton said without so much as looking up from her meal.

It was apparent she was used to the shenanigans of her son and husband. “It ain’t her name, Pop. Her name’s Katie. It’s funny. If I say a nickname, you and Mom get all over me. But you guys say Bug all the time like it’s her name; and it ain’t her god damned name,” Ripp complained. “No cussing at the dinner table, Michael,” his mother said. Sitting at their dinner table was like being a part of a television sitcom. My eyes, for the entire meal, darted back and forth across the table, listening to the playful banter between Ripp and his father, often wondering just how much of it was intentional on Ripp’s part. His father wasn’t much better, constantly teasing and taunting Ripp. “Her name’s Bug, and that’s the end of it. I ain’t got to be nice to you, Mike, the trial’s over,” his father said as he pulled the fork from his mouth and pointed it at Ripp. Ripp finished his piece of chicken, licked his fingers, and glanced around the table. “After we eat, Dekk, Shorty, Vee, A-Train, The Kid and I are going to go out for a drink,” he said. His mother, without looking up from her plate, condemned Ripp for his use of nicknames. “No nicknames at the table, Michael.” “I don’t like it when you call me Kid,” Austin said. Ripp shifted his eyes toward Austin and glared. “Shut up, Austin. Feel lucky you’re even invited. You’re still proving your worth.” Without looking up from her plate, Ripp’s mother once again chastised him. “Don’t say that word Michael, it’s a bad word.” “Yes, Ma’am,” he responded. “I want to go,” Ripp’s sister said. Mr. Ripton glanced up from his meal. “Go where?” Katie turned toward Ripp and smiled. “I want to go with you guys tonight.” “Bug, we’re going out drinking and acting like fools. It ain’t a place for you,” Ripp responded. I shifted my eyes toward Katie. She was the sister who had been abused by the man Ripp later confronted – and subsequently killed – and although I didn’t know the extent of what was done to her, it was apparent the assault was nothing short of savage. As I sat and admired her beautiful looks and calm demeanor, I wondered what type of person would ever be able to do anything to such a woman, or any

woman for that matter. She shrugged her shoulders and widened her eyes. “Well, Vivian and Kace are going. So girls can go, and I want to go.” Ripp shook his head. “Bug, you’re just a kid, you can’t…” She shook her head and narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a kid. I’m old enough to drink. I’m four years younger than Kace, basically. So kiss my ass, Ripp. I want to go.” “No cussing, Bug,” Ripp’s mother said flatly. Katie glanced toward her mother, grinned, and as she shifted her eyes toward Ripp, locked her eyes on mine for a moment. I had been blankly staring, but not out of anything but slight admiration and wonder. I grinned as our eyes locked, and she quickly broke my gaze. “Let her go, Ripp,” Austin said. I wanted her to look at me again, and felt slightly guilty for desiring it so deeply. Her eyes were a translucent blue and not only complimented her well, but were rather difficult not to become fixated on. “Bug, Austin, no nicknames at the table,” Mrs. Ripton said. “Sorry, Ma’am,” Austin said apologetically as he turned to Mrs. Ripton. He turned toward Ripp’s father and nodded his head. “And, sorry, Sir.” “Ain’t nobody asked your opinion Austin, shut up and eat,” Ripp complained. Kace grinned and turned toward Ripp, undoubtedly recognizing his use of the word shut up. Shane, who hadn’t said a word all night, also shifted his eyes toward Ripp. “Michael,” Kace said playfully. “Michael, that’s enough,” Ripp’s mother said, reminding him of the bad word he had used. I shifted my eyes from Ripp’s mother toward Ripp, and met Katie’s gaze half-way across the table, stopping me from looking any further. Damn, your eyes are beautiful. “So, you were a Marine?” she asked. I had every intention of looking away when I responded, but failed to do so. I nodded my head as my mouth went dry. “Once and always.” She continued to stare into my eyes, all but hypnotizing me to return her stare. “What’s that mean?”

With my eyes still locked on her, I grinned at her curious nature. “Well, it means once you’re a Marine, you’ll always be a Marine. What is instilled into you lasts a lifetime. Once a Marine always a Marine.” “He’s teaching me hand-to-hand combat and self-defense,” Austin said. Katie broke my gaze, turned toward Austin, glared at him, and quickly shifted her eyes to meet mine. “So, you were in the war?” she asked. “Bug, don’t be rude,” I heard Ripp’s father say. I turned toward Mr. Ripton. “It’s alright, Sir. No offense taken.” “I was over there for roughly ten years, yes,” I said. With her eyes still locked on mine, she blinked a few times. “Did you kill anyone?” “Bug!” Ripp’s father complained. His mother repeated the complaint. “Bug!” “It’s quite alright, Ma’am,” I said as I nodded my head toward Mrs. Ripton. “And, Sir,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward Mr. Ripton. “I’m not ashamed. Yes, I killed people. It was my job. In a perfect world, a Marine mission is complete without anyone dying. My battalion was reconnaissance, like Navy SEALS on land. We gathered intelligence through interrogation. In that war? Well, it was different. There was nothing to gather and no one wanted to talk. So, we killed most of the people we encountered before they killed us,” I explained. “How many?” Katie promptly asked. The sound of Mr. Ripton clearing his throat was followed by his complaint of what I expected was his opinion of her inconsiderate nature. “Bug. Damn it,” “Again, Sir, no concerns here. I have no shame,” I said over my shoulder. It seemed I had become incapable of prying my eyes from Ripp’s sister. I told myself as I sat and admired her throughout the conversation that I had no business doing so, as she was not only the sister of a friend, but young, and, above all things, a woman. My eyes and mind, however, argued.

She was a beautiful woman, there was no doubt about that. “I don’t know how many. I never counted. More than most, I’d guess. I was either in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place at the right time. I was wounded several times, and each time it seems death followed. I don’t know,” I said, although I did know exactly how many. “We had to rescue some trapped Army Rangers on hill 571 in late 2005. I remember on that night there were eight. I didn’t think it would ever end. I got shot as soon as my boots hit the dirt. Took a round in the thigh. I knew it happened, I just don’t really think I cared. I’d been shot in the leg twice already, and I knew immediately this was superficial. I had a job to do, and there were Rangers that were pinned down. We were all they had. Well, it was us and a hand full of SEALS. We got them out of there. That, I suppose, is what was important. But a count? Like a total number? It’d be a guess,” I said. I broke her stare. As I glanced around the table, everyone sat quietly and stared. I shifted my eyes back to Katie and continued. “But every one of them? Every one? They had one thing in common. They were trying to kill me, I just got to them before they got to me.” Still staring directly into my eyes Katie grinned and batted her eyelashes. “I like Marines.” “You don’t know any fuckin’ Marines, Bug. Leave the man alone,” Ripp growled. “Michael Allen Ripton!” Mrs. Ripton snapped. Mr. Ripton scowled at Ripp, turned his head in my direction, and nodded his head. “I like ‘em, too, Bug. Thanks for your service, Son.” “Shut up, Ripp. I do too know Marines. Well, I did.” “Bug,” Mrs. Ripton said. “Just stop, Bug. You don’t know any Marines. Leave it alone. I’m sorry Alec,” Ripp said. “He was a senior when I was a freshman. I’ll never forget him,” Katie explained. “You knew him too, Ripp. He came here for dinner once. He joined the Marines and went to Iraq. He was some special Marine. Like Special Forces. He got killed, I remember reading it in the paper and they talked about it in church and at school. If you ever went to church, you’d remember.” “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” Ripp said. A Marine dying in the line of service was something I was compassionate about, and I was willing to listen to whatever she had to say about it. She shifted her eyes away from Ripp and once again met my gaze. “I went to that house party, the

one I got in trouble for. And Greg Shook was grabbing me. He said I filled out young. He was being a dick. And Billy pushed him and told him to stop. But he didn’t stop - he kept saying stuff - suggestive stuff about me. Billy took him outside and beat him up, and then came in and apologized for Greg being a jerk. I remember his knuckles were all bloody. And he came here for dinner a few weeks later.” I shifted my eyes toward Ripp. He shrugged his shoulders. “And he got married. And his wife had a kid while he was gone. And he never came back,” Katie said. “Cunningham,” Mr. Ripton said. A chill ran down my spine. There was no way. Lance Corporal Cunningham. Longhorns. He was from Texas. Mr. Ripton nodded his head. “I remember him. Big kid. Tall. Bug made a big deal of him kickin’ that Greg’s ass. Billy Cunningham. Yep. He was a nice kid.” My body went numb. I stood from the table and stared at Mr. Ripton. “Billy Cunningham? Billy Ray Cunningham?” “Yeah. That’s him. Billy Ray Cunningham,” Katie blurted. “You went to school with Billy Ray Cunningham?” I asked. The man had saved my life on a rooftop one day, killing an insurgent who would have shot me had he not stepped in between us. “You alright, Bro?” Ripp asked. I stared at Katie, recalling the events of the day on the rooftop. “Billy Ray Cunningham saved my life.” I turned toward Ripp. I shared the story with him while his trial was preparing to start. I felt if he could understand the process I went through in dealing with death, he could deal with the death of the man who pulled the gun on him. “I told you about him, on the roof. Remember?” I asked.

He nodded his head and stared. “Hold on,” Katie said as she jumped from her chair. “Excuse me,” she said as she ran from the room. “What’s going on?” Ripp’s other sister asked. Ripp’s mother shook her head as she glanced toward Manda. “Leave your sister alone, Manda, she’s been through a lot.” Katie walked back into the room, holding a book in her hands. As she flipped through the pages, she glanced upward. “Here. Come here, Alec. Look at this.” I walked around the table. As I stepped to Katie’s side, I inhaled the soft fragrance of her perfume. As my eyes focused on the page, goosebumps rose along my arms. Staring back at me, was Billy Ray Cunningham, the man who saved my life. I swallowed heavily as I stared blankly at the page. “That’s him. That’s Lance Corporal Cunningham,” I said with a nod. “What happened? You said he saved you,” Katie asked. Ripp’s father interrupted. “Bug!” “I’m squared away, Sir. It’s all right,” I said. I reached for the yearbook, accepted it as she handed it to me, and held it gingerly in my hands as I looked down at his photo and recalled the day he died. I felt my lower lip begin to quiver as I considered where I would be in his absence. Although I had no intention of doing so, I began to speak. “We followed two of them onto the roof of a building. They’d shot one of the Marines on my team as soon as we’d entered the building. It was Cunningham and I who followed them. I had a feeling. You know that deep down in your gut feeling?” For some reason I paused and turned toward Mr. Ripton. He nodded his head once as if giving me permission to continue. With glazed over eyes I continue to stare down at the page and recite the events of that awful day. “Well, I was right,” I said. “One of them stepped out from behind a structure on the roof they were using for cover, I missed him. Didn’t see a thing. Billy Ray stepped in front of me and…”

“Lance Corporal Cunningham was struck by enemy fire, and I returned…” I paused, realizing I was reciting the words that had been written on the daily report. Words that had stuck in my head for years. I took another slow breath, regained my composure, and continued. I needed to tell the story. I owed it to him. “He acted like it didn’t faze him. I imagine it was adrenaline. Either that or desire. You know, in hindsight, it was probably courage.” I paused and inhaled a shaky breath. “He returned fire. Hit the guy in the hand, chest, and torso. I returned fire, killing the second gunman. Cunningham died right there on the roof. He uhhm. He had a daughter.” I glanced up from the yearbook and fixed my eyes on Katie. “She’s uhhm. She’s probably,” Katie said, pausing as she counted on her fingers. “She’s probably six or seven now,” she nodded. “I’d like to meet Cunningham’s wife,” I said as I handed her the yearbook. “I know where she used to live. I bet I can find her,” Katie grinned as she accepted the yearbook. I nodded my head, walked to my seat, and sat down. Most people, if given an opportunity to truly know me, know my inner workings, and know just exactly who I was, would be of the opinion that I was not a man who was close to God. The truth would be quite the contrary. God was my only true guidance in life, and although I often did things people would perceive as evil, I believed I was always acting as a man who administered God’s will. Sitting in the chair gazing blankly across the table at Katie, hoping I may be able to find the wife of the man who saved my life, I began to understand I was exactly where I needed to be when I needed to be there. Sitting silently, still in somewhat of a trance, Ripp broke the silence. “If we aren’t focused on living life to the best of our ability, we’re slowly dying a death that’s of our own choosing. The odd thing is we get to pick the course we take. Why would someone choose not to live life at full capacity?” he said. Kace chuckled. “Wow. I like that. Who said that? I know it’s not a Ripp original.” “My father. Jack Ripton,” Mr. Ripton responded. “Come on everybody. Let’s get out of here,” Ripp said as he stood from his seat. “Where we going, Ripp? Huh?” Austin asked.

“We’re all gonna go pound down some beers, see if we can get in a fight, and then I’m going to take Vee home and fuck her until she passes out,” Ripp responded. I waited for the axe to fall, alternating glances between Mr. and Mrs. Ripton. Although they said nothing regarding his comment about fucking Vee, Vee slapped her hand against Ripp’s shoulder and gave him the stink eye. “Michael, we don’t like it when you get in bar fights,” his mother said softly. “Damn it, Mike,” his father said as he dropped his fork onto his plate. Ripp shook his head and pressed the web of his hands into his hips. “Pop. Just hold on a minute. Here’s the deal. I can’t change who I am. I like fuckin’ and I like fightin’. Today’s a victory for me. A big one. I’m going to celebrate. Doing the two things I love. Come on, let’s get out of here. Bug, Manda, this includes you.” As Katie jumped excitedly from her seat, we once again made eye contact. I was pleased that she was going to be included in our evening out on the town. I was damned sure there wasn’t going to be any fucking on my part, but I wouldn’t have made any promises on the fighting. I had a sinking feeling two professional boxers, a boxer in training, and a Marine were sure to get into some kind of trouble. I just hoped I had a few minutes to get to know Katie a little bit better before it happened.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA We hadn’t been at the bar for half an hour, and Ripp stood true to his word. He and a half-drunken Austin began running their mouths to a table full of drunken college football players, and within a few minutes, we were in the parking lot. In the middle of the dark parking lot, between the parked cars and under a lamp pole, Shane and I stood back and watched as Ripp beat the one who had been arguing with him in three punches. The entire time, I was eager to see if my hand-to-hand combat lessons with Austin had been doing him any good. The arguing match Austin was in eventually turned into what looked like might be a fight, and as it did, I cheered Austin on. The man he was arguing with was an absolute asshole, calling Austin every name in the book, including insinuating he was gay. As Austin reached his limit, he finally raised his hands and warned the guy to prepare to fight. “Come on, Austin, remember what I taught you,” I said. “Get him, Steve!” his friend screamed. Great name, asshole. Austin raised his hands and circled his opponent. If for no other reason than the man shared the name of my former best friend, I wanted Austin to pound the guy into the ground. “Kick his fucking ass, Steve,” the other friend yelled.

Katie stood by my side, almost touching me as Austin spread his feet apart and took a fighting stance. As the man swung a punch at Austin, he stepped into him, blocked his arm, and punched him in the base of the neck. And just like that, Steve collapsed in the parking lot. “Good damned job, Kid,” I said. “Who the fuck are you? Their coach? Y’all just come here to beat the shit out of people?” one of the peanut gallery from the idiot corner asked. “Come on,” I said to Katie as I turned to the side. “Just walk away.” “I heard you. You better walk away,” he grunted. There was no doubt in my mind I could beat the guy in a matter of seconds, but I had nothing to prove. Although we had only been at the bar for 30 minutes, I was having a great time talking to Katie, and I wasn’t about to ruin her night. As we were walking away, I noticed the idiot running up behind us. I tilted my head to the side and waited for him to get close enough to strike him if need be. As I prepared to spin around, he shoved his hands into my back. Big mistake, asshole. “Stand to the side,” I said to Katie as I reached down and tugged against the thighs of my jeans. I spread my feet to a fighting stance and fixed my eyes on his. “You’re going to want to turn around and walk away from this, and I’m going to let you.” It was his opportunity to correct his mistake. The same one I gave everyone. “Fuck you,” he said. “You guys beat the shit out of Steve. I’m gonna whip your ass.” My mouth curled into a smirk at the thought of him even challenging me. I felt it my duty to talk him out of it if there was any way I could. “That pretty fucker standing beside you whipped Steve’s ass, all by himself,” I said as I nodded my head toward Austin. “And, to tell you the truth, Steve needed it. You see, he has an alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass. He needs to learn when to keep his mouth shut. Now my best advice to you is to go home. This is over.” “It ain’t over till I kick the shit out of one of you for what you did to Steve,” he said as he doubled his fists.

I coughed a laugh. “You see, that’s where things are getting kind of cloudy for you. You’re obviously confused. You’re not going to win this fight. Not even if you get all your friends to join in. You see, I don’t think I can whip you. I know I can. Just go home. It’s probably best for us all.” “My pappy always told me the guy that’s a runnin’ his mouth is the one that can’t fight a lick,” he said with a laugh. I hated to bring the guy’s father into it, but I felt I had to. “Well, I’m afraid to tell you that this time your father is sadly mistaken,” I said, “You calling my pappy a liar?” “Here we go again with the cloudy judgment. I said he was mistaken. I didn’t call him a liar. Go home. Save yourself being disgraced in front of your friends,” I said as I tossed my head toward his friends. “I’m fixin’ to disgrace you,” he said. Katie stepped behind me. “Kick his ass,” she whispered. “Probably be a good idea if you and those big titties of yours get back away from him so you don’t get hurt, little girl,” the asshole said as she whispered in my ear. Disrespectful prick. I stepped forward and swung the heel of my palm into his chest. As he bent over, coughing for breath, I pulled my right hand back, grabbed the back of his neck with my left, and struck him in the base of the neck with my right hand. As he stumbled, I struck him on each side of the neck with the outside of my flattened hand. As he collapsed, I caught him and prevented him from falling to the asphalt. Shane Dekkar, who had been quiet all night, shouted. “Holy fuck!” “It’s gonna be tough, but try and stand up. So you can apologize,” I said. “Come here, Bug. He won’t hurt you,” I said over my shoulder. I had struck him pretty violently with what was described by Marines as a knife hand strike, hitting him in the mastoid muscles of the neck. The strike, if properly executed, paralyzes a man for several seconds.

Katie stepped beside me and stared down at the man. “Now, I know you can hear me,” I said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. Apologize to the girl.” He returned a glassy-eyed stare. “I’m going to count to three,” I said. “And you better apologize.” “One…Two…Three,” I counted. “That’s a bad decision on your part, really. Like I said, I know you can hear me. If you try to, you’ll be able to talk,” I explained. Nothing. I shook my head. “Austin, come here. Hold him while I light a cigarette.” Austin stood and stared at me as if I was crazy. “Dude, you fucked Randy up bad, let him go,” Steve said. “Steve, you’ll need to back the fuck up, right now,” I said as if I was giving a command to a Marine. Steve stopped in his tracks. I widened my eyes. “Austin?” “Hold this prick up. I need a cigarette,” I said. Austin walked up behind who I now understood was Randy, and took him from my grasp, holding him upright. Most of what he was doing was a show, I was sure. I had performed the strike on many a Marine as a joke, and the paralysis lasted all of a few seconds. I lit a cigarette and took a slow drag. As I held it in my teeth, I explained my concerns to Randy. “You see. This is always the problem with certain people.” I bit into the filter of the cigarette and drove both hands into his neck again. “Dude, what the fuck? He wasn’t doing anything!” Steve screamed. “You’re correct, Steve,” I said sarcastically. I exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “I gave him an opportunity to apologize. He’ll have another chance here in a minute.”

As Austin stood and stared at me as if I had killed Randy, I reached for his arms. “I’ve got him,” I assured Austin. “Randy, you need to apologize to the girl. I will count to three again. Tell her you’re sorry for being an inconsiderate asshole,” I said. “One…Two…” “I’m…” he murmured. “Sorry,” he said. “Tell her why you’re sorry,” I said. “I uhhm. I’m sorry. I was. I’m sorry I was disrespectful,” he said. “Will it ever happen again?” I asked. “No, it won’t happen again,” he said. “Bug?” I asked over my shoulder. She walked up behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder as she pressed her chest against my back. “Yes?” “Satisfied?” I asked. “Very,” she whispered into my ear. I released my grip. Randy stumbled, almost fell to the asphalt, and was helped up by his humiliated friends. “You’ll feel funny for a minute or two, but you’ll be fine,” I said jokingly as his friends helped him walk away. With her chest still pressed into my back, Katie breathed into my ear. “That was so awesome. What did you do to his neck?” “Knife hands,” I said with a laugh. “Knife what?” she asked, grazing her hand over my cheek as she spoke. I glanced toward Ripp, fully enjoying Katie’s playful nature, but concerned he might not feel comfortable with her acting the way she was. He returned a smile.

“I’ll show you some time. It’s a good way to gain control of a situation,” I replied to her. “Vee’s got a stomach ache. We need to get the hell out of here. It’s been a long day,” Ripp said. “You’re full of it, Ripp,” Kace said. “We know what you’re going to do.” “Well, you guys do whatever it is you want to. It’s still early. But we’re leaving. I need to make up for some lost time. Austin?” Ripp said. “Yeah, Boss?” Austin responded. “Look after Manda until the night’s over,” Ripp said. “Got it, Boss,” Austin responded. Katie continued to hang on my shoulders. Ripp shifted his eyes from Austin to me. Vee hung on his shoulders, clearly imitating Katie. “A-Train…” “Semper fi,” I responded with a wave. And I meant it. Regardless of what Katie asked, did, or attempted to do, I would stay faithful to my friend Ripp. I was just worried how long I would be able to keep it up if my interest in her continued to grow at the rate it had been for the entire night. Only time would tell, I supposed.



CHAPTER NINETEEN Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA We sat and shared a pizza at an all-night pizza joint. Not my favorite food by any means, and definitely not something I would have chosen to eat so late at night; but considering the circumstances, it was a pleasant change. “I wish the world was full of people like you,” she said. I held the folded slice of pizza in my hand and watched as the grease from the pepperoni ran down my arm to my elbow. “Believe me, you don’t.” I reached for a napkin and wiped my forearm clean of the grease, shaking my head and laughing as I did so. “Why?” she asked. “You’re one of the good guys.” In the middle of taking a bite of pizza, I shook my head. “I’ve got good intentions, but it doesn’t make me one of the good guys.” “You and Ripp are a lot alike. He acts all mean, but he’s a big softie. He likes to fight, but he doesn’t beat people up for no reason. Dad says he fights to keep his day-to-day anger at a manageable level. I think he’s right. But when people are mean to other people or do things that aren’t right, Ripp steps in and beats them up. He thinks he’s teaching them a lesson. He’s done it since he was little,” she said.

I had never considered fighting as a means of anger management, but it made perfect sense. Katie’s explanation of Ripp’s stepping in when he felt he needed to teach someone a lesson sounded exactly like me. I often felt the need to place myself in a situation most men would perceive as none of their business, only to attempt to teach someone my perception of what was right. I was quite sure, however, that my general means of resolution, however, might differ from his considerably. “Well, it does sound like we’re a lot alike, but I don’t think the world needs to be full of people like me,” I said as I took another bite of pizza. I did my best to stay focused on the food, and not spend as much time staring at her as I did at the dinner we had earlier in the night. Not admiring her was more difficult than I would have imagined, and I attributed my fascination with Katie to my lack of exposure to females in general since my having divorced Suzanne. “I do,” she said. She gazed beyond me and appeared to be in deep thought. As she sat there obviously focused on something, I admired everything from her hands to her choice of clothes. Wearing a baseball tee with the word baseball across the front, a pair of jeans, and sneakers, she looked not only comfortable, but adorable. After a moment, she shifted her eyes toward mine, and caught me in the middle of my admiration. As I shifted my embarrassed eyes to my lap, she began to speak. “You know, how God puts everything on this earth for a reason. Not everyone sees the reason, but I don’t think most people take the time to really think about it. A centipede, for instance. Most people are repulsed by them. They think they’re gross and wonder why they’re even here. The same with spiders. But God has everything on earth for a reason. So, the spider is here for many reasons, one of which is to feed the centipede. And, the centipede? It’s a staple in the diet of many lizards. The centipede relies on the spider, and the lizard is dependent on the centipede. And, at some point, a hawk, incapable of finding another source of food, swoops down and eats the lizard. At some point, a bobcat catches and eats the hawk, only to be later killed and eaten by a wolf.” She sounded like a biology professor explaining a theory, but it made perfect sense. I shifted my eyes upward. “The food chain.” She nodded her head and smiled. “You’re here for a reason. You’re necessary in God’s eyes. Some people on this earth are like the spider or the centipede. And they need eaten. And you’re the wolf. You’re necessary,” she said with a smile.

She had an odd way of putting things into perspective, but so far, I liked what she was saying. She reminded me all too much of myself, and her way of thinking about things was almost identical to mine. I didn’t like being compared to the lizard, but for the time being, I decided it was okay. I did wonder, if her analogy was accurate, who ate the wolf? “So, what eats me? Who eats Alec Jacob? Where does it end for me?” I asked. Life, I guess. She took a bite of crust, shrugged her shoulders, and chewed it for a moment as she thought. I took another bite of the pizza and waited for her to think about my question while I did the same. Her personality was, at least for me, very inviting. She was beautiful, but seeing her without the distraction of her family present made her much more attractive than her looks alone. Watching her eat, drink, and even talk was fascinating to me, and as I sat and watched her think while she ate her crust, I tried desperately to determine why I was so interested in her. “Life, I guess,” she said. Perfect answer. I nodded my head and swallowed the bite of pizza. “I was thinking the same thing.” “I guess if the world was full of people like you, we’d have no bad guys. And I suppose we’ll always need to have a few bad guys,” she said. I laughed out loud and dropped my pizza to my plate. “Why would we need bad guys?” “To justify having guys like you around,” she said with a grin. “Vicious cycle,” I said as I reached for my pizza. I felt like I was in high school again. Not because of her age, but because of the innocence I felt sitting with her. I felt no pressure, no need to act in any way in particular, and extremely comfortable – with the exception of being overly excited about being there with her. Sitting there with her made me feel as if I was preparing to gather the courage to ask a date to the prom. Crossing my legs repeatedly, only to find no real comfort in doing so, and rubbing my hands together repeatedly were tell-tale signs of my excitement. I didn’t once try to hide my feelings or the signs of them, only smiled each time I noticed I was doing something contrary to my norm. It was a nice change. “So, are you...you’re single, right?” she asked.

“As single as they come,” I said with a nod. She smiled and her eyes fell to my chest. After a second or two she lifted them to meet my gaze. “How?” “My choice, I suppose,” I said flatly. “I went through a divorce after I got back from the war. My wife wasn’t quite faithful. I tried to fix it, and thought I could fix it, but in the end, she wasn’t willing to stay faithful, so I left.” “And you were faithful?” she asked. “Absolutely. I don’t take things like commitment lightly. It’s a promise, or at least it is to me. That’s the way I see it,” I said. She narrowed her eyes. “She cheated on you?” “She sure did,” I responded. “Wow,” she said. After a second or two of silence, she shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry.” “Glad it’s over now, and glad we didn’t have kids, I guess. Not that I don’t want any, just glad I didn’t have any with her,” I said. Her mouth formed a smile large enough to expose her extremely white teeth. “You like kids?” I nodded my head. “Love ‘em.” She focused on me for a minute, dropped her eyes to the table, and after a few seconds, cleared her throat. “But. I mean. You’re like. You’re just. Well, you’re not the typical single guy.” I chuckled. “What’s the typical single guy?” “A douchebag,” she said with a laugh. “Well, I’m not one of those,” I responded. She coughed a laugh and reached for her glass of tea. “No, you’re sure not.” “And you. You’re single?” I asked. I was pretty sure she was, but not positive. Thinking of a girl like her being single was almost impossible to imagine. She lowered her glass. Her eyes went wide as her mouth curled into a smile. Almost as if she realized she was outwardly expressing her excitement, she tried to shake off the smile, but didn’t quite succeed.

She wiped her mouth and nodded her head. “Sure am.” I grinned and nodded my head, expecting she’d expand on her answer. After a few minutes of fidgeting in her seat, she gazed down at the table and once again seemed to fade off into deep thought. In an effort to not get caught again, I shifted my eyes from my remaining pizza to her and back repeatedly, finding something about her with each glance that I enjoyed. “I don’t know what Ripp told you about the guy he was in court about,” she said as she glanced upward. “The guy he uhhm. You know, the guy he killed.” I shook my head as I wiped my hands on my napkin. “Nothing, really. I just know he did something to you, and then when Ripp confronted him, he pulled a gun.” “Well, it was a long time ago, really, but the guy and I were hanging out, you know. And, after a while, it got serious. So, as far as sex went, he knew I was saving myself for the right man, and I didn’t know if he was that man. So, uhhm, we never had sex.” I admire you even more. “That’s admirable,” I said. “It was,” she said. No, don’t tell me… “I have no idea why I’m telling you this, but…” she paused and shifted her eyes up from her plate and gazed beyond me. I was afraid I didn’t want to hear what she had to say. “We were seeing each other, and he knew…he knew that I was…you know, that I was a virgin. I told him no, but…he uhhm…he forced himself on me…” She paused and shifted her eyes to meet mine. I raised my hand and shook my head, she didn’t need to continue. But she did. “He uhhm…he raped me,” she said. I filled with rage. The thought of anyone raping a woman infuriated me. I felt like digging up his grave and beating his corpse to an absolute pulp. It was a good thing Ripp had broken his neck, because if he hadn’t, no jury would have found me not guilty of anything. I fought against my inner self and tried to be calm.

I whispered a raw apology. “I’m sorry.” She pursed her lips and gazed past me as she nodded her head. “Me too. It happened almost a year ago. I’ve gone to a ton of therapy, and it helped me accept some things. I didn’t tell anyone about it at first, and really never planned to. It really bothered me. So, I told Manda, and she told me to go to therapy. It helped a lot, but it still bothered me. Then one day at dinner, long after it happened, I just lost it.” I sat and stared at her blankly, not really knowing what to say, if anything. “So I’m not a virgin anymore and it sucks. You know, having it taken from me like that,” she said. I didn’t dispute that she was raped, but I didn’t necessarily agree with her thoughts on the matter of her losing her virginity. I had previously considered the exact same scenario, when a friend’s cousin was raped. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still a virgin,” I said. She narrowed her eyes and stared. “How?” “Well, it’s just a theory, but hear me out,” I said. She nodded her head. “Okay.” “A person is with a guy who commits murder, but doesn’t know going into it that he’s going to do that, and has no knowledge it was going to happen. Does that make the bystander a murderer?” I asked. “No,” she said with a slight grin. “Had he murdered?” I asked. “The second guy?” she asked. I nodded my head. “No, I guess not,” she said. “If you go golfing with a friend, say just to watch him play a round, and he golfs, but you don’t participate, you’re just there riding in the cart, when the round is over, have you ever golfed?” I asked. She smiled even more. “No.” “He may have raped you. But you haven’t had sex. Does that make sense?” I asked. She stood from her seat. I wiped my hands and stood. With her blue eyes fixed on mine, and mine clearly glued to hers, she walked around the edge of the table. Without speaking, she opened her arms. As odd as it seemed to be

hugging her, for whatever reason, it felt more right than anything I had done in a long, long time. As she wrapped her arms around me and held me against her, she rested her chin against my shoulder. Once again, I inhaled a hint of her soft perfume. I closed my eyes, pleased I could help her see things slightly differently. “Thank you,” was all she said. And it was all I needed to hear.



CHAPTER TWENTY Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA I quickly found myself in a place I hadn’t expected to be, feeling in a way I hadn’t anticipated feeling, and confronted with a situation I was awkwardly excited about. For a man who planned everything from the exact moment I got up in the morning to what my meals were going to be a week in advance, and everything in between – including how many of my tee shirts were in each stack in my dresser – I felt a strange sense of comfort. Katie talked to Ripp about her desire to have me take her on a date, and although I wish she would have let me be the first to talk to him, I accepted not everything in life would always be in my control. I did talk to Ripp at length following their discussion, and was relieved to find out he trusted me with his sister. One more stop and I was home free to take her on an actual date. I took a breath and knocked on the door twice. I had always looked at a doorbell as a lazy way of knocking, and I was far from being a lazy man. I waited nervously with my hands at my sides for the door to open. He opened the door slightly, recognized me, and smiled. “Alec, how are you?” “I am well, Sir, thank you,” I responded. “Come in,” he said as he opened the door fully.

As I followed him into the house I realized this was something I had only done a few times in my life. As simple as a date may seem to most men, to me it was a tremendous commitment, and something I certainly didn’t take lightly. For me to ask a woman on a date, I had to see the possibility of a future relationship with her. I realized a date was simply that – an event on a specific day where two people chose to spend time together – and that there were no assurances, but if I didn’t feel the potential existed for a long-term relationship, I wouldn’t even ask. “So, what’s the occasion,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the living room. “Well, Sir, I’d like to speak to you about your daughter,” I responded as I followed him into the room. “Have a seat,” he said as he sat down in the recliner positioned in the corner of the room. He wasn’t as big of a man as Ripp, but he was close. It was easy to see that in his prime he would have been an intimidating figure. Although he wasn’t attempting to terrorize me, he was doing a good job of making me nervous. As I chose the seat next to him, I placed my hands in my lap, turned to face him, and smiled. Smiling was something that I did infrequently, and many people often assumed I was angry at all times. My face permanently etched with a stern look and my walk filled with Marine Corps attitude, it was easy to assume I was a man who was rarely happy. Most of the time I was happy, just not happy enough to share my feelings with the outside world. He fixed his eyes on mine and chuckled a light laugh. “I’m guessing when you all went out the other night you had fun. The girls said it was a pretty good time. Hell, you never know with girls, they’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, won’t they, Son?” “Yes, Sir, I’m sure that’s a true statement,” I nodded. He raised his hand to his chin and rubbed the slight growth of beard on his face. “So what’s the problem? Did one of them act up the other night?” I rubbed my palms along the thighs of my jeans and shook my head lightly. “No sir, certainly not. It’s not anything like that. I wanted to ask your permission for something, Sir.” I’d walk into a firefight with a dozen insurgents without question, but talking to Katie’s father made me a nervous wreck. Sitting there knowing I now needed to continue caused my throat to constrict and my palms to sweat. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a dry grin as he looked at me with a face filled with confusion. “Permission? Hell you don’t need my permission for anything, Son. What the hell you needin’?”

he asked as he lowered his hand from his chin. “Sir, we went out the other night, and I was able to spend a considerable amount of time with the entire group, your daughters included. We had a really nice time. In doing so, Sir, I was able to get to know Katie a little better…” I paused, took a shallow breath, and allowed him to digest what I had said before I continued. “In getting to understand her more, I realized a few things. One, she wants a man in her life. Two, she needs a man in her life. And three, I believe, Sir, I can be that man. I’d like to ask your permission, Sir, to take her on a date,” I said. His mouth curled into a smile. “You called and came here to ask my permission to take my daughter on a date? Bug?” “Yes, Sir, that is correct,” I responded with a nod of my head. He coughed a light laugh and glanced beyond me for a moment. “Well, normally I suppose I’d have a lot of shit to say. You know, to be respectful. Or remind you that she’s been through a lot lately, and she doesn’t need a guy trying to get in her pants right now. Hell, maybe I’d offer a few choice words about wearing protection, birth control, and how there’s plenty of kids in this country that don’t have parents...” “But with you, I don’t think I need to say any of those things directly. Instead, I’ll say this; Mike and I have talked about you. At length, I might add. He thinks the world of you. If Mike thinks the world of you, I believe him. He’s a hard man to impress. I’ve formed my own opinions about you, and I’ll admit you easily rise to the top of the pool of men that I’d choose for Katie. Suppose it brings me to this,” he raised his hand in the air and extended his index finger. “Two things. First one is this. You’re not from here. And I ain’t lookin’ to have my daughter taken from me, Mr. Jacob. Not now or ever. As far as I’m concerned, she can leave Texas when I’m dead, but not before. Now, before I get to number two, what do you have to say about that?” I suspected as close knit as the family was he may have such concerns, but I didn’t expect him to express them prior to giving me permission to go on a date with Katie. I lowered my chin, shifted my eyes from his finger to face, and responded. “Well, Sir. I have been offered a job at the gym. I intend to teach a women’s self-defense course as well as a hand-to-hand combat course. Kelsey and Joe made the deal with Mike and me last week. I’ve already started scheduling people. Short of the men I ride with, I have nothing in Kansas, and I’ll stay here as long as your daughter will have me,” I responded. “Does that job at the gym pay you enough money to survive?”

“I suppose not, Sir. The United States Government does. I get a check monthly. A very healthy one, I might add. Being shot half a dozen times pays pretty well, I suppose,” I said with a grin. He chuckled and nodded his head. “I suppose so.” He cleared his throat and raised his middle finger. “Alright, number two. Sunday dinners. We have ‘em here, on Sundays. I realize there are times when you may not be able to come. Hell, things happen. But you’ll never miss more than two weeks in a row, is that understood?” he asked as he slowly raised one eyebrow. The thought of attending that fiasco on a regular basis was not only entertaining, but something I would look forward to. Since my mother’s death, I missed the feeling of having a meal with family. My mouth broke into an immediate smile at his choice of is that understood, because it was exactly what I asked my Marines on a regular basis. “Yes, Sir. I like to eat, and your wife is a great cook,” I said with a nod. It seemed, in some respects, that he felt as if I was asking his permission to marry Katie. I suppose it was possible he was merely doing his best to look out for what he believed was in her best interest. If the things that were important to him were not important to me, he probably saw no value in letting me take her on the first date. As he began to rub his chin again, I waited for his approval. “Well, I lied,” he said as he lowered his hand and leaned forward. “There’s one more thing, and I’m afraid although I might discuss it, I won’t bargain much.” I pressed my palms along my jeans from my upper thighs to my knees. “Yes, Sir.” “My understanding is you’re a smoker, and you smoke a lot. I don’t want my future son in law, who by the grace of God almighty has made it out of wars in Iraq and Afghanistan unscathed, to die of lung cancer. I’ll need you to figure out a way to give up those cigarettes, Son. I’ll need that to happen here real soon. No exceptions. We have a deal?” he asked as he stood from his chair and extended his hand. I stood from my chair and proudly shook his hand. “Deal.” “Well, I must say, I couldn’t be happier for you or for Bug. She’s a damned fine girl. I like it that you came here like this, Son. It was downright respectful of you. I’m anxious to see how this thing pans out,” he said, gripping my hand firmly in his. “Can you excuse me, Sir? I have something on the bike I need to give you. I’ll need to go get it,” I said as I released his hand. He widened his eyes, smiled, and tossed his hand toward the door. “Sure. Hell, whatever you need to do. And when you come back in, don’t bother knocking. Family doesn’t knock.”

I walked back to the front porch and out of habit, almost knocked. I grinned at the thought of being family, as he said, and reached for the door handle. I walked toward the living room rather eagerly, and upon walking in, noticed he and Katie sitting across from each other talking. I walked to his chair and extended my hand. He furrowed his brow and looked at the pack of cigarettes. “What are you doing, son?” he asked. “Take them. If I ever want to smoke one, I’ll ask you for it. Other than that, I’ll never smoke another, Sir. Fair price to pay for what’s on the port side of your living room, sir,” I said as I motioned toward Katie. He smiled and accepted the pack of cigarettes. “Now, the last thing,” I turned to face Katie. “Katie, would you like to accompany me on a date this Saturday night?” I asked. She crossed her legs, placed her hands on her knees, and smiled as she cocked her head to the side. “Possibly. At what time?” “I expect, Ma’am, I would like to pick you up around six o’clock. And bring you back at let’s say,” I hesitated and turned to face her father. He held one finger in the air. “One o’clock in the morning,” I said. “I’d love to,” she responded. “Great. Well, I’ve got to get to work now, Sir,” I said as I extended my hand toward her father. He stood from his chair and shook my hand. I nodded my head toward Katie and grinned. “Katie.” She smiled in return and rolled her eyes. I turned toward her father and smiled. “I’ll let myself out, Sir.” As I walked to the door, I grinned at the thought of starting over. Potentially developing a long term relationship and maybe even having a family. As I opened the door, I heard Katie’s father yell. “Alec?”

“Yes, Sir,” I responded over my shoulder. “Welcome to the family,” he yelled. Somewhat premature, Sir, but I’ll accept it. I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. As I pulled the door closed, I stuck my head into the opening between the door and the frame. “Thank you, Sir,” I responded. I won’t disappoint you.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA People often described me as different, and I can’t say that I would argue with them. I didn’t march to the beat of a different drummer, I marched to the beat of my own drummer. Everything I did, I did for a reason; and if I was doing it, I was exceptional at it. I didn’t attempt things I wasn’t able to succeed at, and although I would consider myself to be an open-minded man, I wasn’t open to new things without a reasonable amount of consideration in advance. My madness had meaning. Always. “This is the coolest date ever,” she said as she shouldered the water-powered rifle. “You should just give up,” I said with a laugh. “That stuffed cat is ugly anyway.” “That stuffed cat’s name is Winky. Pardon my French, but that son-of-a-bitch is mine,” she growled as she nodded her head toward the man in charge of the game. In my travels on my motorcycle a few days prior, I had found a carnival a few miles south of the city, and decided it would be the first event of the night for our date. Once we were in the gate, our first stop wasn’t a ride, but a carnival game; and we had been there for almost an hour. The BB gun she was shooting was powered by water, and to win the prize she had to shoot the red star out of the center of a sheet of paper. This was her sixth attempt.

As she nodded her head the man flipped the switch on the timed water pump. As close as I was able to tell, the time allotted was 30 seconds. The BB’s spit from the barrel of the rifle toward the target like rounds from the USMC Squad Automatic Weapon. With great form, one hell of a cute pair of jeans, and a never-say-die attitude, she sprayed the target until the buzzer went off. The man retrieved the target and handed it to her without looking as if he already knew she hadn’t won the prize. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Looks like this isn’t your ball of wax.” She glanced at the target. A small corner of the red star remained on the paper, one shot away from being eliminated. She shook her head and tossed the target beside the others. “According to who?” She snapped back. “The sights on this piece of shit are off. I’ve about got it figured out, let’s go again.” “You want a different rifle?” he asked, waving toward the five other unoccupied stalls. “No,” she said sarcastically. “I already said I have this one figured out.” “Again,” she said as she nodded her head toward the gallery. He placed another target on the chain, secured it in place, and widened his eyes comically. “Ready?” She nodded her head. “Yep.” He flipped the switch. Again, she sprayed the target with B.B.s as fast as she was able. I stood and admired her choice of jeans, turquoise sneakers, and well-fitted top she wore, but above all, I admired her devotion. As the buzzer sounded, she slammed the rifle down on the edge of the counter and pointed at the target. “Let’s see that one,” she said, wagging her finger toward the target as she spoke. He reeled the target to the end of the chain and pulled it from the metal clip. “Sorry,” he said as he handed her the target. She studied the target at length. “Sorry what? Sorry you’ve got to give me the cat?” She handed him the target. “Have another look, Buddy.” I raised my hand to my mouth and tried to cover the grin on my face. It was apparent, even from

where I was standing, that she had won the prize. As she stood on her tip-toes and eyed the prize, she glanced over her left shoulder and grinned a prideful grin. In return, I lowered my hand and revealed my smile. He glanced down at the target, raised it over his head, and held it under the dim overhead lights. After a few long seconds of staring at it, he sighed heavily and pinned the target to the wall of fame. “Which one?” he asked. “You know which one,” she said as she nodded her head toward the stuffed cat. He pulled the striped cat from the overhead hook and handed it to her. “One prize per group per night. Have a nice time, folks.” She turned to face me, grinned, and shoved the cat into her purse. “That took longer than I expected.” “You could have given up an hour ago,” I said as I glanced at my watch. “Seriously? And give up? Uhhm, no. I would have stayed there until midnight if I had to,” she said. Good to know. “Pretty nice shooting, though,” I said. “I’m from Texas. Everyone in Texas knows how to shoot,” she said. I nodded my head in agreement. Texas was without a doubt the most gun friendly state I had even been in, that was for sure. “Your brother teach you?” I asked. She shook her head. “No, dad did. Our house used to be on the outside of town when I was a kid. The city kind of grew around us. But yeah, dad taught me. He taught all of us.” “Pronto Pups. Holy crap. When was the last time you had a Pronto Pup?” she asked as she pointed to the hot dog stand on our right. “Easy. Never,” I said. “You’ve never had a Pronto Pup?” she asked. “Nope.” “It’s a banquet on a stick,” she said, quoting from memory what was painted on the wooden sign displayed over the wooden structure.

“Not a part of your diet?” she asked. I chuckled. “Not exactly.” “Two Pronto Pups, please,” she said to the attendant. As he produced the two hot dogs on sticks, I reached for my wallet. She shook her head, reached in her purse, and paid for the hot dogs. “My treat. Your first, and probably last, Pronto Pup,” she said as she handed me one of the oversized corn dogs. I held the stick in my hand and stared down at the glob of fried cornmeal batter. “Mustard. You’ve got to put mustard on it,” she said as she squirted mustard along the length of the dog. I leaned to the side and did the same. In unison, we bit into our dogs, each widening our eyes toward the other as we attempted to fit the oversized Pup into our mouth. As I continued to eat the World Famous Since 1947 carnival favorite, I was slightly disappointed. Not in the Pronto Pup – because it was actually quite good – but because I knew that I was adamant in maintaining my diet, and realized this would likely be not only the first time – but the last time – I would ever eat one of the tasty treats. As I finished the snack and stared down at the stick – making sure there was no remaining fried batter to gnaw off – I paused and glanced up at Katie. With the sides of her mouth covered in mustard and her mouth curled into a smile, she stood and stared at me. “You’ve got mustard on your mouth,” I said. “And you’ve got nice teeth,” she said. I reached beside the condiments, grabbed a few napkins, and handed her one. “Thank you. I try to take care of myself, teeth included.” “Well, it shows. I’m guessing you liked it?” she asked as she tossed her stick and the mustardcovered napkin in the trash. “It was actually pretty good,” I admitted. “Stick around,” she said. “I’ll change your mind on a lot of things.” As much as I hated the thought of change in my life, I hoped she was right.

“What’s next?” she asked. “Ferris wheel,” I said. She grabbed her stomach. “Oh God.” “What?” I asked as I walked to her side. “Those things kind of make me queasy,” she said. “So…” “No,” she said. “I’ll do it. We’ll see how it goes. It’s been a long time.” A few minutes later, we were atop the Ferris wheel, sitting stationary, gazing back into the city we had driven from earlier. “I haven’t seen the city from this perspective. It looks peaceful and small,” she said. “That’s one of the reasons I like these things,” I said. She glanced over her shoulder. Although it was pitch black, and I was able to see very little, her blue eyes stood out in clear contrast to her tanned skin. After a few seconds of staring at each other silently, she grinned. “Why?” I felt like I had been awoken from a dream, and couldn’t immediately remember what we were talking about. I shook my head, feeling somewhat foolish for losing my train of thought. “Why do you like them?” she asked. I pried my eyes from hers and gazed out over the city as the wheel slowly began to turn, lowering us to our next stop. The city of almost 2,000,000 people seemed to be much smaller than the city of 400,000 I had recently moved from. The speeding traffic, busy highways, and overcrowded restaurants and bars were hidden by the distance, making the city seem rather unoccupied and peaceful. “Perspective. It lets me see things from a different perspective,” I said as I shifted my eyes to meet hers. As she gazed in my direction, waiting for me to continue, she tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. She was obviously more comfortable on the ride than she expected she would be. After gazing over her shoulder for a moment, she turned to face me again, and I continued. “It’s all too easy to be stuck in a certain mindset about something, and often we can’t convince ourselves to maintain an open mind. This lets me see the exact same thing from a different vantage point. It doesn’t change anything; it just provides a different point of view. It’s a great reminder to maintain an

open mind,” I said. “I like that. And, I like you. Let’s do this again,” she said. “The Ferris wheel?” I asked. She shook her head and grinned. “No, this,” she said as she waved her hand in a circle over her head. “Do something together.” And I couldn’t have agreed with her more.



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA My Saturdays during the summer months had been spent doing whatever the weather permitted, but almost always it was something outside. Now, the only difference was that Katie was present. My time with her was something I enjoyed immensely, and it didn’t seem to matter what it was we were doing, I found it to be pleasant. I quickly realized not only was she different than Suzanne, but that I found pleasure in doing things with her I would have never considered with Suzanne. After considerable thought, it was clear to me that what little time I spent with Suzanne was done more out of a feeling of necessity than out of desire. I spent time with her because she was my wife. Being with Katie wasn’t something that was expected of me, but it was exactly what I wanted. “Did you see that movie with Josh Brolin? The one where he found the case full of money?” she asked. We were hiking along the Colorado River northwest of the city, and the scenery was beautiful. The river had etched its way through the terrain hundreds of years before we arrived, through the solid rock formations, leaving a sheer rock cliff up one side of the river bank, and a shallow berm on the other. Both sides were lined with trees, rocks, and crevices that made the river perfect for hiking. I stepped over a large rock, stopped, and responded to what she had asked me. “I haven’t seen a lot of movies, except the recent ones. I’ve got about twelve years of catching up

to do. When did it come out?” I asked. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, maybe like six years ago. Dad has it on DVD.” “What’s it about?” I asked. Dressed in canvas shorts, hiking boots, and a loose-fitting tee shirt, she sat down on a rock ten feet away from where I stood. I stepped back and sat down on the one I had just stepped over. As she situated herself on the rock, I pulled off my pack, set it to the side, and pulled out a bottle of water. “Drink?” I asked. “Sure,” she said. I tossed the bottle into the air, and wondered as it began to fall if she was going to catch it or drop it. As it fell in the space in front of her, she reached out and caught it one-handed. “Impressive catch,” I said. “Thanks. It’s brutal out here, and I wanted a drink,” she said as she wiped her brow. “That it is,” I said. It was late in the summer, but unseasonably warm. I had yet to spend an entire summer in Austin, but from what I could see it was considerably warmer than Wichita. I gazed over my left shoulder and toward the drop-off to the river, admiring the deep blue color of the water. “Here,” she said as she tossed the bottle of water in my direction. Instead of tossing the bottle upward, she tossed it directly at me. Trying to catch it would have made a fool of me, so I rolled my shoulders back and let it slap against my chest. As it fell toward the ground, I reached down and caught it in my right hand. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen here,” she said with a laugh as she stuck her chest out. “These things are like huge pillows.” Katie was tall, probably five-foot ten or a little more, thin, and had an extremely large chest for her size. In believing she was probably self-conscious about her breasts, I had yet to mention them one way or another, and did my utmost not to ever stare. Apparently, however, the size of them was a subject she didn’t mind joking about. “Probably not. You’ll need to work on your hand-eye coordination. So what about the movie?” I asked as I unscrewed the lid from the bottle of water. “Okay, Josh Brolin. He plays a guy that’s maybe kind of like you. Maybe a little bit. The movie

didn’t say, but you get an idea that he’s former military. It starts out, and he’s out in the middle of nowhere hunting. He shoots an antelope, and while he’s tracking it in the scope of his rifle, he scans across a bunch of abandoned trucks and SUVs. And there’s dead guys all laying around,” she paused and stretched her arms wide. “So, he searches the vehicles and finds a ton of heroin. He leaves the dead men…wait…all but one is dead. So he leaves the dead men except for one who’s alive, and goes home. The next day he goes back and the almost dead guy is under a tree right beside the place where they were shot. He walks up to the guy, and now he’s dead, just like the others. And, he’s clutching a case with two million bucks in it. So he takes the money and leaves him there.” “So, before I tell you the rest of the story, would you take the money?” I didn’t even need to think about it. “Nope.” She narrowed her eyes. “Really?” “I live in a black and white world. It’s either right or it’s wrong. That’s stealing. It’s wrong. I guarantee you, that money was intended for someone, and they’d not only want it, but need it. Even if the reason behind it was dope, it’s part of the cycle of life for that group of people. And for that group of people, the money would buy more dope, which would eventually get more bad guys killed, and the cycle would continue until the end. But no, I wouldn’t take it,” I explained. “Wow,” she said. “I ask everyone. And so far, everyone I’ve asked would take it.” I found it interesting she would ask everyone such a question. Now it was my turn. “Would you?” I asked as I held the bottle of water up. She shook her head. “Oh hell no.” “Hell no on the water or hell no on the money?” I asked. “No on the water, and hell no on the money,” she said. “Why not?” I asked. “They’re all dead. Dead men don’t talk. It’d change your life.” She reached back with both hands and adjusted her ponytail as she glared at me. After shaking her head and satisfying herself it was as she wanted it to be, she responded. “Damned right it’d change my life. For the worse. Karma. Or whatever you want to call it. If you do bad stuff, bad things happen to you. If you do good things, good things happen to you. I’m not interested in doing bad, being bad, however you want to look at it,” she said.

“Good to know,” I said. “You know, in Baghdad there were several Marines who happened onto a lot of gold. I mean a lot. So, quite a few of them tried to ship it home in drums and boxes and however they could devise a way they thought would work. And every one of them got caught. Every damned one. And they were all sent to prison. Money makes people greedy. I’d much rather be poor and happy,” I said. “Same here,” she said. “I’m glad you said you wouldn’t take the money.” “I lead a simple life. You know what? As much as I’ve been through, and as much hatred and killing as I’ve seen, I still live every day happy. Some are tougher than others, but every day above ground is a good day,” I said. “I agree,” she said as she stood. “Are you ready?” I didn’t have to convince myself I enjoyed my time with Katie. For once, I felt that I was truly where I should be, and I didn’t have to worry about how I acted or reacted to situations. She seemed to accept me as I was, without explanations or excuses. It was refreshing to think a woman was interested enough in who I was to accept me without reservation. I shoved the bottle of water in the pack, pulled it over my shoulder, and stood from my rather comfortable rock. “You want to follow the river?” she asked as she pointed along the exposed edge of the cliff. “Sure,” I responded. As she began to walk along the rock formation I adjusted my pack. A few more steps toward her, and she froze. “Alec…” she whispered as she raised her hands in the air. “What?” “Rattlesnake,” she whispered. She no more than spoke, and I could hear the rattling of the snake’s tail. As far as we were from the truck, and as long as it would take for us to get to a hospital, the possibility of dying was pretty probable if one of us were bitten. Fuck. Standing behind her and with the snake in front of her, I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it, and it didn’t seem to be interested in going away. It wasn’t uncommon in the latter part of the summer when the

days began to shorten and the nights became cooler for rattlesnakes to lie on rocks and absorb the warmth. When startled, they coiled, raised their heads, and prepared to strike at whatever they thought was a threat. But in all actuality, the snake was just as scared as the human. “How close?” I asked as I began to quietly make a large sweeping circle around where she stood. “Five feet,” she whispered. “Don’t move,” I said as I walked around her. “Alec…” she whispered. “Don’t worry,” I said. As I walked past her, I saw the snake. Easily four or more feet long, it was one of the largest rattlesnakes I had ever seen. Coiled and prepared to strike, there was no doubt if it felt threatened any more than it already did, it could bite her from its current position. I circled around her, stepped behind it, and stood still. “Don’t move,” I whispered as I silently snapped a branch from the mesquite tree beside me. She nodded her head. One carefully placed step at a time, I approached the back of the snake, holding the stick in front of me for protection. When I was close enough to touch it, I lowered the tip of the branch onto the rock surface behind the snake’s back. I pressed the stick against the stone ledge, making a scraping sound with each stroke. The snake quickly turned toward me, coiled, and struck at the stick. “Walk away,” I said flatly as I continued to distract the snake. She turned and walked away, toward the rock where I was seated earlier. After taunting the snake for a few more seconds, I dropped the stick and walked toward her. Standing beside the rock staring down at the ground, it was obvious the encounter with the venomous snake had her rather upset. As I stepped in front of her, she reached out and wrapped her arms around me. I pulled her against me, held her tight, and I could feel her body trembling. I leaned back and pulled my chest away from her. Her eyes were fixed on the ground between us. Slowly, I reached out, lifted her chin, and gazed into her eyes. They were filled with fear, and it was genuine. Although I couldn’t always comfort those with fear-filled eyes I had seen in the past, there was

something I could do for her. It was something I wanted to do, but had not yet attempted. With our eyes locked on each other, I lowered my mouth to hers and kissed her. Her soft lips pressed against mine, kissing me fully, passionately, and perfectly. As we embraced, our hands fumbled to find the perfect place to land, each of us positioning them in a location making the kiss even more flawless than it already was. It was the first time I had kissed her, but it seemed to be my first kiss ever. Later, I decided it was. For that moment, it was the only kiss in my life that mattered, and I wanted it to never end. Throughout the embrace, she was slowly transforming me from a man with very little emotion into a man whose mind was opening into a sea of possibilities. If a simple kiss had the ability to allow a person to see the compatibility of a prospective partner – and I did believe that to be the case – it was immediately apparent Katie and I were not only compatible, but placed on this earth to be kissing one another. The kiss was long, passionate, and exactly what I felt I needed. When our lips eventually parted, she said two simple words. Simple, but more effective than anything else she could have said to convince me both of our lives were clearly in order. “Don’t stop,” she breathed. And I didn’t.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Late summer 2014, Austin, Texas, USA It had been a month since Katie and I started dating, and our time together was always enjoyable. Ripp and Shane shocked the family three-weeks prior, announcing simultaneously that their wives were pregnant. I couldn’t have been happier for either of them, and was excited for the day to come when their children arrived. In my opinion, no one was more excited than Katie’s father, who was having a hard time hiding not only his excitement, but his naturally protective nature of those he loved. He pulled his fork from his mouth and wagged it toward Ripp. “You need to give that woman some space, Mike. You’re crowding her. Inch over and give her some damned room.” I shifted my eyes toward Ripp. Sitting in his wife beater, covered in muscles, and littered from head to toe in tattoos, he probably didn’t appear to be a soon-to-be father by all of those who saw him, but I knew where his devotion lied. He lifted his head from the piece of chicken he was eating, glanced toward his father, and glared. “The table ain’t shrunk since we was all here last has it, Dekk?” Ripp asked as he stared at his father. Shane looked up from his plate. “Not that I know of.” “A-Train, table seem smaller to you?” he asked without shifting his eyes from his father.

My assigned position at the table had changed from being seated beside Ripp to across the table between Manda and Katie. I peered over the table toward him and shook my head. “Same size,” I responded. Still staring at his father, and his father steadily staring back, Ripp released his piece of chicken dramatically and tossed his hands into the air as his chicken fell to his plate. “How in the hell can I be crowdin’ her when we’re all sittin’ in the same spots we’ve always sat in, Pop?” he growled. “She needs more damned room,” his father growled in return. “She got one in the oven.” “It’s the size of a damned piece of rice,” Ripp said as he reached for his piece of chicken. “And Vee’s fine, aren’t you, Vee?” “I’ve got plenty of room,” she said. His father shook his head. “A piece of rice? Where in the Sam Hill do you get your information? That kid’s the size of a damned orange.” Ripp sighed loudly, lowered his piece of chicken from his mouth and let it dangle from his fingertips. “Internet, Pop. Maybe you heard of it.” “Oh, Lord. You can’t go believing everything you read on that damned interweb” he said as he glanced down at his plate and began to eat. “It’s true, Mr. Ripton. Rice baby. I’ve looked,” Kace said. Mr. Ripton raised his head, turned toward Kace, and lowered his chin. “Is that a fact? Never would have guessed it.” Ripp glanced at Kace, shook his head, and shifted his eyes to his father. “So Kace says it and it’s a fact. I say it and I’m an idiot?” Ripp howled. “You are an idiot. Rice baby or not, you’re a damned fool, Mike. Now, eat your chicken,” his father said with a gesture from the tip of his fork. “Don’t call Michael an idiot, it isn’t nice,” Mrs. Ripton said. I grinned and glanced around the table. Everyone in attendance acted as if this was typical, and from what I had seen of the dinners at the Ripton residence, it was quite normal for the family to act in the manner they were acting. Vee rarely spoke unless spoken to, and Shane never said a word unless asked a question or paying Mrs. Ripton a compliment on the food. Manda, Ripp and Katie’s sister, seemed to have

a hidden agenda, and attended the meals only to eat, never saying a word one way or another. Ripp cleaned the meat from the bone he was chewing on and tossed it aside. “You need to treat everyone at this table the same, Pop.” “I do,” his father said without glancing up from his meal. “Don’t either,” Ripp responded. “I said rice baby, and I’m a damned fool. Kace said rice baby and you said is that a fact. Be fair. I’m not a damned fool, and stop calling me one. I’m excited about this baby.” “So am I, Michael,” his mother said. “So am I,” his father said with a hint of love in his eyes. “But you’re a damned fool, baby or no baby. And I call ‘em as I see ‘em.” “Like a fuckin’ umpire, now, huh? Now you’re a god damned umpire, callin’ ‘em like you see ‘em?” Ripp snarled playfully. Katie gripped my leg slightly above my knee and squeezed, causing me to jump, hitting my leg on the bottom of the table. “Michael Allen. Not. At. The. Table,” his mother said as she looked up from her meal. “Sorry, Ma,” Ripp said. Kace turned toward Ripp and cleared her throat to get his attention. “If we’re treating everyone the same, why do you always say Shane is kissing your mother’s rear end when he compliments her on the meal, and you never say the same to Alec?” Ripp turned toward her and furrowed his brow. “Dekk’s the all-time biggest ass kisser ever. ATrain’s just sayin’ when he likes something. It’s different,” Ripp explained. “Nicknames, Michael,” his mother said. “I can’t win,” he said. Ripp reached for the platter of chicken. After digging through the platter and tossing each piece of chicken to the side without actually taking a piece, his father looked up, tilted his head to the side, and widened his eyes. Still tossing pieces of chicken left and right as if looking for the perfect piece, Ripp didn’t notice his father’s glare. “What in the hell are you doing, fingerin’ all the damned chicken? Nobody’s going to eat it now, who knows where those damned hands have been?” his father snarled.

“I know where they been, and they’re clean,” Ripp said without looking up. Ripp turned toward his mother. “You buy breastless chickens, Ma?” She shook her head. “Two per chicken, just like always.” “No extras?” he asked. She shook her head. “It was before the football game, and they were out.” He pushed his chair from the table and crossed his arms in front of his chest, like a child throwing a fit. After a few long seconds of no one caring about his act of defiance, he cleared his throat. “Where the hell did you go?” “HEB, just like always,” she said. “Eat a damned thigh,” his father said, pointing to the platter of chicken with his fork. “Thighs are good.” “I ain’t looking to get fat just because Vee’s gonna get fat,” he said. Oh shit. “Excuse me?” Vee said. “I’m pregnant. I’m not getting fat, I’m giving birth.” Vee had a dark complexion, had dark hair, and was what I would guess to be Italian. She was all of a size two at the absolute most. If she doubled in size she wouldn’t be the size of one of Ripp’s thighs. “Well, you know what I mean,” he said. “I’m done. I’m full. Food was good, Ma.” “Thank you Michael,” his mother said. “We’re going to have to get out another leaf for this table when those grandkids get here,” Mr. Ripton said as he glanced around the table. As our eyes met, I nodded my head in agreement. “So, Alec. You like kids?” his father asked. “Yes, Sir. I love ‘em. They’re our future, and there’s not a thing on this earth more innocent and eager to absorb all we’re willing to offer them. I look at a child as our opportunity to right the future wrongs of this earth – in how we raise them and the values we instill in them,” I said. He nodded his head and grinned.

“I like that. Be a lot of fixin’ right here though,” he said as he wagged his fork toward Ripp. Ripp shook his head, stood, and stomped to the kitchen with his plate full of bones. “Good answer,” Katie whispered. “No secrets at the dinner table,” Mrs. Ripton said. Katie squeezed my leg again, causing me to jump slightly, but not as much as before. “I said it was a good answer. I didn’t think the table needed to hear me,” she said. After a shallow breath, she tilted her head back slightly and shouted. “Good answer!” “There, now everyone knows,” she said as she pushed herself from the table. Eating dinner at the Ripton residence was nothing short of a three-ring circus. “Are you finished?” she asked as she reached for my plate. I nodded my head and handed her my plate. As she walked away, I realized little by little she was coming out of her shell. Be it because she was more comfortable with me, letting go of her past, or that we were simply making progress in our relationship, I didn’t care. One Sunday dinner at a time, I was becoming human again. And so was she.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Fall 2014, Austin, Texas, USA Several months into Kace’s pregnancy and Shane disappeared. For those who didn’t know Shane, maybe it wouldn’t have seemed at all a shock or out of character. For me, however, I knew something was terribly wrong, so I went to his home and talked with Kace at length about his disappearance. “So, the doctors did that test, you know, the amnio deal, and they said our baby was probably going to be special needs,” she said. “How’d he take it?” I asked. She shook her head and tossed her hands in the air. I nodded my head and reached for my glass of tea. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I know sorry doesn’t fix things, but it’s out of our control, you know? This is all God’s will. So, did you two discuss it?” She shook her head. “He clammed up, Alec. He wouldn’t talk. He freaked out. I just thought he needed some space, but then he was gone. He hasn’t talked to Ripp or Kelsey or anyone. And he’s

supposed to be getting ready for that fight. I swear, when he does come home…” “I’ll find him,” I said. “How?” she asked. “I have my ways,” I said. “Kick his ass, Alec. I mean it. You know, everyone thinks he’s so nice, and this? This is bullshit. Who leaves their pregnant wife? Who?” she asked. Someone who’s scared, that’s who. “I don’t know,” I said. Kace was a saint. She was barely five-foot tall, a blonde, and more full of spunk than any other woman I had ever met. Her husband, six-foot two and 200 pounds of undefeated professional boxer, was no match for her. She would challenge him in a moment, and argue with him until she was blue in the face if it was something she believed in. For Shane to leave her at such a time was absolutely unforgivable, but I fully understood. His reasoning for doing so was similar to my reasoning for keeping my distance from my father. The space that separated Shane and Kace prevented him from dealing with the issues in life he took exception to. But a man can’t hide forever. Sooner or later, we’re all forced to face reality whether we like it or not. It’s only a matter of time. I stood from my seat. “Well, thanks for taking the time to talk. I’ll be in touch.” She stood and waddled to my side. After a heavy sigh and kicking one of the pillows across the floor, she gave me a hug. “I meant it about kicking his ass,” she said as I walked toward the door. “We’ll see,” I said. I had yet to meet a man I was scared of. If push came to shove, I’d fight Shane over this, but I sure didn’t want to. First, I had to find him. ***

The entire thought of Shane leaving Kace, their child potentially being born with special needs, and not having the best of luck finding him, and I went to Mr. Ripton and requested my cigarettes back. Six days, half a pack of cigarettes, and 600 miles after talking to Kace, and I rolled into the parking lot of a shitty little diner in Anthony, New Mexico. Spitting distance from the Mexican border, and miles from any real civilization, Anthony was a small town of 9,000 people and a step into yesteryear, with half of the residents still riding horses. As I pulled my motorcycle alongside Shane’s filthy Harley, I peered through the glass and caught a glimpse of him sitting at a booth facing the lot. I wanted to walk in, grab him by his thick hair, and drag his ass back to Austin. After smoking two long drags off the cigarette, I put it out, and placed the butt in my shirt pocket alongside the others. “You might need a lesson or two in how to hide, Dekk,” I said as I walked into the diner. He gazed back at me as if I were a ghost. “I won’t even ask.” I walked to the edge of his booth, pointed to the empty side of the seat and waited. After a nod of his head, I sat down. “In the future, you need to use cash. That debit card of yours is like a flashing beacon of fucking light.” I said. Without speaking, he pulled his hood over his head. I glanced around the diner, then fixed my eyes on Shane. “I’m going to tell you a story. Say my peace, so to speak. When I’m done I’m going to walk outside and smoke another cigarette then ride out of here. I hate shitty little dusty towns like this. They remind me of places I’m trying to forget about.” I glanced out the window at the dust blowing down the street in front of the restaurant. “You know, if God was going to give the world an enema, he’d more than likely stick the tube in this shitty little town.” “When I leave you can either head out with me or stay here, I don’t care either way,” I said as I pointed toward a full cup of coffee on my side of the table. He nodded his head toward the cup. I took a drink from the cup of coffee, and considered the analogy I was prepared to share with him. After another sip of the luke-warm java I began. “During my first tour, we were looking for al-Zawahiri. Hell, we were searching for a lot of al-

Qaeda officials, but at this point in time, he was our target. We received intel on where he was and why he was there. It seems he was having a summit meeting of sorts with every other high ranking Islamic militant within a three-hundred-mile radius. Without a doubt, on this particular night, we were going to bag this shit-bird and bring the war to a screeching halt. At least that’s what we were told.” He sat and stared, his hood pulled over his head to a point I could barely see his eyes. A complete meal sat on a plate in front of him. Apparently, I had stumbled onto him during his morning breakfast. I tossed my head toward his plate. “Go ahead and eat, this is going to take a minute.” “So, based on this intel, they assembled a handful of us; three Marines, and seven or so SEALS. They indicated al-Zawahiri had gone into some shit-hole home earlier on this particular day, and he hadn’t come out. Hell, from what they said, no one came in or out after he arrived. It seemed his little meeting was underway, and all we had to do was get there before he left,” I pause and removed a cigarette from the pack. As I chewed on the end of the unlit cigarette, I continued. “Now this being my first tour, I didn’t have much experience – and none in extraction to speak of – only training. All the brass wanted him alive if possible, so they’d preached protocol and rules of engagement to us all fucking day. We all sat around and waited for the cover of darkness while we planned what we were going to do. You know, studying the chicken-shit map they’d given us showing the supposed layout of the home, cleaning our weapons, and talking about how we were going to get this prick.” “So, it’s zero dark fucking thirty, and we’re all waiting. About oh two thirty they round us up, take us as close as they can get us, tell us good luck and god fucking speed. We surround the front of this little mud hut and blow the door off this place, toss in a few flash-bangs, and in we go,” I paused and recalled the night of the raid, and what a cluster-fuck it ended up being. “Needless to say, I’m as nervous as a fucking whore in church service. I’ve got diarrhea, my stomach is all fucked up, my head’s full of all kinds of thoughts on what may happen to me or to someone else, and what I’m going to do when it does. I’d gone over every possible god damned scenario based on the intel we have and who’s supposedly in this shit-hole. You see Dekk, men are just that; men. And men make mistakes. A man will give you an opinion, and portray it as an absolute fact. If you’re either gullible enough or dumb enough to believe him, you then make a life changing decision based on the inaccuracies of his beliefs.” I gazed out into the parking lot, stared at our two motorcycles for a moment, and turned to face Dekk. “And you see, Dekk. It’s just that. It’s an opinion. It’ll never be any more or any less. If I had all of the lives we lost based on one man’s opinion of what was sure not to happen, I could fill this fucking diner with good god damned Marines. But I can’t, because they’re all fucking dead.”

“The opposite happened on this particular night. The shit-hole home was empty. No hidden exit. No tunnels. No way out except the doors which were in full view. And we had eyes on every fucking corner of this place. And after an assurance he and his band of merry men walked in and never came out – we went in after him. I was mad as fuck. Let down, depressed, and I felt kind of betrayed. They were wrong Dekk. They’re wrong more than they’re right. You know why? Because they’re fucking human and they gave their opinion.” “You see,” I said. “If we’re forced to make a decision that has the potential to have a profound effect on our life, and it’s based on the opinion of one man, we must weigh the legitimacy of the man in question. And in my humble opinion, if the man in question is not God, his opinion is nothing more than an educated guess.” He pulled the hood from his head and stared. After a few seconds, his face washed with what I would have guessed to be shame. I said all I came to say, and I hoped my little speech was enough to convince him to come home. As he gazed at me blankly, I stood, flipped the cigarette into my mouth, and nodded my head. “I’m going to go burn this. I’ve been chewing on it for too damned long. Come out and join me?” He nodded his head and stood from his seat. I walked to my bike, lit the cigarette, and waited for him to come outside. Half-way into my four puff limit, and he was standing in front of me with a blank look on his face. “So, you riding out with me?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I just…” I shifted my eyes to meet his and glared. “You just what?” The more I studied him the angrier I became. I tossed the cigarette on the ground beside the motorcycle, stepped on it, and stepped in front of him. “You wanna give me your honest opinion as to whether or not you think you can whip my ass?” I asked. His eyes widened. “Excuse me?” I spread my feet shoulder width apart, and tugged against the thighs of my jeans. “You heard me.” His eyes fell to my feet, back up to my face, and narrowed. I needed to make another point, and I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Desperate times, however… “I have an opinion you won’t get one punch to make contact. Not a fucking one. You know why?

Because you’re a washed up piece of overweight shit who’s scared to fight for the title fight. You’re scared to be amongst your friends, and scared like a little bitch you might have to become a man and raise a child who doesn’t fall within the limits what you perceive as perfect,” I said as I raised my hands in preparation of what was sure to come. I would give anything to have a relationship with a woman and have a child. If God so chose to have that child be born with special needs, so be it. I’d welcome him into the earth with all of the love, care, and hope for a future that he or she deserved. For Shane to run from his responsibilities made my temper flare to a point I really didn’t care if I had to fight him to make my point. As he stood and glared at me, I continued. “Did I hit a nerve? You afraid if you and Kace raise a special needs child someone might eventually call him a retard?” His eyes narrowed and the muscles in his jaw flared. Good, it’s working. “You’d get mad if they called your little boy a fucking retard. Huh Dekk? Your little retard boy?” I asked, attempting to lure him into a fight. His right hand twitched, and I swung my left arm upward in anticipation for one of his signature heavyweight right hooks. As I stepped into the punch, allowing his arm to go under my armpit, I turned, pulled my knife, and held it to his throat. I chuckled a light laugh and pressed the knife to his throat. “You see Dekk, you threw the punch under the opinion you were going to teach me a lesson. But here’s the thing. I made those comments about your child knowing – absolutely knowing – I had to do so to make my point. You swung because you’re going to defend your child regardless. Special needs or not, he’s yours. Subconsciously, you’re already committed to him being your son. And you’re his father. You’re just fucking scared. And there’s nothing to be afraid of.” I pressed the knife with slightly more force, just to make sure he was paying attention. “That doctor gave you his fucking opinion based on the amnio test they performed. He told you the kid might have some chromosomal disorder. He said he could be born with Down Syndrome, and you fucking disappeared. Well, I got news for you. My nephew is special needs. More specifically, he has Down Syndrome. And he’s one of the best damned people you’ll ever meet. Ever,” I growled. “You see; special needs are nothing more than that. He has needs that are special. It doesn’t mean he isn’t deserving of anything and everything that every other person on this earth is deserving of. It only

means he has a few needs unique to him – and they’re described as special. Special. You know the definition of special?” I asked as I released my grasp and pushed him to the side. He stood with swollen tear-filled eyes and stared. “Better or more important than others,” I said as I pushed the knife into the pocket of my jeans. Without speaking, he began to softly cry. “I didn’t mean a word I said about your child, Dekk. I was making a point, you need to know that,” I said. He nodded his head. “Now, you know what we’re gonna do?” I asked as I patted him on the shoulder. “We’re going to get on our sleds and ride to Austin. You’re going to apologize to Kace, Ripp, Vee, Austin, the old man, and everyone else who’s been worried about you. I could give two shits whether or not you’re going to fight for the championship, makes no difference to me. But you’re going to support Kace through this. And the day will come when your little boy will be born. And every fucking one of us will love him – because he’s part of you, and he’s part of Kace. Now, you ready to ride or you want me to wad you up into another ball and cut you this time?” I asked as I bent down and picked up the cigarette butt. “A-Train?” he asked. I stood and shoved the cigarette into my pocket. “What is it, Brother?” “I’m scared,” he said. I nodded my head. “Been there plenty of times, Dekk. Generally, I’ll ask the man upstairs for spoon full of courage.” He bit into his lower lip and nodded his head. “You know what? He hasn’t let me down yet,” I said as I wrapped my arms around him. I held him in my arms until he finally stopped crying. After I released him he gazed down at the ground for a long moment. While clearing his throat, he glanced up with swollen eyes. “Let’s ride,” he said. “You lead the way, Brother,” I said. “I’ve got your back.”

And, little did he know it, but I had the back of his unborn son, too.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Fall 2014, Austin, Texas, USA The soon to be births of the children of my best friends put a damper on the feeling of necessity to start a new chapter for our motorcycle club. Although Shane, Ripp, and I enjoyed riding our motorcycles together, I felt no real desire or benefit in devoting any amount of time to the idea. In recent months I was happier than I could ever remember being. I was slowly seeing a side of myself I had never seen, and was quite pleased with the transformation. Still much the Marine I had always been, I was evolving nonetheless into a man with different desires, feelings, and hopes. I realized my former relationship was not necessarily a relationship at all – only a person to unwind with after each deployment. My entire adult life had been spent at war, and my time with Suzanne had been roughly one month a year – most of which I spent recovering from the horrors of battle. Now spending time with a woman for all of the right reasons, life seemed so much different. Sitting at the bar with Shane and Ripp, however, reminded me some things were likely to never change. “I can’t fuckin’ wait for this kid, Dekk. I been goin’ to the store, and when I go, I’m eyballin’ the aisles with kid shit in ‘em instead of the aisles with guns and fishin’ poles. Who’d a thought that?” Ripp said as he tipped up his bottle of beer. Dekk shrugged his shoulders and grinned. “Not me.” “Hell, Ripp, I might be more excited about these two kids than both of you combined. I’m fucking

giddy,” I said. Ripp wrinkled his nose and lowered his bottle of beer. “Giddy?” “That’s what I said,” I said. He shook his head, glanced at Dekk as if seeking support, and upon getting nothing in return, turned to face me. “High school girls are giddy.” I cocked my head to the side and widened my eyes. “Add me to the list.” “You alright, Bro?” he asked. “Quite,” I said. “Sister of mine’s got you all fucked up. Shit before long you two’ll have a kid of your own,” he said. “Not yet,” I said. “Better be careful. Knock her up and Pop’ll make you get married,” he said. “Don’t have to worry about that,” I said as I reached for my bottle of beer. “Ain’t shootin’ blanks, are ya?” he asked. I coughed a laugh. “No, as far as I know my ammunition’s fine. We’d have to have sex first. That’s what I meant.” He leaned forward and pressed his forearms onto the edge of the table. As he fixed his eyes on mine, he cocked one eyebrow and cleared his throat. “Couple a months and you two ain’t fuckin’?” Normally such a question would have been rewarded with an escorted trip to the parking lot or a punch in the face. As Katie was his sister, and he really meant no disrespect, I decided I would allow it. “Listen. Most men ask questions after a guy dates a girl for a while like have you fucked her yet? Or is she good pussy? I don’t ask those questions, and I don’t appreciate them asked of me. Those things aren’t my reason for being with her. If they’re meant to be, they’ll happen. If they’re not, they won’t. But when they do,” I paused and reached for my beer. I took a long drink, placed the bottle to the side, and leaned onto the edge of the table. As he met my gaze, I locked eyes with him. “It’ll be between Katie and me,” I said. After a few seconds of our eyes being locked, he leaned back in his seat and grinned. “Fair

enough. It’s nice knowing you ain’t takin’ advantage of my sis.” I nodded once and reached for my beer. Ripp twisted in his seat for a moment as if uncomfortable, drank the rest of his beer, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. As he rubbed his hands together, he fixed his eyes on mine. “What?” I asked. “You whack off all the time, don’t you?” he asked. Dekk choked on his turkey sandwich and I let out a long belly laugh. “No, actually I don’t,” I said. “Shit. I whack off while I’m getttin’ ready to have sex. Sometimes after,” he said as he leaned into the back of his seat. “Good to know,” I said with a laugh. “You know why I like it so much?” he asked as he pointed at Dekk. “Don’t answer, Dekk. Dekk knows, and I don’t want him spoilin’ it.” “Wasn’t planning on it,” Dekk said. There wasn’t anything to spoil. I didn’t give a half-ounce of fucks why he whacked off as much as he did. But, as much as I fought against it, my mouth curled into a smile. “Why?” “Because the whole fuckin’ time, I’m in control. Speed. Passion. All of it,” he said. Passionate masturbation? I stared at him in disbelief. “Passion?” “Yep,” he said as he waved his hand at the waitress. “I can make it rough sex, passionate, slow and easy, fast and light, fast and rough, hell the possibilities are endless.” I shook my head and laughed. “Well, I choose to exercise more control than that. Keeps me strong, alert, and more passionate about relationships.” He tossed his head toward Shane. “Sound like Dekk, now. He ain’t much for whackin’ off either.” “What can I get for you?” the waitress asked. “Two things,” Ripp responded. “Bring us a glass of water, and two more beers.”

“Is that it?” she asked. “No,” Ripp said. “I said there was two, that’s one. Here’s the other. I got a question.” She placed her hand on her hip and glanced at each of us individually. “Okay.” “Who here has the most self-control?” he asked. Without shifting her eyes away from him, she responded. “Those two. Probably a dead tie. My guess is you’ve got none.” “Seriously?” he asked. “Yeah, seriously,” she responded. “Is that it?” “Yeah,” he said. “That’s it.” “Sharp girl,” I said. “Is it that obvious?” he asked. “Just as well have it tattooed on your forehead,” Dekk said. Ripp shifted his focus to Dekk, and glared. “Shut it, Dekk. You ain’t got that much self-control. You beat the fuck out of people for a living.” “So do you,” Dekk responded. Sitting at the bar with Ripp and Shane wasn’t much different than being at Sunday dinner. It was anyone’s guess what the topic of discussion would be, and there was never a doubt that Ripp would be the center of attention. He didn’t do it out of necessity or desire, it was just that he was a very outspoken person with very little tact. “Whatever, Dekk,” Ripp said with a wave of his hand. “Back to the original subject,” I said. “I’m pretty excited about this kid thing. And if anybody needs a babysitter, I’m your guy.” “No shit?” Ripp said. I nodded my head. “I’m serious. I love kids.” “Know anything about ‘em?” he asked. “Damn bit more than you, if I was forced to guess,” I said with a laugh. “Ain’t never had any though, huh?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, not yet.” “Got any nephews or nieces?” he asked. I had never been a man to lie, and now wasn’t the time to start. In some respects, I led myself into the question and needed to answer it, but I sat staring at my bottle of beer trying to decide just how to answer it without answering it in full. “My sister had a little boy. I haven’t seen him in years,” I said. “Must not like ‘em too much,” he said. Now I have to answer…. “Actually, I do. She put him up for adoption. I don’t have any right to see him any longer.” I said. “Long story.” It wasn’t a subject I liked to discuss with anyone, and it was the reason I hadn’t spoken to my father – or my sister – in so many years. In front of Shane, who I had already shared my nephew being a special needs child, I hated to bring up the subject. Although we hadn’t discussed the matter since I went to New Mexico and brought him home, I could only guess that he still struggled with the subject. “Sorry to hear it, Brother,” Ripp said. “Not as sorry as I am to say it,” I said. “It makes me sick.” And truer words had never been spoken.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Early Winter 2014, Austin, Texas, USA Life, at least for me, had always been full of surprises. To say that things happen when they’re least expected would be the understatement of a lifetime. Although Vee was further along than Kace in her pregnancy, Kace gave birth first, a little prematurely. I received a text message and multiple calls from both Shane and Ripp, but I was out for a ride on my motorcycle and didn’t see them until I stopped for gas. The ninety miles I rode from south of the city passed in less than an hour, and I came to a screeching halt beside the entrance of the hospital. After parking my motorcycle on the edge of sidewalk leading to the hospital, I rushed through the door and to the receptionist desk. “Dekkar. Childbirth, they’ve moved them. I need the room number, please,” I said. “Spell the name,” she receptionist said. “D. E. K. K. A. R. Dekkar,” I said excitedly. She pecked at the keys, stared at the monitor, and glanced up. “Room 724. Down the hall, on the elevator on the left, and up to seven. It’s on the right.” “Do you have a flower shop?” I asked. “Right down the hall, on the way to the elevator. Third door on the left,” she said.

I chose the perfect bouquet of flowers and ran down the hall to the elevator. As the door opened on the seventh floor, I clutched the flowers, gazed down at the toes of my boots, and exhaled. I calmly walked down the hallway, glancing at each of the numbers until I reached their room. 724. I rubbed the palms of my hands against the thighs of my jeans and took a deep breath. On the other side of the door I could hear Ripp’s voice over everything else. Another deep breath, and I pushed the door open. “Uncle A-Train is here,” I whispered as I walked into the room. Kace’s hair was an absolute mess, and she looked exhausted. Shane looked equally worn out, but was smiling from ear to ear. Ripp, dressed in his typical shorts, wife beater, and Chucks despite the fact it was winter, and Vee was wearing cotton pregnancy pants, a cute black top, and flats. As I walked into the room, Kace’s eyes shifted to the flowers I held, and she forced a slight smile as she tried to sit up. “These are for you,” I said as I leaned over the edge of the bed and kissed her cheek. I placed the vase of flowers on the table beside the bed. “Fellas,” I said as I nodded my head toward Shane and Ripp. “Congratulations,” I said as I shook Shane’s hand. “Thank you,” he said. I did my best to contain my excitement, but it didn’t last long. Beside the far side of the bed a bassinet sat with a heat lamp over it. I craned my neck and did my best to peer inside, but from the end of the bed I could see nothing. I tossed my head toward the side of the bed as I edged my way past Ripp. “Can I hold…” My throat constricted and my mouth went completely dry. It was much tougher than I imagined it would be. I wedged myself between the edge of the bed and the small bed the baby was sleeping in. I glanced at Shane, shifted my eyes toward Kace, and met her gaze. She nodded her head and grinned. I peered into the bassinet. Innocently sleeping and undoubtedly developing into a man with each passing second, he was much smaller than I remembered my first nephew being. After admiring him for a few seconds, my eyes began to well with tears.

“Don’t worry, Alec. You won’t break him,” I heard Kace say from behind me. I turned away from the bassinet and faced the bathroom. “My hands. I need to wash my hands.” I walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and stared down at my boots as I washed my hands. After more than a decade of experiencing my fair share of death, embracing a new life being introduced to the earth was almost more than I could stand to witness. I dried my hands, inhaled a shallow breath, and stared blankly into the mirror. I couldn’t let this nephew escape me. You keep him healthy, Lord, and I’ll keep him safe. I reached for the door, pulled it open, and paused. Thank you. “Good to go,” I said as I raised my hands in the air. I quietly walked to the bassinet, reached inside, and carefully picked up my nephew. Ripp continued to tell a story, Shane argued about the size of the man Ripp had challenged to a fight, and Kace quietly laughed. For me, the room fell silent. I gazed down at the child cradled in my arms and couldn’t help but smile. A new life. Another chance for someone to grow into the next person to make a difference on earth. Potentially the future President of the United States, a doctor who may cure cancer, or possibly the man who just might convince the world to live in peace. I turned away from the crowd, began to hum him a tune, and allowed a tear to roll down my cheek. And for that moment, as I held my sleeping nephew in my arms, nothing else mattered.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Early Winter 2014, Austin, Texas, USA “Do you have anything in white gold? I’ve never much cared for yellow gold,” I said as I gazed at the display of jewelry he had placed in front of me. “We certainly do, it’s one case over, follow me,” he said as he reached for the jewelry. After securing the bracelets in the display I followed him to the next case, peered down at the jewelry, and grinned. They were exactly what I had in mind. The thought of giving Katie a gift she could enjoy for a lifetime was exciting to me, and although I realized life offered no assurances, I had no reason to believe we wouldn’t be spending the rest of our lives together. “Here are three that are my personal favorites,” he said as he placed three velvet-lined boxes on the glass surface. I picked up the one in the center, studied it, and slid the box to the side. The diamonds were larger, had better clarity, and the bracelet appeared to be of slightly better quality than the others. “These are custom, correct?” “That is correct, our jeweler hand-crafts them all,” he said with a nod. “That particular piece is 8 carats total weight. The stones are VS1 clarity and E color. We have less expensive pieces, but we do not have a better quality. If cost is something you’re concerned with…” I found it unnerving that because of how I was dressed and that I rode in on a Harley he would

find me less capable to purchase his jewelry than anyone else who would happen into his store. “Did I mention cost?” I asked. “No, Sir. You did not,” he said. “I’ll take this one,” I said as I placed my hand over the bracelet I had set to the side. I watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall as his eyes shifted downward and recognized which one I had chosen. “That particular piece is $21,000. There will be state tax added, increasing the total to $21,650,” he said flatly. “Put the others back in the case, I’ll take it. Do you take cash?” I asked. He swallowed heavily again. “We certainly do.” I nodded my head and lowered the pack from my shoulders. After checking over each shoulder and determining the store was still empty, I carefully lifted the pack to the counter. I wanted Katie to have something that would act as a constant reminder of my presence in her life, and it’s been said diamonds are forever. Nothing would make me happier than to see her pleasure from a gift I had chosen for her. “Safe to count it here?” I asked. He glanced over his shoulder, flipped a switch on the wall, and nodded his head. “Yes, it is.” I counted 217 one-hundred dollar bills, placed them on the counter, and after his recounting and totaling the amount, he gave me fifty-dollars change. “Would you like me to gift wrap it?” he asked. I reached into my pack and removed a hand towel I had brought with me. “No, Sir. I’ll take care of that myself.” After wrapping the box in the towel and placing it in my pack, I zipped the pack up. “All secure?” he asked. I pulled the pack over my shoulder. “Couldn’t be safer if it was in Fort Knox.” He reached to the side and flipped the switch, deactivating the electronic door lock. “You’re free to browse the store if you like, or the door’s unlocked whenever you’re ready.” “Appreciate it,” I said over my shoulder. “My pleasure,” he said. “Glad we could be of service.”

I pushed the door open, paused, and turned to face the store. “Do you make custom rings as well?” “We certainly do,” he said with a smile. I nodded my head and turned away. Good to know. If things keep going my way, I may need one here pretty soon.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Early Winter 2014, Austin, Texas, USA In Katie’s presence, the events of my day disappeared, regardless of what they might be. I found her to be cleansing to me, and each time we were together I felt myself becoming a fractionally better man that I was when we saw each other last. Our time together seemed to pass quickly, and I couldn’t get enough exposure to her no matter how frequently I was able to see her. While we were in each other’s arms or embraced in a kiss, my watch seemed to spin at a much slower pace; allowing me to always enjoy our intimacy for what I perceived as a longer period of time. I positioned the steak on the plate beside the grilled vegetables and placed the small bowl of peaches to the side. As I carefully lifted a portion of the salad from the bowl to the plate, she shouted from the other room. “You sure you don’t want me to help?” she asked from the other room. “Just about done. Be there in just a minute,” I responded. “But you don’t want any help?” she asked. “Sure don’t,” I said. “Just sit still.” “Preparing her a meal was more enjoyable than I ever would have imagined. Making something I hoped she would enjoy with my own hands gave me a sense of accomplishment I couldn’t recall ever

feeling. If it happened that she actually enjoyed eating it as much as I enjoyed preparing it, I would be an extremely happy man. I lifted the plates from the counter and carefully walked to the dining room. “Viola,” I said as I lowered her plate to the table. “Wow,” she said. “It looks great.” “Unless you got the wrong plate, your steak should be medium-well. Mine’s medium-rare, so if you cut into it and it’s wrong, hand it over,” I said as I sat down. “Believe me, I will,” she said with a laugh. “Peaches?” she asked as she poked the peach with her fork. “It’s dessert, but I kind of had to do it at the same time on the grille. I was about out of gas. They’re grilled with brown sugar sprinkled on them,” I said as I motioned toward her plate. “Well, it looks great,” she said. “I’ve got the right steak,” she said as she lifted a piece of the meat to her mouth. “That’s good, because I don’t think I could eat a piece of medium-well steak, even if I tried,” I said. “It seems like it’s still almost alive,” she said. “I don’t get it.” I shrugged my shoulders as I poked my fork into my salad. “Maybe it’s a man thing.” “I think so,” she said. “And it’s got something to do with life, death, and everything in between.” I’d never looked at it that way, but she had a good point. Men eating their steaks half-raw could very well have to do with something primal within us. As I cut into my meat and the little remaining blood ran onto the plate, I decided she was right. We enjoyed our meal, and the peaches – as I had hoped – were a huge success. “These peaches are good,” she said as she shoveled them into her mouth. “I’m glad you like them,” I said. “I don’t like them, I love them. I’m going to have to tell mom about them. You just grilled them?” she asked. “That’s it. I bought ‘em fresh at the store, cut ‘em in quarters, and grilled them until they were slightly soft. Then I just sprinkled the brown sugar on them,” I said.

“Well, they’re great,” she said. “And this entire thing,” she said as she waved her hand toward the table. “It’s just. I don’t know. It’s too much.” “It’s dinner. It’s a necessary part of the day,” I said as I poked my last peach with the tines of my fork. “Well, most guys don’t do things like this,” she said. Well, maybe they should. I looked up from my plate to see her gazing into the small bowl hoping to find a peach that didn’t exist. Finally, after she realized they were truly gone, she sat up straight and exhaled a sigh of frustration. To anyone else she probably appeared no differently than she did on any other day. To me, she seemed to be more beautiful than ever. I didn’t look at her with eyes more capable of seeing, or with a mind more open that it had ever been in the past, but she was truly different. I sat and admired her until she met my gaze. As she returned my smile and brushed her hair over her ears, I raised my fork and offered her my peach. “It’s not the last one is it?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Last one in the house. I cooked them all.” “I don’t want to take your last one, you eat it,” she said. I shook my head and wiggled my fork slightly, careful to keep the beloved peach from falling to the table. “I want you to have it” I said. “Share?” she asked. “Sure,” I said as I reached over the table and handed her my fork. I fully expected her to eat half the peach and hand me the fork in return. Instead, she lifted the fork to her mouth, bit into the peach, and pulled it from the tine. With the peach half in her mouth and half out, she leaned over the table. Without speaking, our mouths met. The sugar-coated peach was nothing compared to the sweet kiss of her lips, something I seemed to yearn for from the very moment our last kiss ended. Resting on my elbows and hovering over the center of the table, I kissed her fully and passionately, while the sweet taste of the peach lingered throughout the length of the kiss. Long after the

taste of the peach was gone, she broke the embrace. I opened my eyes and gazed in her direction. She tilted her head, stared up at the ceiling, and mumbled to herself as I lowered myself into my chair. “What?” I asked. “I don’t want this to end,” she said. I shook my head. “It won’t.” “You make my stomach go crazy each time you kiss me. It’s just too good to be true,” she said. “I think that’s just what happens when two people are really meant to be together,” I said. I truly believed what I told her. Kissing her was more satisfying than anything to me. No other woman on earth could provide me the feeling of satisfaction that Katie provided me by simply kissing me, and not only did I know it, I wasn’t afraid to admit it. “Kissing you takes me somewhere else. Somewhere nice,” I said. “I feel the same way,” she said as she stood from the table. I stood from my seat. “Hand me your plate. I’ll get it. I’ve got one more thing.” “I’ll help you,” she said. I shook my head. “It’s a surprise.” “Crap. I hate surprises. Okay,” she said as she handed me her plate. I carried the dishes to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and removed two dishes of raspberry sorbet, being careful not to mix them up. As I carried them to the dining room, I fought the urge to smile. “Here, maybe it’ll help you forget the peaches. It’s just a small dish,” I said as I handed it to her. “It’s cute,” she said. I sat in my chair and slowly ate my sorbet as I watched her eat hers. As her ball of raspberryflavored dessert slowly disappeared, I wondered if I had possibly given her the wrong bowl. “Theres…” she said as she shifted her eyes to her bowl. “Something in here. It’s…” she placed her spoon to the side, lifted the bowl and peered inside. She shifted her eyes toward me. I shrugged my shoulders and attempted to act preoccupied. As I caught a glimpse of her fishing in

the bowl with her fingers, I glanced over the table. She pulled the bracelet from the dish and held it between her thumb and forefinger, dangling it over the table. Raspberry sorbet dripped from the end of the string of diamonds as she stared at it, still obviously not knowing exactly what it was. It looked like a small string of red beads. “What’d you find?” I asked. Her lack of response prompted me to stand, grab my glass of water, and walk to her side. “Here,” I said as I reached for the bracelet. I took it from the tips of her fingers, rinsed it in the glass of water, and wiped it as clean as I was able in her napkin. After drying it off fully, I placed it in my palm and extended my hand. She gazed into my hand, gasped, and shifted her eyes upward. As she stood from her seat she turned to face me, opened her mouth and said nothing. She stood with her mouth agape and her eyes filled with surprise as I carefully clasped it around her wrist. She didn’t speak. She really didn’t have to, her eyes said everything words would have been able to, and even more. As she leaned forward, I was fully aware we were about to kiss once again, and nothing, at least at that particular moment, could have made me happier. The kiss was more magical than the kiss prior to it, and far more passionate than any kiss I had ever experienced. I think, on that night, Katie gave me a part of her that she had been reserving for when she realized I had given her all of me there was to offer. It had nothing to do with the bracelet or the diamonds, it had to do with my heart, and hopefully she realized I had given her no less than my heart and soul. I had no more of myself to give, she was the recipient of all I had to offer her, and all I could do was hope having me in her life was enough to please her half as much as she pleased me. As our lips parted and our eyes met, I was sure of one thing and one thing only. I had truly been blessed.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Early Winter 2014, Austin, Texas, USA The entire group paced the hospital waiting room floor, waiting for an answer. Ripp insisted on being alone with Vee during the birth of their child, and that the sex of the child be a surprise. After over two hours of no news whatsoever, the crowd was growing weary. I walked to the car seat, gazed down at Casey, and shook my head. “Get that little Marine out of that shit you got him wrapped in Kace, you’re smothering him.” Kace stopped pacing and turned to face me. “Keep your hands off of him, Alec. He’s sleeping. You can hold him later.” She turned toward Shane. “How long are they going to be in there? I popped mine out in like ten minutes.” He might have been sleeping, but he looked uncomfortable. It appeared she had him dressed for a Canadian vacation, and although it was technically winter, it was winter in Texas, and the temperature outside was 65 degrees. “I know he’s hot, he’s got to be,” I said as I reached into the car seat. Kace stopped pacing and pressed her hands to her hips. “Stop it Alec, you’re going to wake him up.” As I pulled him from the seat his eyes opened, closed, and opened again. After a few more

sessions of opening and closing, he opened them, did his best to focus on me, and gazed up at me with one eye looking directly at me and the other looking toward the wall. “Stop that, or they’ll stick,” I said with a laugh as I wiped the tips of my fingers over his eye lids. When they opened again, his eyes were right where they should be. “That’s more like it. Now, let’s take a walk,” I said as I walked to Katie’s side. “You ready to be an aunt?” I asked as I leaned forward and kissed her. “I feel like I already am,” she said. “But yeah, I’m pretty excited.” I nodded my head and smiled as I bounced Casey in my arms. After a few seconds, he began to fuss. “He needs me to sing to him, I’ll be right back,” I said. I walked to the windows, tilted him to the side so he could see the street lights outside, and began to hum. “You ready for our song?” I asked. His eyes said yes. “Here we go…” As we paced the floor, I began to softly sing the Marine Corps Hymn. “From the Halls of Montezuma…” “To the shores of Tripoli…” “We fight our country's battles…” “In the air, on land, and sea…” “First to fight for right and freedom…” “And to keep our honor clean…” “We are proud to claim the title…” “Of United States Marine…” I continued to pace the floor, not paying much attention to anything other than the baby in my arms. After a few laps across the floor, I shifted my eyes down to Casey. He was fast asleep, but that by no means meant he wasn’t listening to his favorite uncle.

“You see, as Marines, we’re first to fight. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere. As soon as you wake up, I’ll tell you a story about the night Gunny Marshall and I got drunk in Okinawa, Japan. You’ll appreciate it when you’re a little older,” I said. “You will not, Alec. Don’t fill his head with stories about your drunken escapades,” Kace snapped from across the room. I glanced toward Kace and grinned, not realizing I had walked close enough for her to hear me. “Just reassuring him he’s safe in my arms.” The unmistakable sound of someone running down the hallway echoed throughout the hospital. All eyes shifted to the door. “You motherfucker’s ready?” Ripp screamed as he stepped in front of the door. “Michael!” his mother gasped. “Don’t say that in the hospital.” “It ain’t a church, Ma. And it ain’t the dinner table, it’s a fuckin’ hospital,” he said as his eyes darted around the room. He tossed his hands in the air and widened his eyes. “So, you ready for the news?” Apparently he didn’t like the lack of response from the crowd and was attempting to develop interest. “Ready!,” Katie hollered. “We’ve been waiting for three hours, spill it,” his father bellowed. Katie walked to my side, squeezed my arm, and waited for the report. “Eight pounds and fifteen ounces. Almost a nine pounder,” he said. “And both my little girls are doing just fine.” “A girl?” Kace shouted. “Vee had a girl?” “We had a girl, she’s ours,” Ripp responded. “Congratulations, Brother,” I said with a nod. “A baby girl,” Katie whispered. “What’s her name?” Kace and Mrs. Ripton asked at the same time. Ripp remained standing slightly inside the door, and looked like the ring leader for a circus who was making his announcement to the crowd. With his shoes covered in protective booties and still

wearing the Tyvek paper suit, it was hard for me to take him seriously. He waved his arms like an excited child as he responded. “Three at a time can come see her, and her name is Jessica Ann Ripton. We’re gonna call her Jessie. Jessie and Casey, has a nice ring, huh?” I held Casey with Katie at my side, not necessarily as interested in the birth of Ripp’s daughter as much as I was in holding my nephew. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, or that I was even insensitive to the event, it was more a matter of prioritizing. Katie was my first commitment, and she was the most important thing to me. Casey was my second, and he was equally important, but his needs were different. I had always done a pretty good job prioritizing my commitments, and the majority of my devotion was currently cradled in my arms. “How’s Vee?” Kace asked. “Vee’s doing great,” he responded. “I need to get some cigars; we need to celebrate.” “Got ‘em right here, Ripper,” Kelsey said as he reached into his gym bag. “Brought several of both, just in case. “Alec?” Mr. Ripton asked as he held a cigar in the air. I grinned and shrugged my shoulders. “Still trying to quit.” He shook his head from side to side and tossed the cigar into the air. I cradled Casey with one arm and caught the cigar with the other. As I shoved the cigar into my back pocket, I glanced around the room. The excitement lingered heavily in the room. Hugging, talking, and Ripp’s repeated telling of the birth continued until his mother complained about needing to see the baby. After a short argument, Ripp decided to take his parents and Kace in the first wave to see the baby. I continued to cradle Casey in my arms, hoping Shane wouldn’t object. As Ripp walked out of the room, I wondered how many babies were born throughout the course of a typical day and if that number exceeded the amount of men killed in a normal day during the war. As Katie began to walk in my direction, her face covered with the satisfaction of being new aunt, I decided it didn’t matter. All that mattered at that moment was what was in my arms, and what was walking toward me. I was no longer at war, and I was no longer in charge of protecting Marines. My solemn duty, at least at the moment, was to protect the people gathered in the waiting room. And I intended to do that at all costs.



CHAPTER THIRTY Early Winter 2014, Austin, Texas, USA In what was to be our pre-fight celebration, we left the kids with the grandparents and had gone out on the town the night before Shane’s heavyweight championship fight. He was an extremely humble man, and he certainly didn’t act like the celebrity he had become. He was soon going to be fighting in a match with tens of millions of people watching which would net him in excess of 50 million dollars if he won. To be in his presence, however, a person would have no idea he was any different than anyone else. I couldn’t help but admire his simplistic way of living life. His quiet and humble demeanor resembled mine in many ways. He was not one to tell stories about the events of his life, and didn’t care to brag about what his accomplishments were. Ripp was a completely different person, and I felt that Shane and I both lived vicariously through him. After a late night of drinking and listening to Ripp’s stories, one of which was about him throwing up on his daughter after smelling her diaper, we decided to call it a night. “Big fight tomorrow, Dekk,” I said as I patted Shane on the back. Walking down the sidewalk with his arm over Kace, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Hope I don’t embarrass myself.” “All you can do is give it your best, Brother,” I said. “He’s gonna smash that dude,” Ripp said.

Shane’s opponent, ‘Tick-Tock’ Brock earned his nickname from knocking out his rivals in a matter of minutes. According to his camp, the clock ticked past the seconds until the inevitable happened. He was massive, he was strong, and he was as mean of a boxer to ever step in the ring with anyone. But, in my opinion, he wasn’t as determined as Shane. All Shane needed to do was get angry. And making him angry wasn’t always an easy feat. “It’s not going to be that easy, Ripp. We’ll see,” Shane said as we walked alongside the parking lot where Vee had parked her SUV. The bar we had been in was in a district labeled Dirty Sixth, which was the east side of 6th street in downtown Austin, and earned its name from being a filthy place to be. The area was filled with bars and other forms of entertainment but deciding what to enjoy and what to avoid wasn’t always easy. Parking was disastrous, and remote parking areas were generally the only option. Luckily we had found one close to the bar we were patronizing, and by the grace of God, Vee’s SUV wasn’t stolen while we were in the bar. As we stepped into the parking lot, Vee, Katie, and I walked to the left side of the SUV, and Ripp, Shane, and Kace walked to the right side. Immediately after Vee pressed her key fob and unlocked the vehicle, the dirty side of 6th street emerged. “Oh my God! Shane!” I heard Kace screech. Her voice clearly conveyed her fear. I ducked down and peered through the windows toward the other side of the vehicle. Although I couldn’t see everyone, I was able to see all I needed to see. A man had a gun pointed directly at Shane’s head. “What happened?” Katie asked. “Listen,” I whispered as I shifted my eyes back and forth between Vee and Katie. “There’s a man with a gun. Do not walk around the other side of the car. Is that understood?” “Oh my God,” Katie whispered. “I’ll be right back,” I said as I leaned forward and kissed her. She pulled away and glared at me. “Alec, no. He could kill you. I’ll just call the police.” I glanced through the windows again. The man continued to hold the gun at Shane’s head and seemed to be mumbling demands. There was no time to argue, and there was no time for the police. In a city like Austin, the police wouldn’t arrive for half an hour, and a robbery like this ended – one way or

another – in less than five minutes. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “Please,” Katie begged. “Go,” Vee whispered as she wrapped her arm around Katie. “Alec…” “I’ll be right back,” I assured her. As Katie began to softly cry, I slumped my shoulders and sauntered to the other side of the SUV. As I walked around the back side of the vehicle, I could clearly see everyone and everything. Half of the parking lot lamps were broken, but the illumination from the adjacent building’s lights was enough for me to see what I needed to. The man, wearing a dingy black hoodie and dirty jeans, appeared to be holding a semi-automatic pistol with an external safety. My intention was to take it from him without him shooting me or anyone else during the process. With his back slightly to me, and Shane, Kace, and Ripp facing me, I raised my right index finger to my lips as I slowly approached them. “Give me all your muh muh money, boxer man,” the man stammered. “Give him whatever he wants,” Kace shouted. Quiet down, Kace. Apparently he knew Shane was a professional boxer and had probably seen us going into the bar and recognized Shane. His two-hour wait let me know he was determined to get what he came for. “Babe. Just settle down, I’ll give him whatever he wants,” Shane said. “Well, get get get to givin’, muh muh motherfucker,” the man stuttered. With the gun an inch from his forehead and his hands held in the air at each of his sides, Shane responded. “I’ll give you what I’ve got but…” I cleared my throat lightly to get his attention. “But, I carry the money. I’m his bodyguard. I’ve got all the cash.” You need to focus on me, motherfucker. “Duh duh don’t walk up on me, Mr. fuh fuh fucking bodyguard. I’ll kuh kuh kill this boxer lickety split if you do,” he said as his eyes darted back and forth between Shane and me. As I continued to study the pistol, I walked in a wide sweeping pattern around the four of them and

stepped beside Shane. I wanted the man to be as comfortable as he could be considering the circumstances. Having his attention diverted to behind him may have caused Ripp to attempt something, or possibly even Shane, neither of which would end well for anyone. “Listen. I’ve got the money. So, you’re going to need to talk to me. But we’ve got a little problem,” I said as I shifted my eyes to the pistol he held. Colt 1911 A1, cocked and locked. Thank God. He’ll have to release the safety. The pistol he held would require two steps before it could be fired. First, the safety would have to be flipped to off. Second, he would have to pull the trigger. The entire process, if performed by an absolute idiot, would take one second. A second didn’t sound like much time, but it was all I needed. The extra step of flipping the safety provided me just enough time to do what I needed to do. I shifted my focus from the pistol to his eyes. “He pays me to keep his money safe, you know, protect it. Now, I can’t just give it to you or he’s going to fire me as soon as you’re gone – and I’ll lose my fucking job.” “So for me to let you have it, I’m going to need you to point the gun at me and threaten me,” I said. I needed him to move the gun directly in front of me, preferably either at my chest or directly at my head. “I ain’t duh duh dumb. He’ll buh buh box my ears when I muh muh move the gun,” he stuttered. His eyes told me he was long overdue for whatever drugs he intended to buy with his proceeds from the robbery. He was a time bomb waiting to explode. Eliminate his perceived threat, Jacob. I shook my head lightly. “No he won’t. I’ll make sure he doesn’t do a god damned thing. It’s my job to keep him safe, and keep you happy. You’re just going to have to trust me.” His eyes remained focused on me while I spoke, which at least let me know he was more concerned with getting paid than anything else. “He’s got seventeen bucks in his wallet, and I’ve got ten thousand bucks, so you need to pay attention to me, not him,” I said. His eyes fell to my feet, quickly raised the length of my body, and eventually he met my gaze.

“Dekk, slowly put your hands in your jeans pockets. And I mean slow. Kace, I need you to take four steps to your left, babe. Just four. And stand there quietly. Ripp, Brother, don’t you dare fucking move,” I said calmly. “Now, as soon as he gets his hands deep in his pockets, you’re going to need to point the gun at my head,” I explained. “Alec, no!” I heard Katie scream from the other side of the car. “It’ll be just fine Katie,” I said. “We’ll all be sipping slurpies at the 7-Eleven in five minutes. I promise, Baby.” As Shane lowered his hands and pushed them into his pockets, the robber’s eyes shifted downward and then quickly raised. As they darted back and forth between Shane and me, I gave my next command. “Dekk, step four steps to the side slowly, and stand by your girl. He’ll move the gun when you do. Just make it slow, Brother,” I explained. “I uhhm…” Shane began. “Just move slowly. He doesn’t want you, he wants me because I’ve got the money,” I lied. Shane slowly stepped to my left and wrapped his arms around Kace. Ripp, still standing to my right, was potentially in the danger zone. Normally, there would be a few ways I could disarm the man, but with the people I was trying to protect on my left, there was only one way to do it, and it was the least favorable. “Ripp, move to my left and stand with them. I really need you to go over there, Brother. Being behind me like that makes me nervous, and I know it makes him nervous too. You’re just too damned close,” I said flatly. “Wuh wuh what about thu thu the ten grand, fucker?” the gunman asked as he moved the gun directly in front of my forehead. As he stood and stared at me with uncertain eyes, I slowly raised my hands as if I was scared, stopping them in front of my chest. “I’m going to reach for my wallet with my left hand. I’ll do it slow. Hell you got that piece pushed into my forehead, so you know I won’t try a damned thing,” I assured him. Come on, Ripp, get your big ass over there. As Ripp stepped beside Shane and Kace, I continued.

“I’m nervous as hell, but I need you to be calm, okay? You okay with that? Me reaching for my wallet?” I asked. I needed a reason for him to allow me to move my hands, and hoped my movement in a direction he wasn’t expecting would be much quicker than his mind could process a threat. He nodded his head. “Yup. Suh suh slow.” Every combat trained Marine had learned the maneuver in CQC training. It wasn’t always effective, nor was it an assurance of not being shot, but considering the location of the people I needed to protect, it was my only choice. With my eyes fixed on his, I slowly began to move my left hand slightly forward. As soon as I noticed his eyes didn’t follow my hand, I swung my open left hand into the barrel of the pistol, and my cupped right hand into his forearm. Instantly, he was disarmed, and I held his pistol in my right hand. I pushed the pistol into his face, flipped the safety off, and gave my command. “Get on your knees,” I demanded. With wide eyes and shaking hands, he slowly lowered himself to the ground. “Holy shit!” Ripp shouted. “It’s all good over here, Katie,” I shouted as I followed the man’s head with the barrel of the weapon as he crouched to his knees. Katie and Vee came around the end of the SUV, and Vee gasped as she saw what was going on. “I’ll call the police,” she said. “Fucking punk ass bitch. Now, I’m going to beat your ass,” Ripp said from behind me. “Stand down, Ripp,” I said over my shoulder in a stern tone. “And Vee, don’t call the cops. Our man Dekk has to fly out for a fight in less than 48 hours, and he doesn’t need to be on the ten O’clock news, or sit in an interrogation room for eight hours.” Katie stood and stared with her hands covering her mouth, clearly scared. “Don’t worry, Baby. Everything will be just fine. Vee, get everyone in the car and go around the block. Just go around slowly and come back and get me,” I said. “Go around the block?” she asked.

Without shifting my eyes away from him, I responded. “Just load everyone up and go around the block. Do it quick. I don’t need to be standing here with a gun any longer than I have to be.” “I’ll stay here with A-Train, just roll around the block. Nobody needs to see this guy get his ass beat,” Ripp said. “Just like you always say, Brother Ripp, I got this. Just go with them. Give me ten, alright?” I asked as I glared down at the would-be thief. Reluctantly, they got in the SUV and backed out of the parking stall. As they pulled away, I lowered the pistol, shoved it into the waist of my jeans, and sighed. As he stared up at me, his eyes filled with wonder, I planted the heel of my boot into his forehead, knocking him onto his back. “That’s for pulling a gun on the father of my nephew,” I said. “If you move, I’ll break your fucking neck.” I reached down and helped him to his knees. Blood trickled down along his face from the massive cut on his forehead. There was no doubt he was half delirious, but I didn’t have much time to make a decision, and I needed his undivided attention. “You’re going to need to listen, and listen carefully,” I said. He nodded his head eagerly. As with many people who terrorized others, he had obviously never been on the receiving end of a violent situation and it was apparent by the level of fear his eyes projected. “As you might have suspected, I’m not new to this shit. I’ve killed motherfuckers like you and walked away without even giving it a second thought. But something tells me I don’t need to kill you. I’ve always said I give everyone a chance, and I guess this is yours. If you’ll give me your solemn word that you’ll never do something like this again, I’ll let you walk away. If you don’t, or if for some reason I don’t believe you, I’ll blow a hole in your head the size of a grapefruit. Now, you haven’t got much time, so I need an answer,” I said. He fixed his eyes on mine, swallowed, and responded. “Wuh wuh wuh won’t happen. Eh eh ever ah ah again,” he said. Well, he maintained eye contact. “Will you ever do anything like this again?” I asked, wanting to see where his eyes went when he responded. He shook his head from side to side and maintained eye contact. “No.”

“Why?” I asked. I didn’t care to hear his stuttering response, but I needed a little more reassurance. “Buh buh because I’m guh guh giving my word,” he said, his eyes locked on mine the entire time. It appeared he was being truthful. “Stand up slowly and turn around with your fingers interlocked behind your head, just like you were getting arrested,” I said. He slowly stood and complied with my request. After patting him down and finding not even a wallet, I pressed my hand against his right shoulder. “Turn around,” I said. He turned to face me. His eyes told it all. He was scared shitless. “Go sit beside that truck, out of sight. Don’t move until you’re sure twenty minutes have passed. Not five, not ten, not even fifteen, but twenty, Understood?” I asked. He nodded his head repeatedly. “Go,” I said as I tilted my head toward a truck parked thirty feet away. He stumbled to the truck, walked to the far side of it, and hunkered behind it, well out of sight. I gazed down at my feet as I waited, realizing it was the first time in my life I had let such a man walk away. I was undoubtedly taking a risk, but my objective was to protect the people I loved, and I accomplished it without resorting to killing a man. A tremendous improvement on my part, I felt proud knowing I was a more compassionate man than I had been in the past. I realized I would probably never know if my decision to let him go was a good one, but it was my decision nonetheless. As the SUV pulled up in front of me I knew one thing for sure. At least he would never harm one of the people who were important to me. Although I realized that particular fact wasn’t all that mattered, it was all that seemed to matter at the moment. And I had lived one more day without taking a life.



CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Early Winter 2014, Austin, Texas, USA At one minute and fifty-seven seconds into the third round of the fight, Shane Dekkar knocked out TickTock Brock and became the new Heavyweight Championship of the World. Not once did I doubt his ability, I only questioned his devotion. From what he said, he won the fight for Kelsey, who claimed to have never trained a fighter as great as Shane, and had never trained a champion. Shane’s father was a former Marine who was killed in the line of duty in Afghanistan, a fact that may have played a part in my devotion to Shane as a friend and brother. His father, however, had abused his mother, and his mother left when he was as small boy. He was raised by his grandfather while his father was away at war, and his mother never returned. His grandfather trained him as a boxer, and the sport was Shane’s outlet for a lifetime of frustration, anger, and slight hatred toward the actions of his father for what he had done to his mother. Shane never forgave his father, which was something else I could completely understand, because I had never forgiven mine fully either. One night, after one of his fights, Shane’s grandfather had a heart attack and died, prompting Shane to move to Texas from Compton, California for a new start in his career. Kelsey trained Shane, and in many ways, became the fatherly figure he always wanted but never had. I admired Kelsey for being exactly what each fighter needed, but never allowing them to understand he cared about them as deeply as he did. He was, to the fighters in the gym, exactly what I was to my combat Marines.

A true leader. “Listen up, Jarhead,” Kelsey said. “This gym has people beating the door down to be trained by the great Shane Dekkar, and if you can’t make a fighter of this Justin Bieber look-alike, we need to send his skinny ass down the road.” “He’s getting there, Boss,” I said. Kelsey shifted his eyes into the ring, studied Austin for a moment, and shook his head in exaggerated frustration. “He needs to stick to dancing and sashaying around like a princess.” “Two more weeks, and we’ll know,” I said, referring to Austin’s first scheduled fight. Ripp met Austin one day in a street race, and the two became quick friends. Austin was a dance instructor, and agreed to trade Ripp dance lessons for boxing lessons. Somehow, after the birth of Ripp’s daughter, I became Austin’s trainer. I enjoyed training him to not only box, but to protect himself, and to have the proper mindset to compete in a match. I had no doubt he had the ability to win against any comparable opponent, and the last thing he wanted to do was let any of us down, so I was quite certain when the time came that he’d apply everything he had learned when fighting. “The kid’s a fucking weirdo, you’ve got two weeks, Jarhead,” Kelsey complained as he turned away. I glanced into the ring. Austin’s opponent connected a right uppercut, sending him reeling backward to keep from falling. Turn your body, Kid. Just like I taught you. He twisted away from the other fighter as he stumbled, making himself more difficult to hit. Suddenly, he had his footing. He raised his hands slightly, obviously ready to continue. As the fighter approached him, certain he was a few punches away from a win, Austin lit into him with a barrage of jabs. The punches caught the other fighter off guard, and as he fought to keep his footing, Austin swung a slightly wild but extremely effective uppercut. It was, without a doubt, his most effective punch. The fighter collapsed onto the mat, flat on his back. I shifted my eyes toward the locker room. Kelsey stood beside the entrance intently watching the fight. As my eyes met his, he flipped me his middle finger and turned away.

You grumpy old fucker. I shifted my eyes into the ring. The fighter was unsuccessfully attempting to get onto his feet. Austin shifted his eyes toward me and shrugged his shoulders. “Fight’s over, fellas,” I said as I ducked under the ropes and entered the ring. Training Austin was not only good for him, but it was good for me. It gave me a sense of accomplishment, and a means of measuring my success through his wins or losses. To date, he hadn’t lost a fight, but everything so far was nothing but sparring, and not an actual boxing match. As I helped the other fighter to his feet, I shifted my eyes toward Austin. “I had my doubts, Kid. You need to protect that chin of yours or someone’s going to knock it off,” I said. He nodded his head. “You alright?” I asked the other fighter. Incapable of responding legibly with a mouthpiece in his mouth, he blinked his eyes and nodded his head. “Alright, hit the showers,” I said as I tossed my head toward the locker room. Kelsey began to walk out of the locker room, noticed Austin walking in that direction, and quickly turned toward the door. As I watched him hustle back into the locker room, I laughed to myself. Going to give him some pointers, Old Man? Shane had earned almost 50 million dollars for winning the fight, and Kelsey made enough to make his life slightly easier to live than it had been in the past. The money, however, would never change either of the men regarding the sport itself, they enjoyed it far too much. I walked toward the locker room and stood beside the door waiting on Austin to come out. Kelsey’s unmistakable voice echoed from the concrete room. “Keep that chin tucked, Kid. You’re going to lose it if you’re not careful. And turn that skinny little body of yours when you’re on your heels, it’s a smaller target,” he growled. Sounds familiar. “You got it, Boss,” I heard Austin say. “Now listen to me,” Kelsey said. “Whatever that Marine tells you, you listen to him. He’s a good

man, and he’ll lead you to a championship if you let him.” Filled with a newfound pride and a slightly inflated state of being, I walked toward the ring, proud that Kelsey felt my abilities were sufficient. I realized I was good at almost everything I devoted time to, but I rarely received recognition from anyone for anything I had ever done. As I gathered up the wet towels from around the ring, I swelled with pride. I turned toward the dirty rag bin and tossed the towels inside. As I glanced up Kelsey walked by, flipping me the bird as he passed. I didn’t say a word, at least not out loud. Thank you, Old Man. I won’t let you down.



CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Late Winter 2015, Austin, Texas, USA The day was unseasonably warm, and I was glad to be riding the motorcycle. A thirty-minute ride had the ability to transform my mind to another place altogether, and allow me to release things I would never be able to let go without it. It seemed the nation’s perception of a man in Levis and boots riding a Harley was one of drinking, fighting, and the commission of crimes. From what I had learned of bikers – and I had been exposed to all walks of biker life – the exact opposite was true. Bikers were the first to stop and lend a helping hand, the last to resort to violence without a reason, and although they were quick to protect their brethren, they typically didn’t do so with any more force than was necessary to do so. As I sat at the traffic light one block away from my destination, the woman beside me in the minivan stared straight ahead at the traffic light, seemingly petrified in fear of what may happen if she glanced in my direction. In the back seat, her children waved and made faces. I grinned at the children, stuck out my tongue, and waved one last time before pulling in the clutch as the light changed from red to green. I pulled into the driveway, shut off the engine, and let the bike coast to a stop. After a short emotion-filled hesitation, I tossed my leg over the bike and walked to the porch.

On my third knock, the door opened. “I heard you half way up the street. I didn’t think any of those damned things were louder than Mike’s, but yours sure is. Got a distinct sound, too. Come on in, Son.” he said as he opened the door. “So, you called and said to get the pack of cigarettes ready. What’s going on?” he asked. “Can we go out onto the back deck?” I asked. “Hell, we can go anywhere you like, Son. This is just as much your home as it is anyone’s,” he responded with a light laugh. “You go on out there, and I’ll grab those smokes,” he said as he turned toward his bedroom. I walked out onto the deck, glanced around the back yard, and inhaled a long slow breath through my nose. As I opened my mouth and tilted my head back, he opened the door to the deck. I exhaled and turned toward him. “Great day, Sir,” I said. “Sure is. Damned near eighty degrees. Spring is almost upon us,” he said as he handed me the pack of cigarettes. Since I gave them to him, I had been back on three occasions. I took one from the pack, reached into my pocket, and removed my lighter. As I flipped the lighter between my fingers and toyed with the cigarette, he sat down in the chair beside me. “Now I’m gonna guess because you’re here and you’re wanting a smoke that this is a tough day for ya, Son. Just what’s going on?” he asked. I sat down across from him, flipped the cigarette into my mouth, and bit into the cotton filter. As I clenched it lightly in my teeth, I shifted my eyes toward the large maple tree in the corner of the yard. I imagined each of his children attempting to climb the tree as they grew old enough to reach the lowest of the branches. I laughed to myself, took another breath of courage, and turned to face him. I had no way of knowing how he was going to react to what I had to say, but I’d never been one to sugar-coat subjects or dance around the truth. There was one way and one way only to do what it was I came to do, and spitting out what I had to say was a far better alternative than chewing on it. I raised the lighter to the tip of the cigarette, lit it, and inhaled a long pulled deep into my lungs. As the smoke from the stale cigarette burned my lungs, I fought not to cough. I tilted my head to the side, exhaled, and took another long drag, watching the paper burn as I mentally prepared to speak. “Well, I’ll tell you,” I said as I exhaled the smoke toward the yard.

The deck was concrete, covered, and a very peaceful place to sit. I found it quite relaxing, and although Katie and I often used the space for relaxation and make-out sessions, the remainder of the family rarely came out onto the deck. “I have a question for you,” I said. “Something’s eatin’ ya, I can see that. What happened?” he asked. “Nothing happened,” I said as I leaned forward, resting my forearms onto my thighs. I fixed my eyes on his, swallowed, and said what I came to say. “I’ve got something I feel like I need to do, and although I’m not planning on doing it for a while, I need to see if it’s acceptable to you before I make any plans to do it,” I said. I was clearly beating around the bush. He narrowed his eyes and stared, revealing the wrinkles beside his eyes that generally remained hidden. “Well, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what it is, Son. Say what you’ve come to say, and we’ll go from there,” he said. Katie’s mother carried out two glasses of tea, handed them to us, and turned toward the house without speaking a word. As the door slid open, she spoke over her shoulder. “Good afternoon, Alec,” she said. “It’s sure nice to see you.” “Good afternoon, Ma’am. And likewise.” I responded as I raised the glass of tea to my lips. I lowered the glass to the table, shifted my eyes to the cigarette, and then to Mr. Ripton. Just say it, Jacob. Say it quickly I locked my eyes on his. “I’d like to ask your permission to marry your daughter.” His eyes widened slowly as his mouth curled into grin. “Well, I’ll be go to hell. That’s what’s eatin’ you?” I nodded my head. “It’s not something I want to do right away, and I’ll know for sure when the time is right, but I don’t want to plan on doing it without your getting approval first.” At some point in time, the application of traditional values escaped the minds and lives of the residents of the nation, and although I firmly believed in old-fashioned traditions, there were not many people who shared my opinion. Perform every task to the best of your ability.

Respect your elders by addressing them as Ma’am and Sir. Open the door for anyone who’s within eyeshot. Don’t lie, steal, or cheat. If you have anything to say to someone, say it to their face or don’t say it at all. Ask a man’s permission to marry his daughter. Save sex for marriage. Always remain true to the one you love. “Damn it, Son. This heat’s drying out my eyes,” he said as he reached up and rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. After a few seconds, he stood from his seat, lowered his head, and coughed. As he looked up, he lowered his hands and nodded his head. “It’d be an honor to have you as a son-in-law. It surely would,” he said as he extended his hand. I tossed my cigarette to the side and reached for his hand. “Thank you, Sir. I won’t disappoint you. Or her for that matter.” “Now, you’re not thinking of one of those runnin’ off deals, are ya? You know, when the time comes, that is,” he asked. “We’d sure like to attend.” “No, Sir.” I chuckled. “I’d like for it to be something we could all enjoy.” He grinned a prideful grin, wiped his swollen eyes, and nodded his head. “That’d sure tickle the wife and me.” I reached down, snuffed the smoldering cigarette, and pushed the butt into the pocket of my jeans. “Well, that’s all I had,” I said with a laugh as I patted him on the shoulder. “Well, I don’t know if I could handle any more in one day, so I suppose that’s a good thing,” he said. “You mind if I tell the wife?” “Not at all,” I said. “That’s good, I hate the thought of keeping secrets from that woman,” he said as he shrugged his shoulders. “Call me old-fashioned.” “You and me both,” I said with a laugh.

“Wouldn’t want you any other way,” he said as he draped his arms over my shoulder. And, I couldn’t have agreed with him more.



CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Late Winter 2015, Austin, Texas, USA I had been blessed with an opportunity to babysit Casey while Shane and Kace went out to eat dinner and see a movie. For the first hour and a half, Casey slept and had absolutely no interest in waking, regardless of how much I wanted him to. As he began to stir in his swing, I rushed to it and reached down to pick him up. “Listen up, Little Man,” I said as I pulled him from the swing. As I raised him even with my face, he smiled. Seeing him smile was one of the best rewards life had ever offered me. With an adult, it was always anyone’s guess whether the smile was genuine or not. With a baby, I knew it was always genuine. Babies don’t lie and tell a man what he wants to hear, and they’re always honest. And a smiling baby is a happy baby. “Your old man is a good fella.” He gazed off in the distance, well beyond me and toward the wall. I carried him to the changing table, lowered him onto it, and opened his dirty diaper. ‘Do you hear me?” I asked him as I changed his diaper. His mouth curled into a slobber-covered smile as if he fully understood every word I said. “He’s a good solid dude, and you need to be sure and make him proud of you as he teaches you

about life. Is that understood?” Again, he grinned and cooed, apparently understanding each and every word. I picked him up, cradled him in my arms, and began pacing the house as we spoke. Having Casey in my life allowed me to look at things not necessarily differently, but with a more open mind. He provided me what the Ferris wheel provided me, an entirely different perspective on life. A view from an alternate vantage point. My exposure to him allowed me to develop a better relationship with God, as I was now sure God was looking down on all of us with compassion and understanding, which was something I had always worried about in the past. In short, Casey was damned good for me. His eyes followed mine as I admired his ability to maintain focus not only on me, but on what I said each time I spoke. I realized he didn’t understand me, but it was nice telling myself he did. One day, without a doubt, he would, and when that day came, I would be a very proud uncle. “That’s what I thought,” I said with a nod. “I knew the minute you were born you’d be a good listener. You see, we grow up a product of our environment. Violence breeds violence, and a loving family teaches compassionate behavior. Your parents are as good as gold. They love you. And Ripp and I love you, Little Man. You need to know if you ever want someone to just kick it with you can always come to uncle A-Train. Remember that. I’ll keep telling you, just in case your little baby brain forgets. But I’ll be here for you, Little Man. Always.” “You see, my old man was a pretty good dude, but he didn’t so much care for kids. Me? I’m different. I like little fellas like you. One of these days, I just might have to have one of my own. Maybe make a little brother for you. Some might call him a cousin, but that’s not the case.” I shifted my eyes from the window down to his face. His eyes were drifting closed. “Are you paying attention to me, kid-o?” The tone of my voice changing caused him to open his eyes and smile. As his gaze met mine, he giggled, opened his mouth, and released a little bit of baby slobber onto his cheek. I reached down to wipe off his mouth, and his eyes attempted to follow my finger, but he soon lost focus. “We’ll need to work on that, wont we?” I moved my finger back and forth in front of his face slowly. As I did, his eyes followed it for the entire time. “That’s better. We’ll tell your old man when he gets home you’re going to be a good baseball player. He’ll be excited. You’ll just have to remember to always keep your eye on the ball, little man.”

He grinned, got excited, and spit up a little bit. After I wiped his face with a burp rag, we got back to our discussion. “Brothers are brothers, and don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. Your aunt Katie and I might just make you a little brother or sister someday. If she’ll marry me, that is. I asked her father for permission, and he gave me the go ahead, so it’s all up to me now. I just need to make sure I’m ready for everything.” I heard the garage door open as we finished talking about the possibility of a marriage proposal. From the sound of the voices, Dekk and Kace had returned from the movie. “Keep that marriage stuff quiet little man. Got it?” I asked. “Right here,” I said as I cradled him in one arm and held out my clenched fist with my free hand. “Pound it.” Babies invariably have clenched fists. Further proof they’re always ready to make a promise and have every intention of keeping it. As I pounded my fist against his, he laughed. “I know, the thought of it makes me giggle too,” I grinned. As I carefully placed Casey into his swing, I wiped his mouth one last time and kissed him on the cheek. “We don’t want your folks thinking I held you the entire time they were gone, so keep that quiet too.” Filled with gratitude and appreciation for everything Casey provided me, I bowed my head and closed my eyes. If you let me make Katie a part of my life, I’ll make you proud, Lord. I certainly will.



CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR Early Spring 2015, Austin, Texas, USA Immediately following high school, I joined the military. Soon thereafter, I met Suzanne, and quickly got married. My deployments overseas to the war began as soon as my military training was complete, and they continued for over ten years. In short, my only exposure to the real world as an adult without the atrocities of combat, battle, and war, had been since my return from The Middle East. The time I spent in Wichita following the war was unhealthy for me, and allowed me little, if any, recovery from post-war emotional and mental complications. My decision to move to Texas proved to be an excellent one, the elimination of stress alone allowed me to proceed through life with wide-open eyes. My new home allowed me, for the first time, to begin my journey not only to recovery, but to becoming a civilian responsible for his own actions. Although I had been in combat for 12 years commanding troops, and home from the war for almost three years, I was experiencing the situations and making the same decisions that a high school senior would be forced to make upon graduating high school. My time in the Marine Corps did little to prepare me for living civilian life, and everything from housing, meals, and even medical provisions were provided for us. I was cautiously proceeding through life no differently than if I was walking through a minefield. And, since I had been in Texas, I had stepped in all the right places. “I am so relaxed, it’s crazy,” she said.

With the tip of my index finger I traced along her skin lightly, from her shoulder to her wrist. Her skin was tanned from exposure to the Texas sun, yet silky smooth and without flaws. As she remained motionless, I slipped my finger under her hand and lifted it from the cushion. I softly gripped the tips of her fingers and lifted her hand toward my face. Her eyes followed the movement of her hand, and as my lips pressed against the surface or her skin, she shifted her eyes to meet mine. “Your skin,” I said as I gazed along the length of her arm. “It’s so soft.” “So are your lips,” she responded. “I love it when you kiss me. It gives me goosebumps.” “Scoot in here and lay down with me,” she said as she patted her hand against the cushion. Comfortably positioned on the couch, seated beside her hips, I stared down at her and shook my head. “Not yet. I like it here.” She nodded her head and closed her eyes. As she lay motionless, I admired depth of her true beauty. To me, in many more ways than her looks alone, she defined perfection. Each time I looked at Katie at for any length of time, it raised wonder as to why she would choose to find interest in me. I felt undeserving of her attention, unworthy of her love, and often uncertain that her love for me could last a lifetime. “On a scale of one to ten,” I said. “How happy are you right now? Not right now, but in general. With me?” “Ten,” she responded without opening her eyes. I feel the same way. I lifted her hand to my lips again, paused, and shifted my eyes to her waist. Her shirt had moved slightly, exposing a few inches of her stomach. After an extensive period of time, I reached for the bottom of it with the intention of pulling it down to meet the waist of her shorts. With my free hand half-way there, I hesitated and shifted my eyes to her face. Her eyes were still closed. As I lowered my hand into my lap my eyes quickly fell to her waist. The slight guilt I felt for admiring such a remote and sensual portion of her body slowly faded away, leaving me feeling rather curious. I gazed blankly at the four-inch section of exposed skin for some time, wanting time to jump forward to a day when we were married – a time in which I would naturally feel that my exploration of

her would be without limits, free from reservation, and filled with nothing but pleasant memories. “Touch me,” she said softly. The guilt which had faded away quickly came rushing back. Almost as if I was a child again, caught for doing something I had been warned not to, I shifted my eyes to meet hers, only to find her smiling softly with her eyes opened ever-so-slightly. “I thought you were going to. It’s okay, Alec. Touch me,” she said. “I…” As I began to explain, I stopped, realizing that my desire to feed my curiosity was being fed fuel by her approval to proceed. I smiled, shifted my focus to her waist, and convinced myself touching her could be harmless as long as my intentions were pure. With the backs of my knuckles I brushed her shirt upward slightly, exposing yet more of her silky smooth skin. As I admired the contour of her stomach and the slight depression into her naval, I flattened out my hand and raked the tips of my fingers ever-so-lightly around the surface of her skin. Softly, she began to moan. Her state of mind was unmistakable. The sound escaping her lips was derived from pleasure, not pain. I continued, hoping to feed her desires without causing her any discomfort whatsoever. Fed by each of her rather vocal releases of delight, I continued to trace my fingers along her skin in a circular motion, raising the bottom of her shirt ever so slightly each time my fingers passed by the fabric. Soon, the curved portion of the bottom of her bra was exposed, and although I initially – and naturally – felt the need to pull her shirt down to cover the undergarment, I fought the urge, and continued to enjoy softly touching her skin – my reward being her repeated outbursts of pleasure in response to my touch. With my eyes fixed on her stomach and following the pattern my fingers outlined on the surface of her skin, I watched as she arched her back and lifted herself from the surface of the couch slightly. She removed her hands from behind her back and flattened herself onto the couch. “Take it off,” she said. I swallowed heavily and shifted my eyes upward until they met hers. “My bra,” she said. “Take it off.”

I gazed down at her body for what seemed to be an eternity, not quite sure of what to do next. As I sat alongside her thighs on the edge of the couch peering down at her, I felt rather foolish and slightly immature. Slowly, she sat up, reached into her shirt, and pulled her bra from underneath. With the bra dangling from her fingertips, she lowered herself to the couch, draped her arm over the edge, and dropped it onto the floor. I shifted my eyes to her mid-section. Her shirt once again covered the skin I was so eager to caress. As I stared down at her shirt, afraid to make any sort of advancement, I wondered exactly what prevented me from doing what it was I knew she found pleasure in. I decided, after a long pause, that it was nothing other than the guilt of moving too quickly or in a manner that brought her something other than pleasure. Frankly, I had no idea of what it was she wanted or how to proceed. As I continued to stare, dumbfounded and confused, she sat up, pulled her shirt over her head, and tossed it onto the floor. Still sitting up and facing me, she leaned forward and reached for the bottom of my shirt. With our eyes locked on one another, I leaned in for a kiss. As our tongues explored what our minds desired and our mouths were either too innocent or too protective to say, I reached down and helped her pull my shirt over shoulders. As we continued to kiss, I pressed my chest to hers, leaving the shirt draped over my shoulders. With my hands and mind at battle over how to proceed, my hands soon won, and found their way to the underside of her breasts. I softly kneaded her flesh in my hands as we continued to kiss, finding the vibration of her pleasurable gasps against my lips to be rather sensual. Eventually our mouths parted, and she leaned away from me, fully exposing her bare chest to my exploration. My eyes admired the fullness of her breasts, and my hands soon followed. As I softly squeezed, she groaned in pleasure, arching her back a little further each time. Cupping the bottoms of her breasts in the web of my hands, I lowered my lips to her erect nipples and opened my mouth fully. I pressed my face against the surface of her skin, circling her nipple with my tongue. The repeated moans that filled the room left little doubt as to her pleasure, and I continued based on the sound of her expressed excitement alone. I realized as I continued that we had done very little speaking, and further understood doing so wasn’t at all necessary as long as I was receptive to her manner of communicating to me. I lifted my mouth from her swollen nipple, leaned toward her bicep, and kissed my way to her shoulder. With my hands softly squeezing the upper portion of her arms, I lifted my lips from her shoulder,

met her gaze, and grinned. I reached out and lifted her chin slightly. After a few seconds of admiration, I kissed her again, softly and slowly, only to pull my lips from hers and move my mouth along her jaw and to her neck. As I nibbled and kissed her neck, her writhing against me became more intense and passionate. I continued for some time, and eventually slowed my pace until she became calm. After a long moment of regaining my senses, I kissed her passionately and fully. As our lips parted, her eyes met mine and we shared a silent moment of admiring each other. “I love you, Alec,” she said. My response was immediate. “And I love you,” I said. And, for the first time in my life, I had no doubt that it was genuine.



CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Late Spring 2015, Austin, Texas, USA In what I suspected was the only way he saw an opportunity to assemble the family that he had lived so long without, Shane bought three adjacent lots in an upscale neighborhood with his proceeds from the fight; and as the winter came to a close, the three homes he was having constructed were completed. I couldn’t help but admire his newfound desires – and the reasons behind them – even if he didn’t admit what the driving force was behind his spending habits. As far as I was concerned, he didn’t need to, it was apparent. A man who had spent his adult lifetime pinching every penny he earned seemed to now enjoy spending at least a portion of his fortune on the things and people he truly found valuable. A block from his home, a school was being built for special needs children, all funded by him entirely. I sat in a lounge chair on the deck of my new home staring blankly at the massive swimming pool in Shane’s back yard. According to him, the pool was a community pool for all of us to share; and since we moved into our homes, we had done just that. Barbeques, gatherings, parties, and discussions happened on the deck of the pool on an almost daily basis. Initially, being in Texas wasn’t an easy thing for me. Regardless of the animosity I felt toward my father for coercing my sister to give up her child for adoption, leaving him wasn’t a simple thing for me to do. Sitting there gazing at the area where I had spent countless hours playing with my new nephew, I had a slight epiphany.

God is not only understanding and forgiving, he places in front of us all that is necessary to live a peaceful life. At times he may take from us, but he also provides. It is up to us, however, to see exactly what it is he is offering. I stood from my seat. As my eyes continued to linger toward the pool, I was filled with a newfound gratitude for everything and everyone in my life. My mind took a short pause as well, acknowledging how both Katie and Casey were a tremendous blessing to me, each providing me unconditional love on varying levels. The two loves of my life were gained as a result of friends, not family. People I had met who were selfless, willing to offer themselves and the ones they loved all in an effort to become closer to a man who just happened into their lives. I was now living in the polar opposite location from where I had spent the majority of my life. Learning how to live a life filled with love wasn’t a natural task for me, and as I turned away and began to walk toward the house, I chuckled at the similarities between Casey and me. In some respect we were each learning how to live life for the first time, neither of us fully understanding what was around the next corner. As I opened the door leading into the house, I paused and turned back toward my lounge. My phone was on the table beside the chair, sitting idle, as always. It was a device I had never really become accustomed to, but appreciated nonetheless. I reached over the chair, picked up the phone, and typed a text message to Katie. Thinking of you I pressed send and turned toward the open door knowing no matter what happened, I would spend the rest of my life doing so.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX Early Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA The state of Texas was unique in many respects, but one in general that pertained to me. The state was occupied by a 1% MC who claimed the state as theirs sixty years prior. Any club who wanted to be respected, even non-1%ers, needed to get authorization from the Banditos to open a chapter in the state. It wasn’t as much a matter of necessity as it was a matter of respect. Although our club was not going to be an outlaw club, we respectfully set up a meeting with all of the local clubs to assure there were going to be no surprises after the club began to operate in full force. Shane, Ripp and I went to the meeting with high hopes of their being little if any resistance to our starting the club. The three of us were seated on one side of the room, with the entire group seated across the room glaring at us. More than a dozen various clubs, primarily 1% clubs, each had their respective presidents in attendance, with the exception of one local club, the Selected Sinners. Their support came from my home town of Wichita, due to the local chapter being on a mandatory run. As Wichita was the parent chapter for the Sinners, no exception was taken to their representative or their participation. Although their representative showed up late, I was glad he did, because he seemed to be the only sensible man in the group. With Shane on one side and Ripp on the other, I did my best to respond to the questions as they were asked. “So you ain’t even gonna have a bottom rocker?” one of the men asked.

Jesus, how many times are you going to ask this question? “That is correct. Our colors will employ an upper rocker, club logo, and an “MC” patch with no lower rocker. We claim no territory,” I responded. “So you ain’t claimin’ the state of Texas as your territory?” another man asked. The president of the Selected Sinners cleared his throat and turned toward the man who asked the question. “That same question has been asked a dozen fucking times. Asked, and answered,” he said. He continued to glare at the man, and continued. “They’re a fucking do-gooder club.” Well, I wouldn’t call it that, but… He turned to face me, met my gaze, and stared. After a moment of our eyes remaining locked, he leaned forward slightly and cleared his throat. “What’s your hustle?” he asked. He was asking what, if any, criminal activity the club was going to participate in to support themselves. Not all, but some 1% MCs ventured into a criminal enterprise. I shook my head. “We don’t have one, nor will we. Simply some local fellas that have a common love for bikes, riding, and enjoying the open road. I’m a former Marine, and the brotherhood a club offers is important to me. We don’t need a hustle to support the club.” He leaned back into his seat and nodded his head once. “I say we vote,” he said. “They’re not claiming territory and they aren’t going to interfere with the business of any of the clubs in attendance. If a club isn’t here, as far as I’m concerned, they don’t care, and therefore have no say. We’ve been here thirty minutes, and that’s about twenty-eight too fucking long.” He paused and turned his head toward the left and then toward the right. The meeting was a fly by the seat of your pants affair that no one was really in charge of, and although many had asked questions over the last thirty minutes, the Selected Sinners President seemed to be the one in charge, or at least he was taking charge. “All in favor?” he asked. “Aye,” voices from the group rang out. “Opposed?” he asked.

Silence. I glanced at Ripp and Shane and grinned. “There you have it, fellas. It’s official.” “Appreciate all your time,” I said as I stood from my seat. As a matter of respect, I waited for the men to stand up and either come speak to me or show their lack of interest and go speak to someone else. The first man to come speak was the president of the Selected Sinners. “Slice,” he said as he stepped in front of me. “Welcome to Texas.” “A-Train,” I said as I shook his hand. “President.” I tilted my head to the side. “Dekk, the V.P., and Ripp, Sergeant-At-Arms.” “Pleasure to meet you fellas. I’m pretty tight with Doc back in Wichita, he said you’re originally from there, speaks highly of you,” he said. “Damned fine man,” I said. “Couldn’t agree more,” Slice responded. “Well, if you fellas don’t have plans, we’re headed out to a bar for drinks and a little food. Love to have you ride with us,” he said. Being asked by a 1%er to ride with their club wasn’t unheard of, but it certainly wasn’t common, either. Even if I had other plans, I would have cancelled them out of respect to him and his club. In short, it was an honor to be invited, and it spoke volumes about Slice’s respect for us as a club for him to invite us. “We’ll ride. Know where you’re going?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “Hoping you’d know a place.” “Red Shed,” Ripp said. “Best biker bar in town, and they’re 1%er friendly. “Sounds like my kind of place,” Slice said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the fellas.” “Be right there,” I said. “Just going to go shake a few hands.” Ripp and Dekk followed Slice outside and I wandered the inside of the facility giving anyone an opportunity to speak or introduce themselves. After shaking two hands and being eye-fucked by the remainder of the wannbe gangsters, I stepped outside and peered along the length of motorcycles that had parked outside since we walked in.

“Ripp’s over there,” Dekk said as he tossed his head toward Ripp. He stood forty feet away with four men, all who wore Selected Sinners colors. As my eyes attempted to adjust from the darkened building to the Texas sun, I noticed one of the men had a USMC tattoo on his forearm, which immediately caught my attention. “Staff Sergeant Jacob!” he yelled. I shifted my eyes from his bicep to his face. My mind began to spin. They told me you were dead. I stood and stared. It couldn’t be. There was no way. He had to be be someone else. I slowly walked in his direction. The closer I got, the clearer it became. I blinked my eyes. It had been ten years since I had seen him, but he looked exactly the same. “Sergeant Todelli? The fucking Toad? Holy shit, Brother, I thought you were dead,” I said. He shook his head and grinned. “Fuck, I got medevaced out, treated, handed a Purple Heart, and went right fucking back. But I watched you get killed.” Although I was told by the Lieutenant Colonel that there were no men killed in action in my platoon, Sergeant Todelli was the only casualty my platoon had later suffered from the Second Battle of Fallujah, or at least I had thought. Seeing him opened a part of me that had long since been closed off, and I felt as if I had truly accomplished my task the day I was shot into a piece of Swiss cheese. He opened his arms and we embraced. A whirlwind of emotion that had long since left me quickly returned, and I recalled the last battle I had seen him in. As I released him from my arms, I leaned back and studied him. “Shit, that bastard didn’t kill me. Shot me a few times, but that’s it. They told me you died. I was out six months, handed a couple of medals, and went back. Longest six months of my fucking life. Had to beg those bastards to send me back, and when I got to battalion they said you were dead. I asked around, and no one remembered what happened to you. I guessed you died, but I didn’t know if it was the second in Fallujah or somewhere else,” I said. “Alive and well,” he said. “But when they transferred me to first platoon in Charlie, I heard you died. Died a fucking hero,” he said.

I shook my head and grinned. “Shit, the medevac chopper flew out, and I laid in the fucking street returning fire until a Corpsman drug me behind that building. Fucking sniper shot me twice, but your chopper hadn’t made it out yet. Hell, I had to stay and make sure my Marines got out of there safely. And he had to shoot me one more time for before I got him,” I said. “Ready for anything, counting on nothing,” he said with a laugh. It was the motto of the 2/7 Marines. “Isn’t that the truth. Damn, it’s good to see you,” I said with a nod. He grinned and nodded his head. “Good to be seen. And fuck it’s good to know you’re alive.” Axton crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned back slightly. “I’m guessing you two fuckers don’t need an introduction?” “Not at all,” Toad said with a laugh. “So what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked. “Trying to start a new chapter for our club. Just trying to make sure we don’t step on any toes,” I said. “One percent club?” he asked. “We’re not a 1%er, club, no. We don’t claim territory, and we don’t have any hustle. We just ride and have a deep brotherhood. It’s a nationwide group of firefighters, military, and friends of. We can talk about it at the bar,” I said. Finding out he was alive and well was a huge relief, and quite a boost to my military ego. The emotion I was filled with was unexplainable, and would be the equivalent of someone learning their brother was alive after mourning his death for more than a decade. I stood there admiring him feeling better than I had felt since the war ended, and most definitely more accomplished than I had felt throughout all of my experience in combat. I shook my head, still incapable of believing it was him. “Damn it’s good to see you. Let me introduce you to the soon-to-be Vice-President and Sergeant-at-Arms. Two of the best motherfuckers to ever grace this earth.” “Big bastard here is Mike Ripton, but just call him Ripp,” I said as I extended my arm toward Ripp. “Ripp, this is Toad, a Marine brother of mine. Toad, this is the one and only Ripp,” I said.

“Nice to meet you,” Toad said as his eyes fell to Ripp’s Chucks. Most bikers rode their bikes in boots and jeans, but Ripp wasn’t most bikers. Dressed in his typical cargo shorts, wife beater, and Chuck’s he looked like he was going to the beach, not on a motorcycle ride. Toad coughed a laugh. “Do you ride in those fucking tennis shoes?” “Pleasure to meet ya,” Ripp said as he reached down and grabbed his foot. As he lifted his foot to his chest, he continued. “But these ain’t tennis shoes, Brother. They’re fuckin’ Chuck’s.” Toad’s eyes widened as Ripp released his foot. “And fuck, yes, I ride in ‘em. Hell, I even keep ‘em on when I fuck,” Ripp said. I shook my head and pointed to Shane, who, as always, had stood silently. “Ripp’s going to be the SAA. And this fella here…” “You’re Shane fucking Dekkar,” Toad said excitedly. Shane pulled his hood from his head and extended his hand. “Sure am. Pleasure to meet you, Sir. And call me Dekk.” Toad glanced over his shoulder and quickly turned around. “You’ve got to be fucking shittin’ me. You’ve got the Heavyweight Champion of the fucking World as your Vice President? Otis, did you see this?” A man standing behind him who was no less than six foot six nodded in our direction. “Sure as fuck did. Axton introduced us while you were zoned out.” “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dekkar, call me Toad. And that fight a while back, against Brock? Best fucking fight I’ve ever seen. We all watched it in our clubhouse. Son-of-a-bitch that was a good fight,” Toad said. “Thank you, Sir, I appreciate it. He was a tough opponent,” Dekk said. “Fellas, I want you to meet Staff Sergeant Jacob. Known by his Marine brethren as The A-Train, because when he’s coming, not a fucking thing can stop him,” Toad said to the group of men as he stepped between where we were standing and the building. The group was standing alongside the motorcycles, facing the building, and Toad was facing the group, waving his arms as if he was announcing the arrival of a celebrity. It was easy to forgive his excitement, because I felt exactly the same way, I only did a better job of hiding my emotion.

Slice stood from the side of what I assumed was his bike. “Well, if all you fuckers are done swapping spit and hugging each other, maybe we should head out to the bar.” “Axton, my two o’clock,” Toad said. I glanced over my shoulder to see what he was shouting about. A car slowly pulled into the parking lot. I turned around and shifted my eyes back to Toad, who was looking behind me and now clearly appeared to be concerned. I’d seen the look a thousand times. Something was wrong, and when something was wrong with one of my Marines, something was wrong with me. With the car being the only thing I knew of that was behind me, and Toad’s eyes widening, I glanced over my shoulder again. “Axton, behind you,” I heard Toad shout. The driver of the car was no other than the one piece of shit in my life I allowed to walk away. The man who attempted to rob us before Shane’s title fight. The man who I kicked in the head. And he was pointing a pistol out the window of the car. Fuck. I should have killed your sorry ass. “Remember me, Motherfucker?” he asked. The barrel of his pistol was pointed directly at my chest, and there was no time to react. I tensed my muscles and prepared to be shot once again. But this time at point blank range. At the same instant the sound of the weapon firing filled the air, Toad jumped between me and the car. The shock of the bullet impacting my body never came. As the car sped away, Toad fell into me, and slowly began to collapse to the ground. No. No. No! Immediately, I reverted back to my training, and became the commander of my men. “Dekk, get a plate number of that car, move!” I screamed as I fought to prevent Toad’s body from

falling to the pavement. “Ripp! Run that motherfucker down and yank his ass out of that fucking car!” I screamed. I glanced at my watch and quickly shifted my eyes toward the men. Dekk ran toward the speeding car, and Ripp hopped on his motorcycle. As the car sped toward the on ramp, I saw Ripp’s motorcycle shoot across the lot, over the curb and through an adjacent yard, and onto the ramp behind the shooter’s car. Get him, Brother Ripp. I shifted my eyes to Sergeant Todelli. He was losing blood with each beat of his heart. A tourniquet was impossible. “Corpsman!” I screamed. I shook my head as I realized I had no support and I wasn’t at war. “Call a fucking ambulance!” I slapped the palm of my hand against Todelli’s face as I lowered him to the ground. “God damn it, Sergeant, hold on.” His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. If an ambulance didn’t show up within minutes, I was going to have a dead Marine on my hands. Your will, not mine, Lord. But we both know who that bullet was meant for. He lived through that hell hole trying to make this world a better place, don’t take him now. I’m begging you. “Open those eyes for me, Todelli,” I said as I slapped his face again lightly. “Talk to me.” He opened his eyes and grinned. “We’re…you and me…we’re…” I could hear the blood in his lungs. We needed a medevac, and we needed it immediately. “Hold on Sergeant Todelli. Medevac’s en route,” I lied. He opened his eyes. “Hear that chopper, Brother?” I asked. “Corpsman’s on his way.” He opened his eyes fixed them on mine. There was no doubt in my mind he wasn’t going to live

much longer. “You and me,” he said. “We’re even.” Obviously, he felt I saved his life the day I laid in the street and shot the three snipers. But I wasn’t ready to lose one of the Marines I almost died saving. Not in that parking lot. And not by the hand of the piece of human shit I chose to let live. As the ambulance came screeching around the corner, I carried my Marine to the street. “Gunshot wound to the chest, his lung is collapsed,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “Fourteen minutes.” They strapped him to a gurney and began to attempt to prevent his lung from collapsing completely. As they began to load him in the back of the ambulance, I pulled myself inside. “Sorry, you can’t…” “There isn’t one of you that’s going to stop me,” I said. “Now get my Marine to the hospital.” As the ambulance sped away, I lowered my head and prayed. Only you know what lies before him, Lord. If his life has meaning, and his soul has purpose, and I do believe it does, I ask that you spare his life. And, if you must, take another of this earth, but not this man. Not now. Amen.



CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN Early Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA I kneeled at the edge of the hospital bed and held his hand in mine as Katie’s hand rested against my shoulder. Cambio Todelli was in a coma, and there was no consensus on his potential recovery. According to the doctors, he may come out of it, and he may stay in it forever. I had no idea of what to expect, and left the outcome in the hands of God. Mentally, spiritually, and physically, I attempted to release myself from the feeling of responsibility to keep him alive, realizing my health and sanity was far more important than anything. As Otis, Slice, and Ripp walked into the room I stood and turned to face them. “We’re going down to get something to eat.” “Hell, I’ll go with ya,” Ripp said. “I’m going to stay up here. His girl is supposed to be here pretty quick,” Otis said. “Mine’s coming with her,” Slice said. “I’ll wait up here ‘till they get here anyway, then I’ll be down.” Ripp had followed the shooter in a high speed chase down the highway for several miles. While a traffic jam slowed the vehicles to a halt, he dumped his bike, ran to the car, and pulled the guy through the window. One of the stopped motorists called police, and when the police arrived, Ripp was still beating on the guy.

I walked to Ripp’s, patted him on the shoulder, and nodded my head toward Otis and Axton. “We’ll be back up as soon as we’re done. If you’re not down first.” “See ya in a bit,” Otis said with a nod of his head. Axton nodded his head toward us and slapped his hand against my back as we passed. We silently walked to the elevator, got inside, and independently stared at the closed elevator doors as we rode to the first floor. I was truly blessed to have Katie in my life, and seriously doubted I would have had the state of mind or the spirit to accept Toad’s condition as God’s will if it had not been for her. The elevator doors opened and as we stepped from the elevator, Katie gasped. “What?” I asked. She grinned and shook her head. “Did you see that?” “See what?” I asked. “The light. When we were getting out,” she said as she peered over her shoulder toward the elevator. I shook my head and glanced toward Ripp. “Come on,” he said. “Dekk’s in there with Austin.” “What happened?” I asked as I turned toward Katie, confused as to what had startled her. “The elevator light, it flickered,” she said. I shrugged my shoulders. “Fluorescent lights do that sometimes. Probably a bad ballast.” She grinned, grabbed my hand, and proceeded to skip down the hallway toward Ripp. “Well,” she said as she tugged against my arm. “I said a prayer on the elevator. And I asked for a sign. God answered me. So, he’s going to be just fine.” “I don’t think it’s that easy,” I said. “I do,” she responded. As we walked to the cafeteria hand-in-hand, I hoped she was right. After getting a plate of fruit and a few muffins, we sat down at the table with Austin and Ripp. “So, any changes?” Austin asked.

I shook my head. “Not yet.” “Made a few calls.” Dekk said. “Seeing if we can get a specialist in here.” “Appreciate it,” I said with a nod as I reached for a banana. “He’s going to be fine, I’m sure of it,” Katie said. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” Austin said. “You never know. It’s not good to get your hopes up.” “Shut up, Austin. What the fuck do you know?” Ripp growled. “Why do you say he’s gonna be fine, Bug?” Ripp asked. “I said a prayer, and God gave me a sign,” she said cheerily. “Can’t argue with that,” Ripp said as he glared at Austin. “I’m not going argue God with you,” Austin said, waving his hand toward Ripp as he spoke. “Not a believer?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t really know.” I glanced toward the entrance of the cafeteria as Otis, Slice and who I assumed was Slice’s girlfriend walked into the cafeteria. I turned to face Austin again. “I’m not going to argue God, either. And I’m damned sure not going condemn you. But let me ask you this. Why not?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. “Never really had a reason to believe.” I nodded my head. For me, it wasn’t a difficult thing to believe. All I had to do was look around me. For others, however, it wasn’t always that easy. I said a quick prayer for Austin as Slice, Otis and the girl with them sat at the adjacent table. Axton cleared his throat, placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder, and stood from his seat. “Fellas, this is my Ol’ Lady, Avery. Avery, this is Toad’s friend and former Marine commander, A-Train. And the one on his right is Ripp, the man who ran down Toad’s shooter and damned near beat him to death, and the one on the left is Shane Dekkar. Ripp’s sister, Katie, and the other fella is Austin. How’d I do?” I nodded my head. “Perfect.” He grinned a shallow grin as he lowered himself into his seat.

“Nice to meet all of you,” Avery said. “He’s awake! He’s awake!” Someone shouted from the cafeteria entrance. I spun in my chair toward the screaming. As everyone jumped from their seats, I followed, not knowing for sure who it was who was doing all of the screaming. “Come on!” Otis shouted as the woman turned away and ran toward the door. As we all ran for the exit, I glanced toward Austin. Reason enough?



CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT Early Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA It wasn’t surprising that a broken collarbone and punctured lung didn’t keep Toad down for long. After his continuous demands to be released from the hospital, they complied, and he stayed in my home for the remainder of his recovery. I found his stay to be a pleasant change for me. I had been living alone for several years, and although I constantly found myself looking forward to the day that Katie and I lived together, actually sharing my mornings and evenings with someone was nice. Two weeks after his release from the hospital, he went back to Kansas. Seeing him in a healthy relationship provided reassurance that a full recovery from the war was not only probable, but quite possible. “I know I don’t have to, I want to,” I said. “It’s something I think needs to be done.” “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll make a trade with you. I’ll agree to it as long as we get to eat some of those peaches when we get done.” I glanced toward the kitchen counter. I found it surprising that she noticed I had purchased them. “Deal,” I said. “Okay,” she responded as she walked into the living room and sat down. My new home was an open floor plan with a kitchen that faced the front of the house. Directly behind the kitchen sink was a large island and bar, and beyond it, the large open living room that faced the back deck. The entire back wall was lined with windows, providing not only a view of the spacious back

yard, but of Dekk’s pool. I grabbed my coffee, followed her into the living room, and sat across from her in a chair. “I struggle, not as bad as I used to, but I still do. You know, with everything I did, and even some things I didn’t do. My mind struggles with the men I’ve killed, and it’s weird. It’s not that I wonder if it was necessary, because it was. But there’s a part of me somewhere that isn’t completely convinced of it. So I have dreams, moments of pause, and sometimes I just sit and think about it,” I said. She cupped her hands around her coffee cup as she rocked back and forth lightly on the cushion of the couch. After a moment she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “But you don’t dwell on it?” she asked. “No, I mean, I’m fully functional. So, no. I don’t dwell on it,” I said. “And it’s getting better? It’s better now than it was when you came home?” she asked. “Much better. I used to sleep about three hours a night. Hell, when I was in Wichita, I’d get up at night and check the doors, go outside, check under the cars before I drove them. It was pretty bad,” I said. “But none of that now?” I shook my head. “None of that, no.” “I’m sure it just takes time,” she said. I inhaled slowly as I gazed down at the floor. As I shifted my eyes to meet hers, I continued. “Well, that’s not all of what I wanted to talk about. I’ve uhhm. Since the war, I’ve done some things. Things I’m not ashamed of, but I haven’t uhhm. I haven’t admitted them to anyone but God.” I felt the need to be truthful with her. I had not, nor would I ever lie to her, but not telling her everything about me, at least in my mind, was the same as not telling her the truth. In my opinion, for her to commit to spend a lifetime with me, she needed to know exactly who I was. She leaned to the side, placed her cup on the end table and folded her arms in front of her chest. “Bad things?” “In my mind, not so much. In most people’s eyes, I’d say so,” I said. “Are you going to get arrested some day?” she asked. I shook my head. “No.” As she nodded her head softly, I decided to expand my response.

“I could be, but I won’t,” I said. She tightened her grip on herself as if she were cold. “Are you sure?” I was talking in a circle, and not giving her the information I had intended to. It was all too easy for me to give minimal information and convince myself I had actually discussed – at length – whatever the subject was I intended to discuss. It was typical of the Marine in me. “Katie,” I said. “I’ve killed men.” “I know,” she said. “You had to.” I shook my head. “Since the war.” Her eyes widened slightly, and she shifted them to the side, gazing beyond me. I studied her as she stared blankly at the kitchen behind me, her eyes eventually narrowing into slits as she drifted deep into thought. After a moment, she shifted her eyes to me, inhaled a slow breath and dropped her gaze to the floor. “Like Ripp did? Guys like that?” she asked. “Worse,” I responded. “Do you want to talk about it?” “Do I need to?” “I guess…” “Let me say this,” I interrupted. “I have no idea how or why my mind works the way it does. I’m not saying I’m always right, but I sure think I am for some reason. Whether I’m an active duty Marine or not, I’m a protector. I feel like it’s my duty to protect the people on this earth from what is evil, because I am able. And, believe me, not everyone is able.” “Now I don’t plan on scouring the nation looking for any and everyone who is evil, but when evil threatens the ones I love, I’ll take care of it,” I said. She unfolded her arms, reached for her coffee, and took a drink. As she lowered her cup, her eyes followed it. “So you’re protecting your loved ones from harm,” she said as she shifted her eyes to meet mine. “Exactly,” I said. “I’m not agreeing with you just to agree with you,” she said. “But you know, when I think about

what happened to me, and what Ripp did…” Her eyes dropped to the coffee cup and she hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I wish someone would have done that to him a long time ago. You know he told Ripp that he had done that before to several women, and no one would testify against him. So he just kept doing it.” She lifted her eyes from the cup and continued. “I mean, you’re a good guy. A great guy. I’ve lived in Texas my entire life. This state is full of vigilantes. People walk around with guns on their belts. Ripp was robbed at gunpoint a year ago, and a guy tried to take his car. We were almost robbed that night at the bar, and then that guy shot your friend, Toad. I guess I trust you.” It seemed all too easy. I didn’t expect her to agree with me, but having her do so was comforting. I pressed my forearms onto my knees and leaned forward. “Trust me to what?” I asked. “Make good decisions,” she said. “So, you’re not upset about it?” She shook her head. “Really? I’ve lived with Ripp my entire life. He’s beaten up guys for looking at girls cross-eyed. And Shane? Yeah, he might come off as a really mellow guy, but he’s not. When he first got here he was going out to bars and beating the crap out of guys who he thought were shitty. And I know what Ripp did to Kace’s old boyfriend. He got drunk and told us. No, I’m not upset.” I felt relieved, but I was still not convinced she had accepted me for who I was. “That night the guy tried to rob us?” I said. “Yeah?” “Well, I wished I wouldn’t have let him go,” I said. There. I said it. Her mouth twisted into a slight smirk. “Alec, we all talked about it when we drove around the block. I was sure you had killed him. So was everyone else.” I scrunched my brow and stared. “Really?” “You know,” she said. “There’s a huge difference between people like me and Vee and Kace and people like you and Ripp and Shane. We might not be able to always tell you what we want or even what we expect when it comes to things like that, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want them. Deep down inside, we want them. We just don’t want to talk about it.”

She stood from the couch and picked up her coffee cup. “One reason, one big reason I was originally attracted to you? Because I knew you’d always protect me. And I knew you were able.” I followed her with my eyes as she walked toward the kitchen. Half-way there, she glanced over her shoulder. “I just don’t want to hear the details,” she said. I stood from the chair as she poured another cup of coffee. There wasn’t a person on the entire earth who could claim to be perfect in a complete sense, but for me, Katie was as close as a person could be. All I could hope for was that one day I could be the same in her eyes. “Alec,” she said over her shoulder. As she realized I was walking in her direction, she continued. “We all have flaws. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re perfect.” And, at that instant, I realized the day I had waited for arrived.



CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA Austin had won his first three fights, proving not only that he was a great boxer, but that I was capable of teaching him. The pride I felt in his abilities was probably similar to what a child’s father felt when his son accomplished a difficult goal. Shane paid to have a new gym built, and we were all enjoying the size, new equipment, and additional boxing rings. Waiting in line to be able to spar was a thing of the past, and although the old gym was still available, it was becoming more of a museum than anything. My life, entirely, was as in order as it had ever been. In the grand scheme of things, I exhaled, paused, and inhaled a long slow breath of appreciation. “You’re just going to have to get used to it. You’re a father now, and being a father is about makin’ sacrifices,” Mr. Ripton said. He had Jessie balanced on his knee, holding her in place with one hand and was eating a hamburger with the other. Ripp crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Since when do we not have chicken?” “Since now,” his father responded. Ripp turned his head to face his mother and sighed. “Seriously, we’re not going to have any chicken?” “Meal’s been served, Mike. Look around you,” his father said sternly. “Everyone’s about done

eatin’. You been bitchin’ about it for fifteen minutes.” “The burgers are really good,” Kace said as she held her half-eaten burger in the air. I shifted my eyes toward Mrs. Ripton. She glanced up from her plate and nodded her head toward Kace. “Thank you, Kace.” “Burgers are really good,” Ripp repeated sarcastically as his eyes darted around the table for something satisfactory to eat. Ripp’s eating habits were similar to that of a teenage girl. He refused to eat hamburger, claiming it would make him fat. Although I wasn’t as big as Ripp, I was certainly in better physical condition, and I ate beef on a regular basis. Despite Shane’s and my attempts to convince him otherwise, he wouldn’t eat a hamburger if we tried to force him. It was now apparent even his parents couldn’t convince him to. “I say we go the next year and eat Sunday Burgers. I’d like to watch you wither away. You don’t fight anymore anyway,” his father said as he reached for another burger. Ripp furrowed his brow and glared at his father. “I still fight. I fought last weekend.” “Fightin’ in Rundberg doesn’t count, Mike. Bare knuckles fights are for kids and thugs. You need to grow up,” he said. Katie choked on her food and began to laugh. I pursed my lips and shifted my eyes toward Ripp, fully knowing he would respond with some type of smart-assed remark. “Grow up?” Ripp howled as he waved his arm toward his father. “I’ve got a house, a kid, and a wife. How much more can I grow up?” “Shane bought you that house, you ain’t got a wife ‘cause you ain’t actually married, you’re still fightin’ bare knuckles matches in Rundberg for cash, and I’m holding your baby. I’d say you could stand to grow up plenty,” he responded. “Gimme the baby,” Ripp demanded. “Eat a burger,” his father said as he nodded his head toward the platter of hamburgers. “I ain’t eatin’ a burger,” Ripp said. “Gimme the baby.” Mr. Ripton shifted his eyes from Ripp toward me. “What do you weigh, Alec?” “Hundred ninety-five, Sir,” I responded.

“You get on that machine at the gym? The one where they test your fat?” he asked. “Body fat percentage? Yes, Sir, I do,” I responded. He took a bite of his burger, shifted his eyes to Ripp, and glared at him as he chewed. After swallowing, he placed the remainder onto his plate and began to bounce the Jessie on his knee, but never moved his eyes away from Ripp. With their eyes locked, he continued. “So, Alec. What’s your fat? How much fat you got?” he asked. “Eight point two percent this morning, Sir,” I responded. “Huh,” he said, still staring at Ripp. “So, Mike. What do you weigh?” “What’s your point?” Ripp asked. Vee chuckled. “Answer your father.” “Two-forty, give or take,” Ripp said. “And the fat?” Mr. Ripton asked. Ripp clenched his jaw and stared. “Alec, you eat hamburgers?” his father asked as he shifted his eyes from Ripp to me. “Yes, Sir,” I responded, fighting not to smile as I did. “This is funny,” Katie whispered. I nodded my head. Ripp sighed, reached for the plate of burgers, and picked one up. “None of your business,” he responded. “I’m thinkin’ you could learn a lot from Alec,” Mr. Ripton said. “Alec ain’t perfect, Pop,” Ripp snapped back. “More so than you,” his father said as he reached for his burger. “He’s got a different metabolism,” Ripp snarled. “Sure does,” his father said as he finished his burger. “It’s called devotion.” Ripp had already eaten half the burger. As he glared at his father, he dramatically opened his

hands and dropped the remainder onto his plate. “You sayin’ I ain’t devoted?” “I said all I got to say,” his father said. “That’s about enough,” Mrs. Ripton said softly. “It’s Sunday, we should all get along.” Katie grinned as she squeezed my knee. When we gathered on Sundays, I’d become accustomed to her having her hand on my leg for almost the entire meal, which was something that developed over time. I glanced around the table as everyone quietly ate and realized I was amongst my family. Since moving to Texas, my old habits had faded away one by one, leaving a void within me. The void, entirely, had been filled with new events, new people, and new purpose. There was no doubt in my mind I was exactly where I belonged. After everyone finished their meal and began to tell stories of bare knuckles matches, changing diapers, and babies learning to eat solid food, I lowered my head and said a one-word prayer. Courage. I lifted my head, glanced at Mr. Ripton, and as he met my gaze, winked. In response, he furrowed his brow and glared back at me. I stood from my seat. “Since I’ve moved to this fine state of yours, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve grown considerably, and not in size, but in my ability to become human again. I look at each and every one of you as family, and I appreciate all you do for me,” I said. “But something’s missing,” I said as I turned to face Katie. “Something I’m afraid I can’t go any longer without at least attempting to fix it.” “There’s a huge hole in my soul, and I feel empty sometimes. So, tonight, I’m going to take a step toward repairing that one part of me that remains broken.” I lowered myself to kneeling, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the ring. “Katie, would you consider filling the void within me by agreeing to be my wife?” I asked. Her mouth curled into a smile. She glanced toward her father. I did the same. He grinned and nodded his head. She gazed down at me with her beautiful blue eyes and responded. “Yes,” she said excitedly. As I slipped the ring onto her finger she reached for the back of my head with her free hand. I’d

never been one for public displays of affection, but as she pulled me into her for a kiss, I didn’t resist at all. I closed my eyes, kissed her, and allowed myself to become lost in the moment, but not so much that I wasn’t able to hear her father. “Yeah,” her father said. “I’m thinkin’ you could learn a lot from Alec.”



CHAPTER FORTY Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA Regardless of my attempts to separate myself mentally or physically from my family, they were, and would always remain, my flesh and blood. No amount of effort, or lack of the same, would ever be able to break that bond. I stared at the text message, reluctant to respond, but fully knowing I needed to. It’s dad. Wherever you are, you need to come home. He’s bad. As much as I despised some of the decisions my father had made, he was still my father. He was the man I once admired, and always looked up to. He was the one who taught me how to shoot a rifle, how to hunt, and how, at least initially, to defend myself. He made his values my values, and instilled a belief system within me that allowed me to become a hero in the eyes of many and a remarkable man in the eyes of at least one woman. “Who was it?” she asked. I glanced up from my phone and gazed blankly in her direction. The possibilities of what could have happened to him were running through my head, and it wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to face him, I really didn’t want to face the problem – or the unmistakable truth that he was getting older. “Huh?” I murmured. “Your phone. You didn’t answer. Who called?” she asked. “My sister,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I guess I knew you had a sister, but…” “I need to call her back, she sent me a text message,” I said. “Is everything okay?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “Hard to say with her.” I pressed redial, and paced the floor as the phone rang. Four rings into the call, and one ring away from me hanging up, and she answered. “Alec?” she asked. “Is that you?” “Who else would it be?” I asked sarcastically. “So what happened?” “He had another heart attack. His COPD is pretty bad and his heartbeat is irregular. They uhhm. They said if you want to see him alive, you better get here in in the next few hours,” she said. “They don’t know shit,” I snapped back. “Alec, he’s at the heart hospital. Galicia. A specialist has been assigned to him. He’s had a lot more heart attacks than you’re aware of, and he’s had all the bypasses they can give him. They were talking about an ablation, but they don’t think he’ll live through the procedure. It’s complicated. Come home,” she said softly. After my second tour, she had given me her promise to keep her son. Raising him without a husband certainly wasn’t an easy task for her, but it wasn’t impossible, either. After giving up on herself and her ability to raise him without assistance, she had moved back in with my father. Before my tour ended, he talked her into giving the child up for adoption. I’d never forgiven her for doing so, and I had my doubts as to whether or not I would ever be able to. Since I turned my back on her and my father, it wasn’t uncommon for her to stretch the truth regarding my father’s medical condition – all in an effort to get me to be closer to her – and to him. “I am home, Alicia. I live in Texas now. I tell you what. I’ll drive up there, but if this is another one of your bullshit…” “The doctor’s given him a few hours to live, Alec. I don’t know how long it will take you to get here, but if it takes too long, I’m afraid…” “Be there in eight hours,” I said. And I hung up the phone.



CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Summer 2015, Wichita, KS, USA I stood in the waiting room with my sister, the doctor, and Katie. Everything he was telling us was not at all what I had hoped for, expected, or was prepared to process. No child, regardless of the relationship they have with their parent, wants to hear that their death is not only certain, but imminent. There are few certainties in life, death being one of them. Knowing when the exact moment will be that we are going to draw out last breath is something everyone seems curious about, but no one really wants to know the answer to. “So, if the ablation isn’t done, it’s your professional opinion that he won’t make through the night?” I asked. “That is correct. His defibrillator receives a signal from the heart, if you will. That signal is processed, and recorded. If the signal is irregular or becomes irregular, the device shocks the heart, much like the paddles I’m sure you’ve seen in the movies that they rub on someone’s chest to shock them back to life. The shock is intended to correct the heartbeat.” He paused and gazed down at the floor. As he shifted his eyes upward he continued. “Your father’s heart has a spot on it which is sending false or inaccurate signals to the device. We monitor the device remotely, and it had gone off over a two-dozen times in 24 hours. In short, your father has suffered half a dozen heart attacks in the last day.” “And the ablation procedure corrects that?” I asked.

“It may,” he said. “In a sense, we burn the heart, causing it to scar, and remove that section of heart from sending false signals. The process is a timely one, and that is my concern.” “The anesthesia?” I asked. “Not the anesthesia itself, but the length of time he would be required to be under anesthesia. My guess is six hours or more,” he said. “And the decision is mine to make?” I asked. “You’re listed as the next of kin, and there is no wife, so yes,” he said. I had watched his eyes the entire time he had been speaking, and although it came as no surprise, and it was my opinion that he believed every word he said. I stared down at the toes of my boots and held my gaze there for some time, wishing twenty-four hours had passed, so it would be tomorrow already. I lifted my head, glanced at my sister, and my eyes were immediately drawn to my mother’s diamond bracelet she was wearing. A gift from my father on their 25th wedding anniversary, he had said buying her the traditional silver wouldn’t serve as any form of justice to commemorate the quality of woman she was. Diamonds worn around the wrist, according to him, would draw attention to the fact that he perceived her as valuable. She wasn’t valuable. She was priceless. After my combat training and before I deployed the first time to Iraq, my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Four short weeks later, under the care of the best staff money could buy, she passed peacefully while in her sleep. She was a saint of a woman, always placing others before herself, and never turning her back on someone in need. Growing up, I admired my father; but I adored my mother. She died without ever having an opportunity to meet her grandson. I shifted my eyes from my sister’s wrist to the doctor. “Do the ablation procedure.” I reached up, gripped Katie’s wrist, and lowered her hand from my shoulder to my side. As Alicia’s eyes followed the path of my hand, I nodded my head toward her wrist. “We’ll get it started right away, I’ll keep you up to speed as the procedure makes progress the best I can, but don’t expect any progress reports for at least two hours,” he said. I nodded my head.

“You know that should be kept in a safe deposit box or a safe,” I said as I tilted my head toward my mother’s bracelet. “I think she’d want me to enjoy it,” she said. “That was for someone who was priceless,” I said as I gripped Katie’s hand. “You heard the story. Priceless.” “Alec, please. Don’t…” I raised my hand between us to silence her. “We’ll be over there,” I said as I tilted my head toward the corner of the waiting room. “I’d appreciate it if…” I paused and shook my head, unwilling and almost incapable of continuing. Seeing her was much more difficult than I would have imagined. “Are you okay?” Katie asked as I turned away. “I’ll be fine,” I said, realizing I had acted inappropriately toward my sister in front of her. “I’m sorry. There’s just a lot of animosity between us.” “I can see that,” she whispered. We walked to the corner of the room and sat down on a small sofa. I dug through the magazines at the table beside the arm of the couch, hoping to find answers to questions I had yet to ask, but instead found nothing. I lifted my boot, and propped it onto my knee as I gazed toward the far end of the room. Alicia sat on the far sofa with her head in her hands. “You told me you always give people a second chance. Did you give your sister one?” she asked. I lifted my boot from my knee and let my foot drop to the floor. I turned to face her, mentally prepared to answer, but incapable of doing so without admitting I had excluded my sister from a fundamental rule I had applied to all walks of life. With the exception of Alicia. “No,” I responded. “Well maybe you should,” she said. I was the first to admit when I was wrong, but I was rarely wrong. It wasn’t that I believed I was without fault, or that I was arrogant or egotistical, because I wasn’t. But my actions always came as a result of deep thought, and contemplation of any and every possible scenario that may arise as a result of my decision.

I was left living a life with few mistakes. My eyes fell to the square tiles on the floor and I counted the years since my sister and I had acted as loving siblings. Twelve. I had never considered myself a stubborn person, but as I shifted my focus to the other end of the room, I came to realize I had yet to walk in my sister’s shoes. My forgiveness wouldn’t act as an acceptance of her behavior, only an admittance on my part that I, too, wasn’t without fault. I stood from my seat and humbly walked to where she was seated, thinking the entire time of what she must have gone through in her decision to allow her only child to be placed up for adoption. Her choice, although unfathomable to me, had to be extremely difficult for her. “Come sit with us,” I said. She glanced up, wiping her eyes as she did. She had obviously been crying long before I arrived, and looked ten years older than she probably would have on any other day. Alone. “Come on,” I said as I reached for her hand. “You can come cry with us.” “I miss him so much,” she said as she cupped my hands in hers. “Who?” I asked, and then immediately realized I knew the answer. “Derek,” she said. I gripped her hand firmly in mine. “So do I.” “That’s a beautiful ring,” she said as we stepped in front of Katie. Katie reached for the ring and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger as she responded. “Thank you,” “And I love the bracelet,” Alicia said. “Yours too,” Katie said as Alicia sat down. “Let me tell you a story about it,” Alicia said as she glanced at the bracelet. “My father said every day that my mother wore it, no one would question her value to him. He said the bracelet would prove to all who saw it that she was priceless. And she was.”

Katie shifted her eyes to meet mine. I shrugged my shoulders and grinned. In case Katie didn’t already know, she now realized that to me, she was priceless. The talking and story-telling continued for some time, and I agreed to go get us a cup of acceptable coffee from the coffee bar by the cafeteria. As I walked from the room and turned down the hallway, I realized not only did I have a family in Texas, I had another in Kansas. And the thought of having both let me feel just a little closer to becoming human.



CHAPTER FORTY-TWO Summer 2015, Wichita, KS, USA As he walked into the room, the first thing I noticed was how he wouldn’t make eye contact with any of us. With his head hung low, he continued to walk in our direction. “Come on.” I said as I stood. We met in the center of the room, and he raised his head slowly. “Well, he’s one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever seen.” “Alive and stubborn?” I asked. “Yes, he’s alive,” he said. “I guess telling you now causes no harm, but we lost him twice.” Alicia gasped. “Oh no.” “It’s irrelevant now,” he said as he raised his hands in front of his chest. He poked himself in the lower portion of his chest with the tip of his finger. “The portion we worked on was here.” “It ended up being a much larger part than I had anticipated. The procedure took six hours,” he said. “He’s in recovery now, and I suspect you’ll be able to see him in an hour or so,” he said. “I’ll let you know as soon as we have him in a room.” “Thank you,” I said.

The six hours had passed like minutes. Sitting with my sister talking about our childhood, my new life, her new job, and Shane’s son went rather well, and I enjoyed it immensely. As the doctor left the room we turned toward the couch we had been seated on. “Have you ever eaten Pho?” I asked Katie. “What?” she asked. The food was my sister’s favorite, at least the best I could remember. She and her friends would drive repeatedly to a Vietnamese soup kitchen when they were 16 years old and devour the soup, and she would come home without enough appetite to eat dinner. I refused to even try the stuff as a kid, and although many years had passed, I still had yet to try it. “It’s a noodle soup,” I said. “I love noodle soup,” she responded. “You eat it now?” Alicia asked. “Never tried the stuff. You still like it?” I asked. “Love it,” she said. “Well, Erik Ead brags on the shit like it’s gold. Let’s go grab a bowl before they get him to a room, I’m hungry,” I said. “Who’s Erik Ead?” she asked. “A good friend,” I responded. “So, do you want to?” “I’d love to,” Alicia responded. I raised my arms and wrapped them around the two women’s shoulders who I cared dearly for. One bound to me by blood, and both by love. As we walked to the door, I realized Alicia reminded me of my mother. By the time we reached Alicia’s car, I admitted I resembled my father in many ways, one of which was described accurately by his doctor. I was stubborn.



CHAPTER FORTY-THREE Late Summer 2015, Wichita, Kansas, USA As a child, I made a decision on my own to believe in God. I don’t think children require much convincing to believe, for most I suspect it comes rather easily. Believing there was a mighty being in charge of the universe pulling the strings from above like a talented puppeteer continued for me until I was a teenager. I gave considerable thought to the subject as a teen, and as I became more and more intelligent about my surroundings, I decided not only that I believed in God, but that God wasn’t a puppeteer. God was real. My mother was outspoken about her belief in God and was a religious woman. Although Alicia and I went to service with her on almost every Sunday as children, I never saw my father step foot into a church. Initially, I though fathers in general were too busy for church and probably didn’t attend, especially after working as hard as they did for the entire week to provide for their families. As time passed, and I grew older, I determined my father wasn’t sure about the existence of God. It wasn’t something he talked about, nor was it something he ever admitted. He didn’t have to, we just knew. As a believer, I often wondered what would happen to my father when the clock ran out. When his heart beat its last drop of blood through his veins what would be next? Would there be some means of forgiveness for stupidity?

Would he receive a free pass for being stubborn? Did he really believe and was simply too afraid to admit it? With the series of tubes taped to his mouth and extended into his throat, it was impossible for him to speak, and our only means of communication was by writing on a pad of paper with a pen. Clearly frustrated and growing angrier by the minute, communicating with him was similar to playing a game of charades. “Need me to scratch somewhere? Alicia asked. He shook his head from side to side frantically. “Want a drink?” she asked. He widened his bloodshot eyes and stared. I turned toward her and glared. “Jesus, Alicia. He can’t drink.” Although he was alive and they expected a full recovery, he was extremely frail at the moment. Regardless, I placed the pen in his shaking hand and held the pad close to his chest. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to write, but he didn’t seem to be in agreement. He glanced at the pad, raised the pen slightly, and upon realizing he was incapable of writing, closed his eyes and released it. The pen fell on the edge of the bed, rolled to the floor, and Katie bent down to pick it up. I glanced at Alicia and shrugged my shoulders. “Let me see the pad,” Katie said. I reached for the pad, handed it to Katie, and patted him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s just going to take time.” He blinked his eyes. Alicia, standing at the foot of the bed, reached out and squeezed his feet. “They said maybe tomorrow they’ll take the tube out.” He blinked his eyes again. They were covered in a light film of grease, which made him seem even less able to exist on his own. As I studied him and wondered just how much longer he would actually live, Katie handed me the pad and pen. “Here,” she said. “The entire alphabet. Point at the letter and have him blink his eyes or something.”

I felt like an idiot. “Thank you, Baby,” I said as I accepted the pad. I held the pad in front of him and pointed at the letters one at a time, starting with “A”. When I got to “G”, he nodded his head. I repeated the process, and when I got to “O”, he did the same. “Good to see you?” Alicia blurted, attempting to guess what it was he was trying to say. He shook his head and did his best to glare at her with his grease covered eyes. “Just let him finish,” I said. The next letter was learned rather quickly, and surprised me somewhat. In choosing “D”, he had so far spelled God, but I was quite certain we weren’t done yet. When he chose the letter “W”, I wasn’t sure where he was leading us, but we continued, each of us eager for our own reasons to see just what it was he was determined to say. After a matter of a few minutes we had all of the pieces to the puzzle. A chill ran down my spine. I suppose I was relieved by the answer, but I was also shocked. I wanted to know more, but realized I would just have to wait. For now, I was satisfied that my father’s life would probably be changing in some respects. Or so I hoped. I placed the pad beside him on the bed and patted him on the shoulder. “I love you, Pop.” He blinked his eyes, closed them, and fell asleep. I guessed, at least for the time being, he had said all it was he felt he needed to. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee while he’s sleeping,” I said. As Katie and Alicia turned toward the door, chatting as if they were long lost friends, I tore the sheet of paper from the pad and gave it one last look before I folded it and placed it in my pocket. God was there.



CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR Late Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA “There should be two options, but according to him, there’s only one. I guess I see his point,” I said. “The attachment to home?” she asked. “Basically. That’s the home he married my mother in and raised his children in. There aren’t many people who stay in a home that long, and he has. He doesn’t want to leave,” I said. My father was going to require someone to be with him at all times, at least for a while. Although Alicia had been with him for the entire time he had been out of the hospital, it was time for her to return to Ohio, or she was going to lose her new job. I realized using a home healthcare company was an option, but I felt it would be insensitive and selfish on my part. Going to Kansas, however, seemed impossible. My options, however, were limited. It was Friday, and Alicia had to be to work on Monday. I had dodged the subject as long as I was able and it was time for me to make a decision. I sat across from her and buried my head in my hands. “What do you want to do?” Katie asked. I raised my head from my sweaty palms and glanced in her direction. Sitting on the couch smiling, it was as if she was immune to my concerns and worries. Either that or she knew something I didn’t. “Want to do? Stay here and not have this problem,” I said. She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Don’t call it a problem, Alec. It’s not a problem. Look at it as an opportunity.”

I choked on the thought. “An opportunity?” “Yes. You’ve been separated from him for what? Ten years? And now you’ve finally either forgiven him or yourself, however you want to look at it. It’s an opportunity for you to get to know him again, and for him to catch up on everything with you,” she said. I leaned into the back of the chair and crossed my arms. “And what about you?” “What do you mean what about me? I’m going with you. What else would I do?” she asked. The night I asked Katie on a date, her father’s message to me was clear. You’re not from here. And I ain’t lookin’ to have my daughter taken from me, Mr. Jacob. Not now or ever. As far as I’m concerned, she can leave Texas when I’m dead, but not before. Taking her with me, even for what I believed to be a temporary resolution to his condition, would likely be met by a hell no response. “Your father made it clear that he didn’t want me to take you from here. He was adamant about it. Me staying here in Texas, and you never leaving. He said you could leave when he’s dead.” I said. She chuckled. “Sounds like something he’d say. But, is your father going to require your assistance forever?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t think so.” “Neither do I. So, you’re not taking me from here. Or from him. We’d be going there for a while to take care of your father. We’ll be back,” she said. I nodded my head in agreement, knowing damned well it wasn’t that easy. I was going to have to talk to her father, and I was quite sure his opinion wasn’t going to be the same as hers. The thought of leaving, in general, had kept me from sleeping for the last ten days. The thought of leaving her, even on a temporary basis, seemed impossible for me. But taking her seemed equally impossible. I felt sick to my stomach. “I’ll talk to your father,” I said. “Either way, I’m going to have to be there Monday.” “We’ll be there Monday,” she said. She stood from her seat and walked into the kitchen, not seeming to understand just how much leaving was bothering me, even if it was on what we believed to be a temporary basis. She poured a cup of coffee, sauntered back into the living room and sat down. “What?” she asked as she sat down. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“We’ll see how he takes the news, I guess,” I said. She sat and studied me for several minutes as she drank her coffee. As she lowered her cup to the table beside the couch, she maintained eye contact with me. “It’s Casey, isn’t it?” She asked. “What?” I asked, even though I heard her clearly. “Casey. You don’t want to leave him,” she said. She was right. All things considered, I knew I could leave Texas. As a combat Marine, I learned not to become too attached to anyone or anything, because in a moment’s notice, things can change. People disappear. Some change units, others get killed, and, as time passes, yet others are discharged. I loved Shane and Ripp as brothers, but I could leave them if need be. Leaving Casey, however, seemed to be an impossibility. I felt if I left I would be doing what I had condemned my sister for doing. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, fully realizing she was correct in her assumption about Casey, but not willing to discuss it. “I don’t want to leave. It’s that simple.” “I guess we need to go talk to my dad,” she said. “We’ll go as soon as I’m done with this cup of coffee,” I said. I stood from my seat and walked into the kitchen. I only had two days to decide whatever it was we were going to do. Talking to her father was the next step, and something we had to do without exception. His response to our request may very well allow both of us to travel to Kansas on a temporary, or semi-permanent basis. And I knew as sure as I was standing there that of everything I had to do throughout my entire life, leaving that child was going to be the most difficult of them all.



CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE Late Summer 2015, Austin, Texas, USA Unconditional love is something I had always believed was shared between parents and children; and at times, between two people who fell in love. I never expected it to exist between friends, or between a parent and a child who weren’t related. “Your father needs ya. There ain’t a damned thing I can do to fix that, other than offer my love and understanding. You know, we take care of you when you’re little, and there comes a time when it’s your turn to return the favor,” he said. I was completely shocked by his open-minded acceptance of what it was that I felt I needed to do. His insistence that Katie went with me was equally surprising, and although I was relieved, I realized my next step was to actually go through with it and leave. “I’ll see how things go, and we’ll hope for the best,” I said. “I appreciate your understanding, Sir.” He wrinkled his brow, narrowed his eyes and glared at me. “You appreciate my understanding? What the hell did you expect, Son? Resistance? Did you honestly think that I was going to stand between you taking my daughter – your future wife – with you to take care of your sick father? I might seem like a mean son-of-a-bitch, but I ain’t. Well, ‘less I have to be. Hell, Alec, I love you like you’re my own. Whenever you get the gumption to go ahead and get married, you’ll be just as much family as she is. Hell, to tell you the truth, you are right now. Appreciate my understanding? Shit, that’s almost funny.” My throat constricted and my mouth went dry. I didn’t know how to respond. I shifted my eyes

toward Katie and met her gaze. As we shared a silent moment, she grinned. “Stand up,” her father said in a demanding tone. I looked up and realized he had stood from his chair and was hovering over me. I stood, only to be immediately pulled into a hug. As he held me in his arms and patted my back with his hand, he gave me all of the reassurance I needed to understand what he was allowing us to do came from deep within his heart. “I love you, Son,” he said. As his words sank in, I realized I was an extremely fortunate man. A month prior, as far as I was concerned, I had no parents. And now, I had two loving fathers.



CHAPTER FORTY-SIX Late Summer 2015, Wichita, Kansas, USA I hadn’t spent any time in my father’s home to speak of since I was eighteen years old. Being there at length brought a rush of memories with it, some good, and some not-so-good. As he slept and Katie cleaned the house, I looked through cabinets, boxes, and drawers for memories of my mother. The deepest memory came not only of her, but of Suzanne. I pulled the egg-shaped bottle from the bathroom cabinet and removed the lid. It became my mother’s signature scent, and the bottle was something I remembered seeing on a regular basis as a child, but I hadn’t associated the smell with my recollection of the bottle – or with my mother – yet. I pressed the tip of the nozzle and sprayed some of the fragrance into the air. As I watched the small droplets fall toward the floor, I craned my neck toward them and inhaled slowly. Immediately, I pulled my head back and wrinkled my nose. The scent reminded me not only of my mother, but of Suzanne. Confused, I turned the bottle to the side and lowered my nose to the tip of the nozzle. The perfume, without a doubt, was what Suzanne wore. It angered me that she wore my mother’s perfume, but what eventually caused me to feel enraged was that I had spent my entire time in combat associating Suzanne with the scent of my mother’s perfume. It was as if I had been robbed of a memory of my mother, or that somehow it had been replaced with a new one. Maybe it was something that happened over time, I decided, and wasn’t a conscious thing

at all. In the end, as I carried the bottle to the trash, I decided the only reason I liked Suzanne in the first place must have been because of how she smelled, not the person she was. I walked through the kitchen, past Katie, and out the back door. I tossed the bottle of perfume into the trash container, slammed the lid, and walked inside. “I like the way you smell,” I said as I walked past her. I paused at the doorway leading to the living room and turned to face her. “What is it?” “Flowerbomb,” she responded. “And, I like the way you smell, too. What is wrong with you?” “Nothing,” I said. “Just getting rid of some stuff.” “Okay. I’ll have lunch ready in about fifteen minutes, you should probably wake up your dad here pretty quick,” she said. “Just let me know when you’re done,” I said. “I’ll wake him up when it’s ready.” “Okay,” she said as she turned toward the sink. I walked through the bedroom, past the bathroom, and into the walk-in closet. On one side, my mother’s clothes hung, no differently than they had for years. On the other, my fathers. As I shifted my eyes along her outfits, memories of her wearing the clothes came rushing back, and I grinned at the thought of her. I dragged my finger along the shoulder of the clothes, watching them wave in my wake, each one bringing a separate memory with it. The dresses she wore to church. The dark suit she wore to my uncle’s funeral. The tomato colored jacket that I detested, and I was certain she wore for no other reason than to irritate me. The bottom of the closet was lined with her shoes, dusty, but still just as they were fifteen years prior. I glanced at my father’s side of the closet. His clothes weren’t as plentiful as my mother’s, but with them, too, came memories. His Carhartt work jacket that he wore on a daily basis to and from work. His one suit he owned. Several jackets hung side by side, none of which that he wore, all of which were gifts. I chuckled at the thought of his stubborn nature. My eyes fell to the floor, and immediately I noticed two boxes at the back of the closet, somewhat hidden underneath his clothes. I knelt down and gazed at the ends of them. One clearly marked good stuff and the other marked shit, my curiosity soon got the best of me. I slid the box marked shit from underneath the clothes, glanced over my shoulder, and removed the

top. A quick check of the documents inside produced receipts, tax forms from what appeared to be his lifetime, and a handful of letters regarding overdue medical bills from years gone past. I grinned at his labeling of the box, placed the lid on top and carefully slid the box back into place. I shifted my hands to the other box, slid it in front of me, and removed the top. A folded newspaper sat atop the large assortment of documents. The headline immediately caught my attention, and as I reached for it, I was quickly overcome by emotion. I swallowed heavily, carefully removed it, and peered down at the page. Local Marine, 23, A True Hero Although difficult at times, I read through the entire article. Reading about myself wasn’t easy, and along with the resurrected memories came a tremendous amount of emotion. The article was about the Second Battle of Fallujah, and when I had hidden behind the truck to kill the three snipers. I lowered the article to my lap, wiped the memories from my cheeks, and peered into the box with swollen eyes and a dry throat. Local Marine, 21, Awarded Second Purple Heart I stared down at the newspaper and tried to remember when I was 21 years old. As I read the article, the spotter who was shot and killed on the rooftop seemed as if he was with me. I could smell the cordite from the sniper rifle, the coppery stench of the dried blood, and the smell of our sweat. I wiped my runny nose, brushed the back of my hand against my eyes, and placed the article beside the other. One by one, I removed the newspapers and placed them on the floor beside each other. Local Marine Single-Handedly Saves Army Special Forces Platoon in Afghanistan Local Marine in Military Spotlight Wichita Marine Awarded Bronze Star End of the War is Near, Says President Local Marine, 19, Awarded Purple Heart Hijacked Airliners Destroy Twin Towers and Hit Pentagon in Day of Terror I stared down at the articles and swallowed heavily. As difficult as it was to read about my

actions in combat for the first time, it was rewarding in many ways. In my father’s eyes, I was the man depicted in the articles. A boy who quickly became a man, did what he had to do at a time of war, and emerged – by the grace of God – as a hero. In my eyes I was nothing more than my father’s son. I gathered up the articles and neatly placed them in order. As I began to lower them into the box, I noticed a small box of photographs, something my mother had always truly loved, and my father refused to stop taking. My father never accepted digital photography, and for as long as I could remember, used a 33mm camera to take his photographs. As stubborn as he was, the majority of them were developed at home, in the basement. I gazed down at the photos, the majority of which were black and white, and stared. On the top, a picture of Derek I didn’t recognize. I picked up the photo, studied it, and realized it must have been taken on his birthday when I was deployed. I picked up another. And another. And another. All of Derek. Eventually, I got to photos of my sister and me, my mother, and some relatives. Several of the photos of Derek were with my father, obviously taken by my sister. I spread the photos on the floor and stared at them, trying my best to etch the memory of my nephew into my mind as indelibly as my memories of the war. As my mind began to drift to memories of his first birthday, I realized that soon it would be Casey’s first birthday. The sound of Katie’s voice startled me. “Alec, lunch is ready,” she said. “Be right there,” I said as I began to pick up the photographs. One by one, I carefully placed the items back into the box. As I slid the box into its place in the closet, my mouth curled into a smile. There was no doubt my father loved me. And it was time for me to love him in return.



CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN Present Day, Wichita, Kansas, USA Two months had passed since our arrival in Wichita, and my relationship with my father was surprisingly better than I could ever remember it being in the past. I desperately missed Casey – and my other Texas brothers as well – but Ripp and Shane had both ridden and driven to Wichita to visit on more than one occasion. Each time Shane drove he brought Kace, and with them, Casey. My father seemed to enjoy having Casey around, but I wondered just how much his visits reminded him of his only true grandson. For me to consider Casey to be my nephew was easy. I thought for my father to consider him as a grandson would be a stretch, but the excitement on his face and the smile in his eyes was impossible to hide. Katie’s parents had yet to drive to Kansas, which didn’t surprise me. It was my guess getting her father to ever leave the state of Texas would require nothing less than our refusal to return. She had, on two occasions, driven down and seen them, but I stayed in Wichita with my father. I realized the day would come when he was able to be alone, but further realized the day hadn’t arrived. For the time being, I was enjoying my time with my father, and viewed it as making up for lost time. I truly missed Katie’s Sunday dinners, the family in general, the feeling of participating, and training at the gym, but it was her father I seemed to miss the most. “Too damned bad about the club,” Jackson said.

“Bound to happen,” I said as I tightened the exhaust bolts. “With me gone and that state as fucked up as it is with clubs? It was just a matter of time.” Our MC in Texas dissolved for a few reasons. One was my absence. But the primary reason was the string of recent problems in Texas with 1% clubs, violence, and the categorization by police of all MCs as being outlaw regardless of their intentions. Harassment and incarceration of men in cuts was becoming common, and it seemed a reason wasn’t always behind the incarceration. Out of respect for Shane and Ripp as parents and as good citizens, I decided to dissolve the club. “Well, the Sinners don’t accept applications, but we do invite men to prospect as long as they’re vouched in by a fully patched member. And, if a man has already paid his dues, so to speak, he may be vouched in without prospecting on a 100% vote. I know you can go back to your old club, but we discussed it in our last meeting…” He paused as I stood up and tossed the wrench to the side. “I feel like I owe you. For what you did for me,” he said. “Don’t owe me shit,” I said flatly. “I don’t mean owe you like that. Owe you respect,” he said. “Give it, get it,” I said. “Show respect,” he said. “Get respect.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Same difference.” I was anxious to hear what else he had to say about the club’s meeting. As we were eventually going to go back to Texas there was no real way I could be a member, but the thought of riding with a 1% club in Kansas appealed to me. I stood out with Bones, Doc, and Crash’s club as being a little too much of an outlaw, and maybe an outlaw club was where I truly belonged. The thought, at least, was appealing. “So, you were saying. You guys talked about it,” I said as I flipped the ignition switch on. I pressed the start button as he began to speak. “Club would love to have ya,” he said over the sound of the exhaust. I revved the engine a few times and listened for exhaust leaks. The dull drone from the new pipes sounded great, and there seemed to be no leaks. Only an open road test of hard accelerating and rapid decelerating would tell me for sure, but for now, I was convinced. I flipped the ignition switch to off.

“No prospecting bullshit?” I asked. He shook his head. “Not one single day of it.” “Fully patched the day I show up?” I asked. “Fully patched,” he said. I was flattered. As much as the thought of such a close-knit bunch of bikers appealed to me, and as much as I knew the brotherhood would help me feel at home, there was no way I could disrespect the club by being a member for six weeks, two months. Or whatever length of time it would be before we left. “I’m honored, but we’re leaving some day, just don’t know when. Can’t disrespect you guys like that,” I said. He grinned and nodded his head. “Club’s already discussed it. There’s an Austin chapter of the Sinners. If you go back, you’ll just transfer to that chapter.” “Hell, I knew there was an Austin chapter, but I had no idea…” “Toad’s our Sergeant-At-Arms, and he’s not only my fucking brother-in-law, he’s one of the best motherfuckers in the MC. He’s solid as a rock. Hell, we’ve talked about it, Axton, Biscuit, Otis and me. Only thing we can come up with that makes him different is that he isn’t afraid of anything on earth, and he always thinks before he acts. It’s a result of his training. He was a Marine. You were a Marine. Hell, you were his fucking Platoon Sergeant.” He slapped his hand against my shoulder and shrugged his shoulders. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’re his fucking hero. He spent a lifetime thinking you were dead, and now that he knows you’re alive, he can’t stop talking about you.” My knee-jerk reaction was to say no, but for some reason I couldn’t seem to bring myself to it. “Let me think about it,” I said. “Sounds good.” He responded. The side door of the house creaked as Katie opened the door. “Lunch is ready.” She had proven to be one of the most caring, kind, and compassionate women to ever exist. She stayed up at night playing Scrabble with my father – an old tradition of him and my mother’s – and listened to every bullshit story he tried to tell her. She spent her days doing laundry, cooking, and folding clothes, and as much as I believed tasks like those should always be shared, she refused, and insisted I let her do what she described as her work.

Having her as my wife would truly make me the happiest man on earth. I turned toward the doorway and pressed my hands against my hips. “What would you think about me becoming a Sinner?” She lifted her head slightly. “Hi, Jackson.” As her eyes fell to meet mine, she responded. “Becoming a sinner? You’re the devil himself, Alec.” “Katie,” Jackson said with a nod. “A Selected Sinner,” I said. “Sounds good to me,” she said. “You staying for lunch, Jackson?” “I am now,” he said. As we walked toward the house I thought of what it would be like to be reunited with my old squad leader, Toad. Riding with him, doing my best to protect him, all the while knowing he had my back… “So no prospecting?” I asked as I stepped through the door. “Not a bit,” he responded. “Tight knit bunch of fuckers, aren’t ya?” I asked. “Devil looks after his own,” he said. “That the club’s motto?” I asked. “Sure is,” he said. Sounds like a place I could call home.



CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT Present Day, Austin, Texas My chest heavy with medals, ribbons, badges, and commendations, I stood erect in my Marine dress blues with my Squad Leader at my side. I glanced over my right shoulder. Dressed in his dress blues, the left side of his uniform covered in medals and his right with various ribbons, he stood arrow straight and stared directly in front of him. As the music began to play, I turned slightly to my left. Redefining beauty, she walked down the aisle, her dress flowing six feet behind her footsteps. In the front row, her mother, brother and sister were seated on one side, and my father, sister, Shane, and Kace were seated on the other. “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” They were words I had longed to hear. “Her mother and I.” “Sir, Ma’am, will you bless me with your approval to move forward with this ceremony of marriage?” “I will.” “I will.” “We have come together at the invitation of Alec and Katie to celebrate the uniting in Christian love, their hearts and lives. This is possible because of the love God has created in them, through Jesus

Christ,” he said. “Katie and Alec, no other human ties are more tender, no other vows are more sacred than these you are about to assume. You are entering into that holy estate which is the deepest mystery of experience, and which is the very sacrament of divine love.” “Alec, will you have Katie to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only for her so long as you both shall live?” I lowered my head slightly. “I will.” “Katie, will you have Alec to be your wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony; will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only for him so long as you both shall live?” “I will.,” she responded. “Alec, repeat after me. I, Alec, take you, Katie, to be my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.” I recited from memory. “I, Alec, take you, Katie, to be my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.” He turned to Katie. “Katie, repeat after me. I, Katie, take you, Alec, to be my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.” She recited the vows without flaw. “Will rings be exchanged?” he asked. “They will,” I responded. “The rings?’ I glanced over my shoulder. “Come on, Little Man,” I said as I curled my arm toward Katie. Casey stumbled up the aisle, spent a few minutes climbing the steps, and held the pillow as high as he was able. I pulled the rings from the strings they were fastened with and handed them to the pastor.

Casey stood between Katie and me and hugged my left leg. “Please remember, a ring is more than a symbol of your marriage. It is a seal of the vow you have made to one another. The circle of the ring is, as far as human eye can see, a perfect circle – with no beginning or end – so God too, has perfect love for you and wants you to love one another in His grace-never, never ending. This ring is made of precious metal. You also are precious in God's sight and now in the life of Alec. When you are absent one from another, the presence of the ring reminds you to be faithful and to fulfill your vows to Alec. Rings have historically been the sign of authority, used to seal documents and proclamations, you now accept this authority in your life.” “Alec, you may now place your ring on Katie’s finger.” I slid the ring onto her finger. “Katie, what symbol do you bring as a pledge of that sincerity of your vows?” “A ring,” she said. “Alec, this ring is a seal of Katie’s vow to you. She presents this to you as a token of her submission to you in Jesus Christ. This is a symbol of leadership and privilege. God has placed you as head of the family. You must lead in worship, works and fellowship. As the weaker vessel she depends upon you for strength.” “Katie, you may place the ring on Alec’s finger.” “For as much as Alec and Katie have consented in holy wedlock, and have thereto confirmed the same by giving and receiving each one a ring; by the authority committed unto me as a minister of the Church of Jesus Christ, I now declare you husband and wife, according to the ordinance of God, and the laws of the state of Texas, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.” “You may kiss the bride,” he said. I tilted my head to the side and kissed Katie for the first time as my wife. We turned to face the crowd. Five Marines lined each side of the aisle, and as we stepped down the steps, they drew their swords. Under their raised swords we walked, and took the traditional kiss. I turned from the kiss and faced the rear of the church. Selected Sinners lined the back of the church, all dressed in their cuts. With my Marine brethren beside me, and my MC brethren in front, I cupped Katie’s hand in mine and held it high in the air. After the cheers slowed, I picked her from her feet and carried her toward the door.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you, too,” I responded. As we approached the two long lines of men in their cuts, Axton lowered his chin. “Get that Marine shit hung up in your closet where it belongs, and get on your cut, A-Train,” he growled. Soon enough, Brother Slice, soon enough. “You ready to take care of some long overdue business?” I whispered as I carried her between the two aisles of Sinners. “We have a reception,” she responded. “Doesn’t start for thirty minutes,” I said. “Sounds good to me,” she said with a smile. I had no intention of having sex with Katie in the thirty-minute window we had before the reception started, but it was fun to joke about. For her, it was going to be the first time, and I was going to make it special. I glanced around the church. It was filled with my family – all facets of it. They surrounded me on all sides. Family by blood, family by oath, and family by choice. And with God’s blessing, I was ready to get started making my own family. One special moment at a time.



EPILOGUE I had waited my entire life to find the man of my dreams, and now I had him. I couldn’t really call myself pleased or happy, or even elated – not if I wanted the word to accurately describe how I felt. Alec took me to an entirely different place than anything life had offered me before meeting him, and I truly appreciated him for it. Since I had been a small girl, my dream had been to have a prince come riding up, sweep me off of my feet, and take me to his castle. I didn’t expect at the time that he would be riding a Harley-Davidson, or that his castle would be two houses down from my brother, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. One definition of a fairy tale is a story in which improbable events lead to a happy ending. So, by definition, I was living in a modern day fairy tale. It didn’t seem to matter much if we were together or we were apart – although I preferred when we were together – I had a smile permanently etched upon my face. I dug my fingernails into his chest, arched my back, and moaned into the otherwise silent room as I reached climax. A few electrically charged seconds later, and I opened my eyes only to find them focused on his muscular torso. I drew a deep shuddering breath, exhaled, and gazed into his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m better than okay,” I said, still trying to find my breath. “You sure?” he asked. “Uh huh.”

“I just…” “Alec, I’m fine.” “I don’t want to hurt…” “Alec. Really. The doctor said. Oh. Wait. Let me see your hand. Hurry,” I exclaimed as I reached for his hand. “There,” I said as I pressed his flattened palm to my stomach. “Feel it.” The baby rotated slightly, and although I wasn’t sure, my guess was that it was his knees that Alec was feeling. “He’s active today,” I said. His eyes widened. “He?” I went to the doctor for a normal checkup and they did an ultrasound to check the baby’s heart. Although we had both agreed not to find out the sex of the baby, I glanced at the screen at the wrong time. Apparently the baby and his father shared at least one trait. “I’m sorry,” I said. “They did an ultrasound today, and I really didn’t even try to see, but he was. Well, let’s just say you and him are a lot alike in one respect.” He sat up slightly, his mouth curled into smile from ear to ear. “A boy. I thought I didn’t want to know, but now that I do…” “Are you sure?” he asked. I burst into a laughing fit at the thought of the sight on the monitor at the doctor’s office. Even the technician gasped at the sight. “I guess it was one of those you had to be there moments, but yeah. I’m sure,” I said. He continued to stare at me with face filled with pride. “At least it’ll make picking a name only half as hard,” I said. His sister and I had become great friends, and I saw her almost daily. Shane gave her a job at the gym working as his CPA. Although she and I had already discussed names, I had yet to really talk to Alec about it. “What do you think about the name Derek for a boy?” I asked. He sat silently for some time and just stared.

I really liked the name and I had hopes he would to. About the time I was going to suggest my second favorite name, his bottom lip began to quiver. Soon thereafter, a tear rolled down his cheek. “It’s…it’s uhhm…it’s perfect,” he said as he wiped the tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. And so are you, Alec Jacob. So are you.



HARD Scott Hildreth



DEDICATION To the nameless woman who was raped, only to see her rapist receive six month’s jail time. This is not justice, but it is all I have. And it is for you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE This book may contain triggers for some people who suffer from PTSD or RTS. The scenes in the book are not extremely detailed, nor are they graphic. It does, however, contain scenes of violence, primarily vengeance as it is dealt to the criminal counterpart. During the course of reading this book, if you feel that it is best not to proceed, please stop, and take a break.

COPYRIGHT This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental. HARD 1st Edition Copyright © 2016 by Scott Hildreth All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights. Cover model: Michael Wajchert Photography by: Reggie Deanching @ R+M Photography Cover design by Jessica www.creativebookconcepts.wordpress.com Follow me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/sd.hildreth Like me on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth Follow me on Twitter at: @ScottDHildreth



PROLOGUE Peyton I pushed his office door open just enough to peer inside. He stood at the far side of his desk with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed on the skyline. I cleared my throat. “Your email didn’t make a lot of sense.” He turned to face me and shrugged. His crisp white shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle in the fabric, a reminder of how early in the day it was. He studied me for a moment and shook his head lightly. “It was as straightforward as it could be.” It wasn’t. It never was with him. His cryptic messages – always without punctuation – made it problematic to understand his desire, and even more difficult to believe he was the editor-in-chief of the Union-Tribune, San Diego’s largest newspaper. But he was. No differently than his father, and his father’s father, Camden Rollins III was the man in charge. I swept my thumb across the screen of my phone and stared at the email. “Need something on filthy fuckers make it hard edgy and in-your-face maybe a three or four installment piece depending on what you find.” He brushed his hands along the thighs of his pants, chuckled, and sat down. “Everything you need is right there.” He motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Peyton.” I shoved my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, walked into his office, and sat down. “What – or who – are filthy fuckers?” “You’re not much of a reporter.” He chuckled. “The Filthy Fuckers are an Outlaw Motorcycle Gang. But, like all the motorcycle gangs, they like to be called a club. You know, like the Sons of Anarchy,” he said. Tattooed men made me go all wobbly-legged. Tattooed bikers made my lady bits ache. I nodded eagerly. “I’m going to do a piece on a motorcycle club? A real motorcycle club?” There were very few television personalities I cared for, but no differently than half of the female population in the nation, I’d crawl naked through a mile of broken glass for a chance to suck Charlie Hunnam’s cock. “Real? Yeah, these guys are real, alright. The Filthy Fuckers are as rough as it gets. President’s

name is Nicholas Navarro. He goes by Nick or Crip to his brothers in the club. You’ll need to interview him personally unless you want rumors and bullshit. Scuttlebutt around town is that they’re close to declaring war with Satan’s Savages. After some of what we’ve seen from these clubs in the past, The Union-Trib would like to call it before it’s national news.” “Holy shit. Yeah, I’m stoked,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, because I’m not, but if you don’t mind me asking, why me? A girl doing a four installment piece of a motorcycle gang?” “Three or four, depending on what you uncover.” He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms in front of his chest, and shook his head. “And why you? You’re a thrill-seeking weirdo, and everyone here knows it, including me. That’s why. Half my staff would be scared to death, but you’ll dive in head first.” He was right, except for the weirdo part. I loved driving my Jeep to the most remote place I could find, parking it, and rock climbing wherever I wasn’t able to get to by vehicle. Hang gliding and paragliding from the cliffs at the Torrey Pines Gliderport in La Jolla was a common occurrence for me. And, I always volunteered to follow each unsolved death in the city, hoping I could turn it into a homicide, but so far it never happened. “I’m not a weirdo,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone. “An adventurous reporter who leaves no stone unturned.” “I like that better,” I said. “So what do I do? They’re not just going to agree to talk to me.” “Do your research. You’ll figure something out.” “That’s it? That’s your best advice?” He leaned forward, adjusted his tie, and sighed. “When was the last time you did what I told you to do?” I shrugged. “Precisely. You’re going to do what it is you do. So, go do it. Just make it interesting. We need something awe-inspiring.” I stood from my seat and nodded. “Awe-inspiring four installment piece, coming right up, Mr. Rollins.” “Three or four,” he said. “Depends on what you find.” The thought of rubbing elbows with the members of a motorcycle club made me tingle all over. “You might not see me for a while. But, if it’s out there,” I said. “I’ll find it.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure three or four weeks is enough.” Three weeks with a real-life Jax Teller? He had assigned me to three weeks in fucking heaven. I turned toward the door. “See you in four weeks.” “Three or four,” he snapped back. Yeah, I guess it all depends on what this Navarro guy looks like. “What’s he look like? Navarro?” I asked over my shoulder. “He’s a big muscular fellow that’s covered in tattoos from head to toe, including his hands. Likes to drink beer and fight. Rough dude. Like I said, do your research first.” Tattooed alpha male biker? “See you in four weeks,” I said with a laugh. Maybe longer.

ONE Peyton I walked along the row of motorcycles that were parked outside the bar. Some of them were apparently new – fitted with painted saddle bags and multi-speaker stereos, while others were older and adorned with nothing more than a solo seat, a leather tool pouch, and ape hanger handlebars. Albeit short, my study of Harley-Davidsons – and the men who rode them – provided me with enough information that I found the motorcycles, the men, and the concept of a close-knit biker club fascinating. I couldn’t help but wonder what level of rejection I was going to get. There was no doubt in my mind that the members of the Filthy Fuckers MC weren’t going to agree to sit down and answer all of my questions over a glass of beer. Dressed in cut-off jean shorts, Chuck’s, and my favorite tee shirt, I walked across the scorching asphalt parking lot toward the bar’s entrance. I reached for the door, inhaled a shallow breath, and pulled it open. Just be yourself, Peyton. I stepped into the poorly lit bar and realized the only patrons were bikers. I was met by no less than twenty-four eyes, two of which I immediately recognized. Nicholas “Crip” Navarro was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and despite my being fifteen years his junior, I found him to be extremely attractive. He was 42, covered in tattoos, and as handsome as any man I had ever seen. Him being a biker made him even more attractive. While mentally preparing to infiltrate the club, I studied many photos of the club’s known members, their motorcycles, and of Nick. In doing so, one thing stood out in each and every picture of him. His remarkable blue eyes.

Now that they were locked on me, I searched for a glimmer of hope that I could remain strongwilled, independent, and above all, professional. With my head held high, I clung to the thrill of the challenge, and walked directly toward the group of drunken bikers. Dressed in jeans, boots, and his leather vest, Navarro stood from the bar stool at his high-top table and turned to face me. With a bottle of beer dangling from one hand, he raked the fingers of his free hand through his black hair, brushing it away from his face. His eyes fell to the floor and then slowly raised the length of my torso. After pausing to stare at my tits for a few long seconds, he eventually met my gaze. “You lost, little girl?” I stutter-stepped, not quite knowing what to do. Roughly a dozen men surrounded him, and although they all looked at me with lustful eyes, it seemed they were waiting on his approval or rejection of me before they made any comments or passed judgement. I swallowed hard and returned his stare. “No. I’d uhhm. I’d. I’d uhhm. I’d like to talk to you,” I stammered. His eyes dropped to my bare legs. He grinned, revealing teeth much whiter than I expected him to possess. He raised his bottle of beer, took a drink, then lowered his chin slightly. “Show me your tits,” he demanded without so much as an ounce of expressed emotion. Excuse me? It wasn’t at all what I expected. I cocked my hip. “Excuse me?” He took another drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want to talk to me? Show me your fuckin’ tits.” Causing any other man to respect me would have required a no answer. To get Nick Navarro to respect me meant I needed to bare my tits. I cleared my throat. Twice. I nodded toward his waist. “Show me your cock.” The man at his side, a muscular giant with collar-length hair and an awesome full beard, choked on the beer he was in the middle of swallowing and coughed out a laugh. Navarro didn’t so much as crack a smile. Still cradling the bottle of beer in his hand, he reached for his belt, unfastened the buckle, and struggled to push his faded jeans down his thighs. As the material cleared the base of his dick – revealing a few inches of the rather thick shaft – my eyes shot wide.

Holy shit. I wondered just how far he would go. While I stood and waited, fairly certain he wouldn’t get his entire cock out in a public bar – especially amidst the members of the MC – he pushed the denim a little further and it sprung free. Well, there’s the answer. I stood, open-mouthed, and did what any girl in the same situation would have done. I stared. I enjoyed the scenery for a few seconds less than I really wanted to, laughed to myself at the thought of including the scene in my first written installment, and regretfully tore my eyes away from his thickness. With the waist of his jeans at mid-thigh and his dick dangling from between his legs like the heavy slab of meat that it was, he raised the bottle of beer to his lips and took a drink no differently than if he was fully clothed. I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t pull his jeans up, but was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all to give matters much serious thought. My heart felt like it was beating between my ears. I desperately wanted to take another look at his massive cock, but didn’t dare turn the event into any more of a sexually frustrating situation than it already was. With his eyes locked on me, he finished his beer, handed the empty bottle to the six-foot-ten giant, and pulled up his jeans. He fastened his belt and cocked an eyebrow slightly. “Get ‘em out.” What the fuck have I got myself into? I inhaled a breath of courage, glanced around the bar, and made note that there was no one present except for me and the bikers. No waitress, no bartender, no nothing. Although I shouldn’t have, I found the thought of revealing my tits in front of the group of bikers to be sexually stimulating. But, as my boss had clearly stated, I was a thrill-seeking weirdo. Against my will – and best judgement – my pussy began to tingle. I pulled my tee shirt over my head, shoved a portion of it into the back pocket of my shorts, and lowered the straps of my bra past the sides of my upper arms. While each and every wide-eyed biker stood in wait, I cradled the cups of my bra with my hands and pulled them down slightly, revealing the full ‘C’ cup boobs that made me the most sought after freshman in high school.

Navarro shook his head. His mouth twisted into a shitty little smirk. “Take off the bra.” A tingling ran the length of my body, from my neck to my calves and back. But, instead of rubbing my goose-bump covered arms, I unfastened my bra, pulled it forward, and tossed it toward the giant who was apparently Navarro’s body guard. Not that he needed one. The bearded biker snatched my bra from the air in mid-flight. I made note of the patches on the front of his vest. Pee Bee. Sergeant-At-Arms. My focus shifted back to Navarro. His slight smile made me comfortable, and I quickly got lost admiring his eyes. I cocked my head to the side and pressed my biceps against the edges of my breasts. “Satisfied?” He pursed his lips, stared at my tits for a few long seconds, and nodded. “Nice set of tits.” I did my best to offer him a curtsy. It probably looked like I lost my footing and stumbled. His eyes narrowed. “So, who the fuck are you?” I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, fought to swallow, and reached for my shirt. “Peyton. Peyton Price.” “What’d you do, back your Hyundai into my fuckin’ bike?” His entire body was covered in ink. Even his neck and knuckles were tattooed. He was far better looking than I expected him to be. I pulled my shirt over my head, situated it, and shook my head. “No. I parked fifty feet from you guys. I wanted…I uhhm. I’m a reporter for the newspaper. The Union-Tribune. I’m doing an article, a three or four-piece installment on outlaw motorcycle gangs. I’d like to interview you.” He stepped so close I could feel his breath on my face. “No gang members here, we’re a club,” he breathed. He smelled like a gasoline and adrenaline. My nostrils flared, my mouth watered, and my throat tightened. I swallowed heavily and muttered my response. “A uhhm. A club. An outlaw. An outlaw motorcycle club. Sorry, I misspoke.” It was a foolish mistake. He leaned away and shot me a glare. “Well, reporter, you better get your shit straight before you

go writin’ anything. Some half-wit motherfucker goes and calls us a gang in the newspaper, and we’ll all be doing time in the joint under the RICO act.” “So you’ll agree to it?” I asked excitedly. He inched closer, completely obstructing my view of everyone who surrounded him. He raised his clenched fist in front of my face, extended his middle finger, and widened his eyes. I peered beyond his tattooed finger and widened mine in return. With our eyes locked, he slowly lowered his hand. The lack of space between us made doing so rather difficult, and his tattooed bicep lightly brushed against the nipple of my left breast. I shuddered as a result, quickly reminded that I hadn’t taken the time to get my bra back from his oversized body guard. I felt the tip of his finger trace along the inside of my leg, just above my knee. Feeling his hand on my flesh did little to excite me. It was impossible. I was already soaked. Although I wanted desperately to look down and see just what it was he was doing, I kept my eyes fixed on his, rolled my shoulders slightly, and straightened my posture. He needed to know I wasn’t just some dumb girl who was going to be scared away easily. I’ve got news for you, Nick Navarro, you’re not going to intimidate me. The tip of his finger rose the length of my inner thigh for what seemed like a lifetime. He must have perceived the lack of objection on my part as an invitation to continue. Still focused on his hypnotic eyes, I tried to refrain from showing any emotion. With him teasing me while a dozen of his brethren watched, it didn’t come easily. His hand came to rest at the frayed opening of my shorts. His mouth twisted into a smirk. I tried to swallow, but didn’t quite succeed. I felt his finger slide beneath the leg of my shorts. You’re not going to… As he circled my clit with his tattooed digit, I considered objecting to his little game, but the words never came. Had I protested, it would have been a lie. My boss was right, I was a thrill-seeking weirdo, and having an outlaw biker come close to fingering me at noon in a remote bar in Escondido, California stood as all the proof that was needed.

Without warning, he pushed his finger inside of me. Completely. I gulped a breath. So much for remaining professional. He stared into my eyes and grinned. “You like that, do you?” I wasn’t a whore. Hell, I wasn’t even what a person that anyone in their right mind could describe as promiscuous. But, for whatever reason, I was allowing Nick Navarro to finger fuck me while the beer guzzling members of his club eagerly watched. Be it because I desperately wanted to write the piece, or because I found tattooed bikers insanely attractive was irrelevant. The fact remained that the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC had his middle finger shoved so deep inside of me that I could feel the palm of his hand against my clit. And, I liked it. A lot. He curled the tip of his finger against my g-spot a few more times, bringing me to a shallow climax. Guilt washed over me. I made a feeble effort to writhe away from him, but failed miserably. He gripped my neck with his free hand. “Going somewhere?” An inaudible no puffed from my lips. He pushed his finger deep and held his hand still. I exhaled against his tattooed neck. “Be at our clubhouse tomorrow at six o’clock,” he growled. “If you’re worth a fuck as a reporter, you’ll find it. Between now and then, I’ll decide if I’ll talk to you.” As he pulled his finger from inside of me, I considered the possibility of him not wanting to talk to me after I showed up at his clubhouse. I tugged against the legs of my shorts in an effort to situate myself. It provided no comfort whatsoever. I was way past horny and my pussy was a sopping wet mess. I had no intention of sticking around while the other members of the club ogled me or expressed how they thought less of me for allowing their president to finger me senseless in their presence. I decided to wear the finger-fucking experience as a badge of honor. “Thanks for the talent-fingers,” I

chimed. “I’ll see you at the clubhouse tomorrow at six.” He grinned. I grinned in return, turned away, and took a few steps toward the door. “For what it’s worth,” I said over my shoulder. “You’ve got a magnificent cock.” And your finger’s not bad, either.

TWO Nick Pee Bee was the club’s Sergeant-At-Arms. The enforcer. The position didn’t require him to be organized, and maybe that was a good thing, because it seemed he often fell short in that respect. Based on his lack of planning alone, I often wondered why both of us weren’t doing time in prison. Serious time. “What do you mean, you hope he’s not home?” It was midnight, and being dressed in black helped conceal us from the view of potential late night onlookers, but at six foot eight and 260 pounds, hiding Pee Bee entirely was like trying to cover up a circus elephant with a fucking cocktail napkin. He turned to face me and shot me a confused stare. “It means I hope he’s not home, Crip.” Positioned fifty feet behind the home we were planning on breaking into, I glared back at him. “After we crawled through a dozen back yards, waded through a fuckin’ river in the storm sewer, then hiked three fuckin’ miles you’re not sure if this prick’s gone?” He pulled his backpack over his shoulders, removed a wire coat hanger, and shrugged. “Supposed to be at a wedding.” “Supposed to be?” He nodded an unconvincing nod. “That’s what I was told.” My service as a Navy SEAL made our late night theft of two motorcycles simplistic in comparison to some of the missions I had been involved with. It did very little, however, to assure me that we weren’t going to be caught. “I hope your source was good.” He straightened the wire into a four-foot-long hook. After a quick inspection of his break-in tool, he shoved a wooden wedge into his pocket and then shouldered the backpack. “Yeah, me too.”

Still positioned deep in the back yard, I watched the home for several long seconds. All of the windows were dark, and there were no flickering lights, which led me to believe no one was home watching television. With slight reluctance, I decided to proceed. “Ready?” He nodded. “Yep.” I pointed toward the corner of the house. “We’ll go around the left side of the house, and I’ll stay beside the garage until you’re inside. After the door’s up, I’ll hop in there with ya. As soon as I do, pull the fucker closed until we get ‘em unlocked.” He straightened the wire a little more, then held it at arm’s length for an inspection. “Got it.” Breaking into a garage was easy. It took a coat hanger, someone with a steady hand, and less than ten seconds. The two motorcycles we were taking would be just as simple, requiring nothing more than a Bic pen to steal them. After having a brother’s bike stolen from a bar one Saturday night, stealing the president of Satan’s Savages bikes in retribution was a risk I was willing to take. The president of most motorcycle clubs would demand that a prospect commit the theft as an initiation to the club. But I wasn’t a typical president. I’d never ask my brothers to do anything I wasn’t willing to do myself. After cautiously walking around the front of the house, I stood watch while Pee Bee worked his magic. Five seconds later, and he quietly opened the garage door. After I ducked inside, he pulled the door down behind me. The garage was empty short of the two motorcycles that were parked inside. “The Super Glide’s unlocked,” he said after reaching for the key switch. I turned the key switch of the Softail. I wasn’t as lucky. “This one’s locked.” I reached in my pocket, pulled out a Bic pen, and pushed the barrel of the pen into the round key opening. After a few seconds, the lock turned freely. “Good to go,” I said. “Open the door. We’ll take Oceanside back toward the freeway and meet at the shop.” He grabbed the handle of the garage door. “Sounds good.” I raised my leg over the seat, sat down, and started rolling the motorcycle toward the closed garage door. The sight of the door leading into the house swinging open made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Someone shouted from just inside the house. “What in the fuck!?” It wasn’t the Savage’s president, Whip, but the guy could have easily passed for his brother. I kept my eyes locked on him while trying to get off the bike, and soon decided it must have been Whip’s brother. “Motherfuckers,” he grunted as he turned and ran inside the house. Pee Bee’s eyes met mine and instantly went wide. There was now a risk if we attempted to leave – the man inside the house may return with a gun before we got away. I realized the risks associated with breaking into the home, but I had zero desire to get shot in the back. With little time to think, and even less to react, I swept the kickstand down and steadied the bike. Pee Bee shot past me and ran into the house after the retreating man. It seemed like a fool’s move, but it was probably our best bet. Without as much as a second’s thought, I followed right behind him. As I rounded the corner to the living area, I heard the unmistakable sound of fists hitting flesh. “What were you gonna do with that?” I heard Pee Bee shout. “You a fuckin’ baseball player?” With his legs in the living room, and his upper body concealed by the doorframe of what I suspected was the bedroom, Whip’s look-alike was on his back. A baseball bat lay beside him on the floor, and Pee Bee sat on his chest, pounding him without mercy, one fist at a time. As no one was coming to the beating victim’s rescue, I immediately assumed the small home was empty – short of the guy getting pummeled by Pee Bee. My experience in the military, however, taught me that assumptions could get a man killed. I quickly searched the home, found it empty, and walked back to the living room. When I returned, the man on the floor appeared to be unconscious, and Pee Bee still straddled him while digging through his backpack. “Come on, let’s beat feet,” I said. “Hold up,” he responded. He pulled a roll of duct tape from the bag. “This ought to work.” I chuckled. “For what?” “Taping him up.” “What the fuck for?”

He stood up glared at me as if I were an idiot. “So the dumb fucker doesn’t call the cops or whatever.” I nodded and stepped toward him. “Let’s make it quick.” While I held the man’s legs above the floor, he taped his ankles together with about a dozen wraps of tape. After tearing the tape in two, he then taped the man’s arms to his torso with an equal amount of tape. He swung the toe of his boot into the side of the man’s head. “Pick up his head.” I laughed to myself and lifted his head from the floor by his neck. He began to moan; a sign he was obviously regaining consciousness. Pee Bee kicked him in the side of the head again, hard. “God damn.” I chuckled. “Fucker came at me with a ball bat, Crip. Fuck this dude.” “I’m with ya,” I said. “Just make it quick.” From his forehead to his chin, he wrapped the man’s head in duct tape, making it one solid ball of grey tape. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it would definitely be effective in keeping him from talking. While Pee Bee placed the remaining portion of tape back into the backpack, the man started to thrash around. I realized in the rush that Pee Bee hadn’t taken time to leave any air holes in his handiwork. I motioned toward our flopping victim. “Fucker’s suffocating.” Pee bee sighed. “How long’s it take for a guy to, you know, run out of…” he paused and shouldered his backpack again. “Oxygen?” “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Oxygen.” “Maybe a minute or so?” I shrugged. “Something like that. Give or take.” The man continued to thrash about, flopping like his life depended on it. “Maybe we ought to poke some breathing holes in that tape, huh?” “Unless we’re tryin’ to kill him,” I responded. “Still got that pen?”

“Where’s yours?” He shrugged. “I dunno.” I pressed my hands to my pockets, realized I didn’t have my pen, and then remembered it was still in the key switch of the Softail in the garage. “It’s in the fuckin’ garage. Be right back.” I sauntered to the garage, retrieved the pen, and returned. Pee Bee was standing over the man with his arms crossed, staring down at him. He nodded toward the motionless body and shrugged. “He quit.” “Quit what?” He pressed the sole of his boot into the man’s hips, pushing him across the floor a few inches. “Moving.” “How long’s it been?” He narrowed his eyes and stared back at me. “How long’s what been?” I knelt down, poked two holes in the tape where I expected his nostrils to be, and waited. “Since he fuckin’ moved.” He shrugged. “I dunno. Fucker was floppin’ when you went to get the pen, then he just stopped.” I took his pulse. Nothing. I sighed. “Fucker’s dead.” He returned a stare of disbelief. “Are you kiddin’ me?” “Nope.” I shook my head and stood up. “Dead as fuck.” The plan was to steal the two motorcycles as payback for what Satan’s Savages had done. I was a firm believer in an eye for an eye. A theft on their part deserved a theft in return. Murder wasn’t out of the question, but it definitely wasn’t something I had planned on when Stretch dropped us off. I cleared my throat. “Gonna call Stretch and have him drive around to the block west of here. The way we came in. We’re gonna toss this prick in the back of the truck and haul him to the shop.” “Why don’t we just leave him here?” “His dead ass is proof we committed murder. If we take him, it might be a couple of days before Whip calls it in, and even then, it’ll just be a missing person report. See if you can find his cell phone,

we’ll take it, too. And we’ll need to wipe this place down, anywhere and anything we touched.” “Got it.” “And we’re leaving the bikes,” I said. “What the fuck for?” he snapped. “We need some get back for what these bastards did.” “If we take ‘em now, it’ll sure look to Whip like it was the work of the Fuckers. If we take the dead guy and leave the bikes, Whip ain’t gonna suspect shit. And I think killin’ Whip’s brother is enough get back for stealin’ a bike.” He nodded. “Good call.” I grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom and wiped down the bikes, door handles, the garage door, and the bathroom. After convincing ourselves the entire place was free of our fingerprints, I pocketed the dead man’s cell phone and grabbed the baseball bat. “Ain’t no sense in draggin’ his dumb ass. We’ll get caught for sure,” Pee Bee said. “I’ll just carry the fucker.” We only had to go a hundred yards, but carrying a dead body wasn’t as easy as one might think. My experiences in combat taught me that the dead and wounded were more difficult to carry than someone who was alive and well. With minimal effort, Pee Bee hoisted the dead body over his shoulders. “Lead the way.” Using my shirt to keep from leaving fingerprints, I opened the back door. “Through this yard, then through that yard. Stretch is parked in the street. Ready?” He nodded. Without incident, we rushed through the two yards, and up to the side of Stretch’s truck. I checked over each shoulder. “Toss him in the back.” “Open the door,” Pee Bee demanded. “I’m puttin’ him in front with us. It’ll look like he’s drunk.” “Toss his ass in the fuckin’ back,” I growled. He shifted the dead body on his shoulders and glared back at me. “We get caught with him in the back, we’re fucked. Open the fuckin’ door.” “You two fuckers need to get in here, or we’re all gonna get got,” Stretch warned. “Hurry the fuck up.”

“Toss his ass in the back,” I demanded. “Sure thing, Boss.” He sighed, rolled his shoulders forward, and ducked his head. The dead body rolled over the top of him and dropped into the back of the truck with a thud. “We get busted, it’s on you, Crip.” I pulled the truck door open and motioned toward the inside of the cab. “We ain’t getting’ busted, I’m sick of arguing about it. Get in the fuckin’ truck.” After a short glare, he got in. With the dead body in the bed of the truck, we rode to the shop in silence. Strangely, I wasn’t concerned with murder charges, Whip’s dead brother, or disposing of the body. My focus was elsewhere. The girl from the bar with the tight little pussy and the mile-long attitude was on my mind, and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I was looking forward to seeing her again. There probably wasn’t a handful of girls that would show up at the clubhouse of an outlaw motorcycle club – even if they were invited. Considering the events of our first meeting, Peyton, the newspaper reporter, probably shouldn’t show up. Her mouth and her attitude, however, told me she was an adventurous little bitch. And I planned on finding out just how daring she could be.

THREE Peyton I had run through many of the possibilities of what might happen when I arrived at the clubhouse – at least all of them that I could think of. Visions of Nick Navarro shoving his hand down my shorts while his MC brethren watched seemed to come to mind as being the most probable of options. Camden was right, I was adventurous. Allowing Navarro to finger me in the bar wasn’t something I would describe as typical of my behavior, though. After it was all over and I was driving home, I decided I was simply lost in the moment. Navarro’s eyes were hypnotic, and with them focused on me while he was carefully tickling my g-spot, saying no wasn’t even an option. Truth be known, the guy could probably commit murder, and as long as he batted his insanely sexy blue eyes at the jury, they’d acquit him. I drove around the corner, recognized the clubhouse from my Google Earth search, and slowly rolled up to the opened gate. An old warehouse that could easily pass for being abandoned was beyond the fence. In front of it, one lone motorcycle sat. With a bare metal gas tank that was covered in rust, no front fender, and a blue and white whip dangling from one of the handlebars, it appeared to be no different than the clubhouse – abandoned. The garage doors to the building were wide open, revealing a shop filled with miscellaneous motorcycle parts, some unidentifiable equipment, a blue steel drum, and an old refrigerator. The early evening sunshine provided me with a false sense of security. Had it been dark, I probably would have turned around and left. But it wasn’t. And I didn’t. Eager for another glimpse of Navarro’s eyes – and an explanation of who he was – I pulled past the gate, parked beside the abandoned motorcycle, and got out of my Jeep. I tried to absorb as much of my surroundings as possible. “Jeep huh? Figured you for a--”

I turned toward the gravelly voice. “Hyundai?” He stood just beyond the open garage door, his thumbs resting inside the front pockets of his wellworn jeans. The wife beater and leather vest that he wore provided little cover, leaving his multi-colored tattoos – and his bulging biceps – in full view of my anxious eyes. He nodded. “Something like that.” I wanted to understand more about Navarro, the brotherhood, and what attracted each of them to be in an outlaw motorcycle club. He was standing no more than ten feet from me, but it seemed that he was miles away. Having already experienced it, I preferred the face-to-face scenario we shared at the bar. I wanted to feel his breath on my lips and smell his adrenaline-infused sweat. I pushed my hands into the pockets of my shorts and twisted my hips nervously. “So where do you want to do it?” “Where?” He glanced around the parking lot and chuckled. “Personally, I prefer doing it out in the open. I’m kind of an outdoorsy fucker.” I rolled my eyes and grinned, although I fully realized my question set me up for his response. The thought of him bending me over the abandoned motorcycle made me tingle all over, but as much as I hated to, I fully realized I needed to try and keep our little meeting professional. At least for now. “I meant the interview,” I said. “No you didn’t.” He raised his right hand to his chin and rubbed the growth of his beard between his thumb and forefinger as he eyed me. “You knew what you were saying had a double meaning. You did it on purpose.” I forced a laugh. It didn’t sound very genuine. “For what benefit?” He stepped closer. “You want my opinion?” I nodded. “Well, reporter, I think you want me to finger that little puss of yours again.” I stared back at him. My legs went weak at the thought of it. “Oh really?” I asked with a note of sarcasm in my voice. He nodded sharply in response. He was right, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I fought against my tightening throat and eventually swallowed enough saliva to allow me to respond. “Why do you say that?”

“The last time you saw me you were wearing shorts. I stuck my finger in your tight little twat and you liked it.” He took a few steps toward me, then tilted his head to the side slightly. “If you didn’t like it, you’d have worn jeans today. But you didn’t. You wore shorts. Again.” He was now about three feet from me. I felt like the temperature had risen twenty degrees. I attempted to pry my eyes away from his, but found doing so impossible. “So, because I uhhm. Because I wore shorts, I want you to uhhm. I want you to touch me?” He nodded again. This time, his mouth was twisted into a smirk. “It’s summer, and we’re in San Diego,” I said. “Everyone wears shorts.” He took a step back and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Tell you what, little girl. If you promise to tell me the truth, and I mean always, I’ll agree to an interview. How’s that?” I couldn’t believe it. It was exactly what I hoped for, but in no way what I expected at least not so soon. “Sounds great,” I blurted. He extended his hand. “So, we got a deal?” I wondered just what type of handshake he had planned. The pull me close bro hug, the soul brother web of the thumb bump with a hand-twist, or maybe slapping the palms together and then pounding knuckles? I reached for his hand slowly, not sure of what to do. He gripped my hand in his and shook it in a conventional, gentlemanly manner. He released my hand and shot me a serious look. “So, were you working the other day? At the bar?” It seemed like an odd question. I answered nonetheless. “Yeah.” “And now?” “Yeah, I suppose. Why?” He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and cocked an eyebrow. “Not counting today and yesterday, when was the last time you wore shorts to work? Before you answer, remember, you made a deal with the devil.” I recalled no such deal. “A deal with the devil?” “Yeah. Remember? We shook on it. And, sooner or later you’ll figure it out, but I’m the devil himself,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “The devil, huh? Interesting. As far as the shorts go.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Take a fuckin’ guess.” “Never?” He coughed out a laugh. “That’s what I thought.” “You got me,” I said, twisting my hips teasingly. “I wore the shorts because I liked what you did to me the other day.” He nodded as if he’d made the only point he intended to. “So, you going to take notes?” I found his prompt changing of the topic from sexual to business abrupt and odd. I was left to wonder if he liked what we shared in the bar as much as I did. After convincing myself he was doing nothing more than playing a game with me, I responded. “I’d like to record our conversations. Are you okay with that?” He pulled his hands from his pockets. “I prefer it,” he said. “Leaves less for you to fuck up.” I noticed the fingernail on his left index finger was black. I made a mental note to ask about it later. “I don’t fuck up.” “We’ll see about that.” He turned toward the open garage. “Follow me.” I rushed to the Jeep, grabbed my purse, and fought to catch up with him. Although I expected him to take me to an office or secret meeting room in a remote corner of the clubhouse, he sauntered up to a workbench at the far wall. With minimal effort, he hopped up onto it and sat down. He motioned to a steel drum that was sitting beside him, kicking the top of it with the heel of his boot. “Make yourself comfortable.” The drum looked new and was remarkably clean. While wondering if it was commonplace for bikers to use steel drums for stools, I sat down and looked around the garage. “We’re uhhm. We’re going to do it here?” “What’d you expect? Starbucks and some of those crunchy little chocolate biscuits? Yeah, we’re doin’ it here.” I reached into my purse, pulled out my digital recorder, and held it between us. He nodded once. The interview began. And Nicholas Crip Navarro came to life.

FOUR Nick She sat on the drum with her legs crossed and her forearm draped over her bare thigh. She was a gorgeous little bitch, and keeping my hands off of her went against the grain of my very existence. I motioned toward the recorder. “Doesn’t matter what we discuss, before you print anything, I proof read it. No exceptions,” I said sternly. “Is that fucker on?” “Yes, it’s on. And, if those are your conditions, I’m fine with that.” She raised the recorder to her mouth. “For the record, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th.” I nodded. Agreeing to the interview wasn’t something I did for notoriety or publicity. Making outlaw motorcycle clubs less of a target for the Department of Justice’s overeager agents that seemed to infiltrate them on a daily basis was enough of a reason for me. And, if the article was written properly, the Filthy Fuckers MC could look like a bunch of choirboys. I fixed my eyes on hers. “Get to it.” “Okay,” she said. “It’s obvious you’re alone. I couldn’t help but notice the only motorcycle here was parked beside my Jeep. It looks, well, pretty rough. Is it yours?” “Sure is,” I said with a nod. “I’m not much on electric starters, loud stereos, or windshields. Call me old school, but I’d rather kick start my sled and have the wind in my face. And a coat of paint doesn’t make it any faster, so I don’t have one.” She looked confused. “Sled?” “Bike, sled, motorcycle, scoot. They all mean the same thing.” “Well, for what it’s worth, I like it.” She grinned. “It’s unique.” “That makes two of us.”

“How many men are in your club?” “Enough to resolve any problems that we encounter.” “How long has the club been in…how long has the club been together?” “Since the fall of 2007.” “Were you the one who founded it?” “The one and only.” “Had you ever ridden in an MC prior to starting this one?” I shook my head. “Nope.” “What prompted you to start the club?” “Prompted me?” “Yes,” she said. “What in your life changed? What happened to make you feel that starting the club was in your best interest?” “The war ended. At least for me.” “Were you a veteran?” I cleared my throat and glared back at her. “I am a veteran.” “Sorry.” She dropped her eyes to the floor. After a short pause, she looked up. “So, you came back from the war, and following your return, you started the club?” “Yeah, something like that.” She scooted to the edge of the drum. Her bare legs dangled over the edge like bait. “For the sake of this and any future conversations,” she said. “When I speak of an MC, I’m referring to an outlaw motorcycle club.” I shifted my eyes away from her legs and chuckled. “I’ll make note of that.” “Most outlaw biker clubs are known for adhering to a set of ideals that celebrate freedom. Nonconformity to any facet of mainstream culture is also common within the ranks of MC’s. After the war, did you feel the country had let you down or wronged you?” “Nope. I was just sick and fucking tired of the bullshit – the rules, regulations, superiors. I was ready to live life without restrictions.”

“And what better way to do so than start an MC?” I clenched my fist, held it in front of her face, and slowly extended my index finger. “I don’t have to answer to anyone. Society can suck my dick.” She glanced at my finger, rolled her eyes dramatically, then continued. “Regardless of your reluctance to adhere to the rules and regulations society has established, they exist nonetheless. Are you of the opinion that you’re above the law?” “Not above it, no.” I shrugged. “I have my own set of rules and regulations I adhere to. I think they’re enough.” “Give me an example.” “Of what?” She placed the recorder beside me on the bench and ran her fingers through her long brown hair. “Your rules. What are they?” I looked at the recorder, then met her gaze. I didn’t have a rehearsed or published set of rules or regulations; I simply did what I felt was best under my own system of beliefs. With a by the seat of your pants response, I conveyed my opinion. “If you want to be left alone, keep your nose and your mitts out of my business. Don’t fuck with kids, the elderly, or animals or I’ll hunt your ass down. I don’t know, that’s about it.” She laughed. “That’s it?” I glared back at her. “What’d you expect?” She shook her head. “I’m going to recite a handful of rules many choose to live by. I want your opinion regarding each of them.” I chuckled. “You may not like it, but I’ll give it.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, tapped her fingers against the screen for a few seconds, and then began. “You shall have no other gods before Me.” “You planning on listing all ten of ‘em?” She looked surprised. “Oh. So, you’re familiar with this? You recognize it?” “I’m not some fuckin’ idiot.” “I wasn’t insinuating that you were. Are you a religious man?”

I shook my head. “No.” “So. Your thoughts on that? The first commandment?” “I believe in God.” “I’m not going to list all ten,” she said. “Just the ones I’m curious about.” I shrugged. “Honor your father and your mother.” “I have a great relationship with them both.” She cleared her throat. “Thou shall not murder.” “I’ll agree with that, but justifiable homicide is different.” “What act or acts justify homicide? As far as you’re concerned?” “I’ll protect myself and those I care for at any cost,” I said. “And back to what I said earlier. Don’t fuck with kids, the elderly, or animals or I’ll probably show up at your door.” “That’s admirable,” she said. “What? That I don’t like people who take advantage of those incapable of protecting themselves?” She smiled and nodded. “Yes.” “When I was in school.” I clenched both of my fists and raised them to my chin. “I beat the absolute shit out of kids who took advantage of other kids. You know, the kids who called others names and shit? I ran ‘em down and pounded their fuckin’ asses.” “You bullied bullies?” “God damned right.” She laughed. “I like that.” “Joined the military for the same reason. I was capable of standing up for what others might not have been able to, so I did. I stood up and tried to make a difference.” “Did you?” “Did I what?” “Did you make a difference?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Sore subject. Next Question.” Her lips were full, her skin was without a single blemish, and her hair hung from her head like strands of brown fucking silk. Her eyes were brown, but not like any others I’d seen. They were translucent gold with little brown flecks, making them unique – at least to me. Watching them as she formulated each question was driving me insane. “What are the differences between a riding club and an outlaw MC?” I stared back at her. “You’re gonna write a story about my club, and you don’t know the fuckin’ difference?” “I do know. I want you to tell me.” “Fuck that,” I growled. “You tell me your interpretation first.” After raking her fingers through her hair, she rubbed her palms together and grinned. “A riding club follows the guidelines of the American Motorcycle Association, and many are sanctioned by the AMA. Outlaw clubs don’t and aren’t.” I laughed. “Read that on the internet? AMA’s website?” She shook her head. “No.” She crossed one of her perfectly tanned legs over the other and then met my gaze. Slowly, I felt my cock began to stiffen. “So, in your own words. What are the differences?” she asked. I was done answering stupid questions about bullshit she wasn’t going to use in her publication. So far, her questions were nothing more than a half-assed attempt on her part to get to know more about me. If she wanted to know who I was, showing her would be a hell of a lot easier. It’d save us both a lot of agony in the long run. “I’m done with this question and answer bullshit.” I slid off the edge of the workbench and turned to face her. “I’m nowhere near finished,” she complained. “We’re just getting started. I’ll need several hours of interviews for a story.” “I wanna fuck,” I said flatly. Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?” Her expression was equal parts excitement and shock.

“All these questions are getting’ under my skin. Let’s fuck.” She hopped off of her makeshift seat, made eye contact with me, and cocked her hip to the side. “I’m not going to--” “Don’t even start with the innocent girl act.” I reached for my belt. “Take off your shorts.” “What makes you think--” “Ever since this little interview of yours started, you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to eat me. Well, here’s your fuckin’ chance.” “I’m not some whore. Your little finger-bang thing in the bar was--” “Did I say you were a whore?” “No, but--” “I’m done talking about it. Either take off your shorts, or I will,” I demanded. “All these questions are pissing me off, and your eyes are drivin’ me fuckin’ insane.” She chuckled a light laugh. “My eyes?” I nodded. “Yeah, your eyes. Now get fuckin’ naked.” “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said with a tone of authority. “If these shorts come off, it’s going to be because I want them to, not because you do.” Her willingness to stand up to me wasn’t something I was accustomed to, and I glared at her in disbelief. She returned my stare without an ounce of emotion. After standing in wait with a stiff cock for what seemed like forever, I broke the silence. “Well…” “My pussy, my rules,” she said. I chuckled. “I’m listening.” And, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was willing to listen to what a woman had to say.



FIVE Peyton I couldn’t believe what I was considering. Saying no to Nick Navarro, however, was something I was afraid I would never be able to do. His handsome looks, tattoos, and raw essence weakened me. His remarkable blue eyes may have been partially to blame, but certainly not wholly. The adventurous and conservative portions of my being were at war, and the adventurous side was winning. I quickly considered my risks: Fucking someone I was interviewing for work. I didn’t believe Navarro would tell my boss – or anyone for that matter. He didn’t seem like the type to brag. Keeping my private life private after we had sex. He certainly wasn’t going to fall in love with me or stalk me, so my private life would be able to remain just that – private. STD’s. There was the risk of sexually transmitted disease, but it could easily be dealt with by producing the two-year-old condom that was floating around in my purse. I weighed the risks against the one clear benefit. Sex with a tattooed biker. Being fucked by a bearded outlaw biker who was handsome, muscular, mature, covered in tattoos, and had a nice thick cock. Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. I reached for my purse. After digging through my wallet, I found the ancient condom. I handed it to him. “Here.” He stared at the packet as if I had handed him a foreign object. “What the fuck is this?”

“A condom.” He attempted to give it back to me. “I don’t wear condoms.” I waved him off. “I won’t have sex without it.” “It looks like it’s too fuckin’ small,” he complained. “I doubt I can even get it on. Let’s just fuck.” “Remember. My pussy, my rules.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t even know how to operate one of these motherfuckers.” “If you want this pussy, you’ll have to figure it out.” He bit the edge of the package and tore it open. “I’m about out of the mood.” “Shall we get back to the interview?” “Just gimme a fuckin’ minute,” he growled. I’d never spent a single moment second-guessing a choice I had made. Ever. I had always been proud of my ability to make split-second decisions and make them well. Even the serious ones were generally made quickly, and without any future remorse. As I stood and watched Navarro fumble-fucking around with the condom, however, I couldn’t help but wonder if my decision to allow him to fuck me was a good one or not. It was a spur of the moment choice made as a result of extreme desire and overwhelming curiosity. Watching him look at the condom as if he were holding a ticking time bomb wasn’t very reassuring. Or sexy. Earlier, he said he was about out of the mood. I now shared his lack of desire. He held the condom carefully in his left hand while he unbuckled his belt. After what appeared to be a very frustrated effort to push his jeans down to mid-thigh, he gripped his cock in his tattooed hand and began to stoke himself. Watching him with his big dick clenched in his fist was a huge turn-on. After six or eight strokes, the massive shaft was rigid in his hand. And, once again, I was ready. More than ready. “Here,” I breathed. “Let me do that.” With one hand I reached for the condom, and with the other I fumbled to unbutton my shorts. After

a few frustrating seconds of my own, I had my shorts on the work bench, and his cock protected by a thin layer of rubber. “What a clusterfuck,” he grumbled. Agreed. “Where do you, uhhm,” I stammered, looking around for a place to let him fuck me. The bench was littered in tools and motorcycle parts and the floor was covered in dirt and grease, leaving the steel drum as my only visible alternative for sex. I didn’t wait for him to respond. I wrapped my arms around the drum and pressed my chest onto the lid. “Stand up,” he growled. Oooh. Standing up sex. Fuck yeah. I stood up and turned to face him. “Ditch the shirt and the bra,” he demanded. I glanced at his jeans, which were draped around his thighs. My eyes dropped to his feet. Scuffed and covered in stains, the lace-up black boots he was wearing were kind of sexy when he was fully dressed, but now that we were getting ready to fuck, they were a distraction. I wagged my finger toward his knees. “Ditch the boots and jeans.” The glare he returned let me know he wasn’t interested in considering what I wanted. He pressed his hand into the middle of my back and pushed me toward the work bench. As my hips came in contact with the cold steel, he shoved a little harder, forcing me to bend over. His hand slid from between my shoulder blades to the back of my head. You like it rough, huh? Yeah, me too. He pressed my face down firmly on the top of the workbench. I felt the tip of his dick against my pussy, and inhaled sharply in anticipation. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for his girth. I wasn’t ready. At all. He shoved me completely full of cock in one hard thrust.

I arched my back and gasped out in response. His beard scraped along my neck. The warm against my cheek that followed caused goosebumps to rise along my legs. I fought to raise my head, but he was much too strong. “I’m going to fuck you senseless,” he breathed into my ear. All concerns regarding whether or not fucking Nick Navarro was a good decision immediately vanished. It was a great decision. He thrust his hips back and forth aggressively, grunting in my ear with each stroke. “I can’t… figure out…if it’s my…big cock…or your…tight little pussy. But fuckin’ you…is like fuckin’…a virgin.” I thought I’d been fucked by big-dicked men in the past. I was wrong. They may have been wellendowed by my standard at the time, but Nick Navarro was redefining everything. Everything. “I think…it’s…both,” I muttered. I bit into my lip and tried to keep from crying out. I’d heard the phrase hurts so good many times, and only now had a complete understanding of what it meant. His thick cock was stretching my pussy to an all-new limit. And I loved every fucking inch of it. “I like…fucking you,” he groaned. “Your little pussy clenches my cock like a vise.” Just shut up and keep fucking me. I closed my eyes and wondered just what had happened to me. Although I was daring and bold, my interest in men was nil. Having been wronged in the past so many times, I learned to trust no one who grew facial hair. Or had a cock. Navarro had both and I wouldn’t want him any other way. As he pounded himself in and out of me like a man possessed, his scent filled my nostrils. It wasn’t a hint of cologne or deodorant, nor was it a foul body odor. He smelled like a man. A real man.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled it taught. My back arched and my mind reeled at the thought of him fucking me like he owned me. “Tell me how much you like this big biker cock,” he growled in my ear. Dear God. I wanted desperately to speak, but succeeding wasn’t as easy as one might think. I was suspended somewhere between heaven and earth, and talking wasn’t an option. He pulled against my hair until his lips met my ear. His warm breath on my neck made my legs go weak. “Say something, you sexy little bitch.” If you keep talking dirty to me, I’m going to explode. I opened my mouth, but…nothing. “Newspaper reporter my ass,” he breathed. “You came here for my cock, didn’t you?” I did my best to nod, but his tight grip on my hair made doing so close to impossible. “I uhhm.” I stammered. He bit into my earlobe. “Didn’t you?” he grunted. “Yes,” I breathed. I told myself it wasn’t true, but at that moment, I wasn’t completely sure. Between his savage thrusts, I decided it was the thrill of actually being fucked by Navarro that attracted me, and nothing more. Nick Navarro may have been a lot of different things to a lot of different people. To me, he was an outlaw biker. Having him fuck me was taking me to a place I had never ventured to. A place I was afraid I would yearn to return to, over and over. While he continued to fuck me like he was attempting to prove a point, he wedged his tattooed forearm between my hip and the bench. In a few seconds, I felt the tip of his finger circling my throbbing clit. “You’re gonna come back for this cock whenever I want you to.” Don’t worry about that, big boy. Until further notice, this pussy’s yours.

I wanted to give a smart-assed response, but couldn’t seem to assemble my thoughts. As he rubbed my swollen nub and repeatedly filled me with his dick, my mind drifted off to a faraway place. After an immeasurable amount of time, a tingling began to run through me. Immediately following, his cock seemed to double in size. I fought against the pressure of his hand against my head, but eventually gave up. His hips slammed against my ass a few more times, and my pussy went into a thankful frenzy of its own. His thrusts slowed, but remained os-so-deep. His breathing became irregular. And. An orgasm shot through my body like a bolt of lightning. And then another. And another. “Fuck yesss,” he moaned. “Oh…My…God,” I cried out. While my body continued to convulse in the wake of countless earth-shattering micro-orgasms, I collapsed. My vision narrowed as he withdrew himself from inside of me. The sounds of the distant traffic, his breathing, and my heart beating became dull and indifferent. In short, Nick Navarro – and his big cock – changed my mind about everything.

SIX Nick I stared at the exterior wall of the shop, not sure whether to get off my bike, or fire it up and go for a ride. Peyton Price had my interest – and my attention – and I didn’t like it one fucking bit. She was a sexy little bitch, but I had no business with a woman in my clubhouse or on my mind, no matter how attractive she was. While contemplating a ride up the PCH, the unmistakable lyrics from Cypress Hill’s How I Could Just Kill a Man blaring over the rumble of Pee Bee’s loud pipes snapped me out of my funk. I turned toward the sound. With his long legs stretched out onto his floorboards, and his arms draped over his handlebars, he leisurely rolled into the lot. “What’s shakin’, Motherfucker?” he said as he came to a stop at my side. I shrugged. “Comin’ or goin’?” “Thinkin’ about havin’ a beer,” I responded. “Sounds good.” I nodded toward the shop. “Of all the shit you could be listening to, you’ve got to listen to that song?” He pulled off his helmet and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Cypress motherfuckin’ Hill, Boss. It’s good shit.”. “How I Could Just Kill a Man. Remind you of anything?” “Sure as fuck does,” he responded.

I gave him my signature look. A cocked eyebrow. I’d used it so much over the years that one side of my forehead was wrinkled, and the other wasn’t. “That night Wood dumped his bike in front of that mansion up by Torrey Pines.” Pee Bee may have been absent minded when it came to the passage of time, and his sheer size alone removed fear from the list of emotions he felt, but other than that, he was real damned close to normal. Most of the time. “What in the fuck does Wood hitting a fox in Torrey Pines have to do with that song?” He looked at me as if I was a complete fool. “Wood hit the fox. Then that chick in the nightgown came out to see if we were okay. While she was tryin’ to get Wood bandaged up, I was starin’ at her tits and flippin’ through my iPod for something cool to listen to. I saw Cypress Hill, and thought it sounded good. So, that’s what I was listenin’ to the whole time she was standin’ there with her titties pokin’ out of that nightgown.” The owner of the thirty-million-dollar mansion was the widow of a Hollywood producer, and built like a porn star. In a sheer nightgown and a pair of designer flip-flops, she rushed from the house and offered to bandage Wood’s arm. The entire time, her silicone D-cups were all but hanging out of her nightgown. It was a story we’d talked about for years, but it had nothing to do with what was now on my mind. I got off my bike and turned toward the shop. “Well it reminds me of something else.” “Like what?” I unlocked the door, opened it, and motioned toward the steel drum. “We need to get rid of that body.” “Still in that drum?” I shot him a glare. “Where the fuck else would it be?” “Fuck, I don’t know. That’s why I asked.” “Do you really think I’d take that two-hundred-pound dead prick out of that drum and do something with him?” I asked. “He’s been in there cooking for three days.” “Two.” “It’s been three.”

“Been two.” He looked at his watch. “Today’s Monday the 9th. Wedding was on Saturday the 7th.” Peyton had started her recording by saying, I’m Peyton Price beginning my interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 7th. “You sure it’s the 9th?” He glanced at his watch and nodded. If her assembly of facts was as inaccurate as her telling of time, I wouldn’t approve a single word to go to publication. “What?” he asked. “You got to be somewhere?” I shook my head. As we walked toward the refrigerator, I considered telling him about Peyton, reconsidered it, and then decided to tell him a shortened version of the truth. “That reporter chick came in here yesterday and interviewed me. The one from the bar. When she started her interview, she said it was the 7th. It wasn’t. It was the 8th. No big deal.” He grabbed two bottles of beer and handed me one. “Bitch might not know what day it is, but she’s hot as fuck.” I nodded. “She’s a sexy little bitch.” He tossed his lid into the trash. “You fuck her?” I opened my beer and took a long drink. “You fucked her, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “I swear, young bitches flock to your old ass.” I raised the bottle to my mouth and shrugged. “Young chicks dig old men.” “Since when?” he snapped back. “Since forever. With age comes maturity.” I tilted the neck of my beer bottle toward him. “Maturity brings comfort.” He choked on his beer. After wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he returned a dramatic glare. “Comfort in what?” “They know an old man will give ‘em a good honest fucking. No lies, no unmet promises, no pickup lines. Just a lot of hard cock.” “And that’s enough to keep ‘em happy?”

I waved my arms toward the empty shop. “You see any women in here complaining?” “Nope.” “That’s because I never told ‘em I loved ‘em, but I always fucked ‘em like I did.” “She suck good cock?” he asked. “Bitch has got some serious DSL’s.” “Dunno.” “She didn’t suck your cock?” “She was askin’ me question after question, and I’m sittin’ on the bench listenin’ to her, and trying my fuckin’ damndest to stay focused,” I explained. “But she’s wearin’ shorts, some Chuck’s, and a tight tee shirt. And she kept running her fingers through her fuckin’ hair. Bitch was driving me nuts. Next thing I know, I’m sittin’ right there with a fuckin’ chubby.” I motioned toward the bench with my beer bottle. “Where was she?” “Sittin’ on the drum.” He glared back at me in disbelief. “You had her sittin’ on Whip’s dead brother?” I grinned and nodded. “Didn’t want her sittin’ beside me. You know how I am about havin’ people in my space.” “Where’d you fuck her?” “Bent her over the bench.” He coughed out a laugh. “Just couldn’t fuck her while she was hovering over a corpse?” “I didn’t give a fuck if she sat on him, but I didn’t want to fuck her while she was layin’ her tits on him.” “Makes sense.” The things that made sense to a biker were undoubtedly different than what made sense to most people in the free world. I could tell any of the men in the club that I had a body to dispose of, and their response would be where is it? If the same question was asked of someone out of my group, most people would respond by vomiting. Or calling the cops. Our MC consisted of a close-knit group of men who would place their lives on the line for any of

their club brothers. The comradery and devotion was as close to what I felt in the Navy. Often, my MC brethren reminded me of my SEAL team. “So, that’s something we need to get taken care of quick. Today, if possible.” “What’s that?” “The body in that fuckin’ drum.” “Wanna do it now?” “No. We’re gonna need to drive out to the desert. Or up to Temecula, by the mountains. Fucker’s been in that drum of Sodium Hydroxide since Saturday night, I’d say he’s about ready.” “Acid’s the way to go, huh?” “Sodium Hydroxide’s not acid. It’s lye. They use acid on T.V., but in real life, the shit doesn’t work. The fumes alone from hydrochloric or hydrofluoric would kill you. And it doesn’t do what they show it doing on T.V., believe me.” His face distorted. “How the fuck you know all this shit?” I tapped my index finger against the tattoo on my bicep of the eagle, anchor, trident, and pistol – the insignia of the SEALs. “Shoulda known,” he said. “They didn’t just teach us how to kill, they taught us how to do it and not leave a trace,” I said with a laugh. He tossed his empty beer bottle in the trash. “Funny. Government teaches you how to do that shit, and the same government will lock you up for doing what they trained you for.” “Don’t get me started.” I waved my hand toward the fridge. “Grab me one, too.” He opened the two beers, handed me one of them, and kicked the steel drum with the toe of his boot. “So we just pour him out on the ground?” “It’s gonna be a fuckin’ mess,” I explained. “We need to dump it somewhere, scavenge what’s left of the bones, and crush ‘em up. They’ll be pretty brittle. And hollow.” “Figure out when, and I’m good to go,” he said. “You ought to be, you dip-shit. Who doesn’t leave air holes when they do something like that?” “Well, Mr. Navy fucking SEAL, not all of us are special warfare experts. That’s the first

motherfucker to ever have his face taped up by me. So, considering, I think I did a pretty good job,” he said in a prideful tone. “You did a damned fine job, Peeb. Just fell a little short on keepin’ the fucker alive,” I said with a laugh. “Fuck this prick. He swung a baseball bat at my head.” He kicked his boot against the drum. “If it wasn’t for my cat-like reflexes, you’d be buryin’ me in the desert, not him.” I raised my beer bottle. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya.” “Seriously, though. What are we gonna do about these pricks?” “The Savages?” He nodded. “Yeah.” “We both know they’re tryin’ to force us out, because they’ve been here longer. I haven’t got much interest in dissolving the club. You?” “Nope.” “So, we stand our ground. Sooner or later, they’ll back off. If they don’t, we go to war.” “I’m tired of lookin’ over my shoulder every fuckin’ time I hear a set of pipes comin’ down the road.” “You and me both, Brother. You and me both,” I said. “So what about this newspaper chick? You done with the interview?” I shook my head. “Just getting started.” “So she’s gonna be comin’ around for a bit?” “A long bit.” The words escaped my mouth before I had much time to think about my response. It was apparent from what Peyton said about the amount of hours she would need to invest in interviews that she would be around for some time. In my opinion, exposing her to a limited amount of the club’s activities would help matters as much, if not more, than interviews. Like it or not, if I wanted a favorable portrayal of the club in the newspaper, it was something that going to require a significant amount of time on her part, and mine. My fear was knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep my cock out of her. In reality, I was a Filthy

Fucker in more ways than one. I raised my bottle of beer. “Filthy Fuckers forever.” Pee Bee raised his and clanked it against mine. “Forever Filthy Fuckers.” Truer words had never been spoken.

SEVEN Peyton After downloading the files from my recorder to my laptop, I started listening to the interview. Typing a rough outline of my story was something I always tried to do when information and events were fresh in my mind, and Nick Navarro was still fresh in my mind. Very much so. It was twenty-four hours after the interview, and I still felt like he was inside of me. I crossed my legs as I heard his raspy voice come through the earbuds. After a moment or two of reminiscing, I fast-forwarded through the beginning of the interview. After skimming through a few of the questions, one portion of the questions and answers caught my attention. “Most outlaw biker clubs are known for adhering to a set of ideals that celebrate freedom. Nonconformity to any facet of mainstream culture is also common within the ranks of MC’s. After the war, did you feel the country had let you down or wronged you?” “Nope. I was just sick and fucking tired of the bullshit – the rules, regulations, superiors. I was ready to live life without restrictions.” “And what better way to do so than start an MC?” “I don’t have to answer to anyone. Society can suck my dick.” I pressed the pause tab, typed a few notes about Navarro, and continued to listen. Minutes later, and I was more than halfway through the interview. “When I was in school, I beat the absolute shit out of kids who took advantage of other kids. You know, the kids who called others names and shit? I ran ‘em down and pounded their fuckin’ asses.” “You bullied bullies?”

“God damned right.” “I like that.” I pressed pause again, made a few notes, and typed a paragraph about Navarro’s soft side. As the recording’s topic of conversation changed from outlaw MC’s to sex, it dawned on me that I didn’t turn the recorder off. Surely it didn’t… “I’m going to fuck you senseless,” I heard him growl. Then, his gravelly voice continued. “I can’t…figure out…if it’s my…big cock…or your…tight little pussy. But fuckin’ you…is like fuckin’…a virgin.” I listened to the sound of him fucking me until it felt like my pussy was on fire, and then I turned off the recording and pulled the earbuds from my ears. My eyes darted around my bedroom as if the answer to why my pussy was dripping down my leg was somewhere amidst my collection of snowboards, surfboards, and skateboards. The thought of having Navarro’s strong hand on the back of my head while his scent filled my nostrils seemed to consume me. I realized a full-fledged biker wasn’t the desire of all women, but his tattoos, muscles, raspy voice, and manner of dress were sexy as hell. Who was I kidding? Everything about him was sexy. As ridiculous as it seemed, I felt the need to see him again. Immediately. Knowing what he was sexually capable of and not taking advantage of it was a waste; whether he understood it as such or not. I didn’t have his phone number, and the only way I knew to find him was to either go to the bar or drop by the clubhouse. Even if he wasn’t at the clubhouse, I knew I may encounter other members of the club, and the probability of obtaining some useful information was high. I had little doubt that an uninvited stop at the clubhouse would get me into trouble with Navarro. Probably big trouble. The clubhouse it is. Rolling down the freeway, ten minutes away from my exit, I began to fill with remorse for making the decision to go see him. While stuck in traffic, I reached toward the passenger seat, fumbled inside my purse for a moment, and removed the recorder. I turned down the radio, pressed play, then fast-forwarded to the action.

“Say something, you sexy little bitch.” The almost inaudible sound of his whisper caused me to almost hit the car in front of me. I stomped my foot against the brakes, causing the Jeep to come to an abrupt stop. “Newspaper reporter my ass, you came here for my cock, didn’t you?” “I uhhm.” “Didn’t you?” “Yes.” The sound of his voice was such a turn-on. I had no business going to his clubhouse unannounced, but to be an effective reporter, I needed a realistic means of getting in touch with him, and I had no means short of hunting him down. Convinced the drive to the warehouse was my only option, I considered viable options that I could explain which would support my need to see him with such urgency. I have a few questions regarding the club’s process of initiating prospects. How many miles, on average, do you ride a year? Do your members also have other means of transportation? Does the club have a means of income, or is it self-supporting through dues and contributions? Does the club participate in charitable events? Shit. None of the questions were critical for my first installment on the piece, and Navarro would see right through me. I felt like such a girl. I’d be much better off just telling him the truth. I exited the highway, came to a stop at the traffic light, and then slowly proceeded down the street toward the clubhouse. When I got close enough to get an unobstructed view of the building, I could clearly see that there were three motorcycles parked in front. I envisioned a secret meeting, drug deal, or weapons transaction going down. I considered driving past, but curiosity got the best of me. I turned through the gate, drove slowly toward the front of the building, and came to a stop beside Navarro’s eclectic example of a motorcycle.

I grabbed my recorder and pushed the door to the Jeep open. “I don’t recall giving you a standing invite to stop by my clubhouse at will, reporter.” I turned toward the voice, but saw no one. I responded nonetheless. “You didn’t.” Be assertive, Peyton. Take charge. I scanned the empty garage. Navarro was nowhere to be found. I cleared my throat. “But if you want this article to make your club look good in the eyes of all who read it, I suggest you cooperate with the woman who is writing the article.” Navarro stepped from inside the garage and stood ten feet in front of me with his arms folded in front of his chest. Dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans, boots, and a black wife-beater, he looked every bit the part of a biker. He raised his right hand to his face, clenched his fist, and exhaled into the void between his thumb and forefinger. With his eyes locked on me, he inhaled a long slow breath, then lowered his fist. Without so much as saying a word, his extremely commanding presence seemed to suck the confidence from my very soul. I was left standing in front of him feeling small, helpless, and without a single thought of my own. I was his for the taking. I turned my head to the side and swallowed heavily, hoping he didn’t notice. As I turned to face him, I feigned a cough, then met his gaze. “I need your phone number.” He continued to stare. “You want my phone number. You don’t need it.” I straightened my posture and cleared my throat. “Upon returning home from the war, Nicholas Crip Navarro formed a band of hand-selected brothers not much different than the men who fought at his side during the eight-year-long protracted armed conflict in Iraq.” His face expressed not one ounce of emotion. I maintained eye contact and continued. “To the layman, the differences between his military and state-side brethren were crystal clear. To Navarro, the five-foot-eleven, 200 pound tattooed war veteran – and president of the Filthy Fuckers Motorcycle Club – there were no differences. To understand the similarities in the men, one must be able to peer well beyond the surface of the club’s members. Navarro gave me a look deep inside the makings of his club, and after doing so, I was able to see the members not for who and what they appeared to be, but for who they truly were.”

“You done?” he asked. I shook my head. “If war broke out in these United States tomorrow, and I was in charge of my own well-being, the US Marines nor the Army would have the honor of defending me. I’d make one phone call, and one only – to Navarro. And after that call, I’d drift off into a deep slumber, knowing no harm would come to me.” His mouth curled into a shitty little smirk. “You know the only problem with that story?” I asked. “Nope.” “I couldn’t make that one phone call. Because I don’t have your fucking phone number.” “You know my only problem I’ve got with you being at my clubhouse, reporter?” I shrugged. “Uhhm. I guess not.” “Every time you open your pretty little mouth, all I can think about is shoving my cock in it.” I was flattered. Kind of. “I don’t know whether to say thank you, or fuck you.” He chuckled. “I like your attitude. The number’s 619 447 1035. And no, I won’t repeat it.” Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. “I don’t need to write it down, I’m a reporter.” Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. He nodded. “Impressive. How’s the article coming?” “Just getting started,” I responded. “We need to, uhhm, meet again. Soon.” Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. I studied him. His clothes served him all too well. His shirt hugged his muscular torso like a black glove, leaving nothing about his washboard stomach and massive chest to the imagination. His worn denim jeans were tight against his shapely butt, more proof that all of his leisure time wasn’t spent in the bar.

His ass was the product of countless hours at the gym. Charlie Hunnam was no longer the object of my sexual desire. Nick Navarro was. “I’m busy right now, reporter,” he said. “Give me a shout tomorrow, around noon. Maybe we can have coffee and a crunchy little biscuit. How’s that sound?” Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five. “Alright,” I said, turning away. “Talk to you tomorrow.” I opened the door to the Jeep, climbed inside, and did an imaginary fist pump. Yes! And, the entire drive home, all I could think of was him shoving his cock in my mouth every time I started to speak.

EIGHT Nick I turned into the coffee shop, coasted to a stop, and parked the bike alongside a hybrid Toyota. In complete contrast to most of my southern California neighbors, I tried like hell to leave the biggest carbon footprint on the earth that I could. I hopped off my bike and glanced at the battery-powered eco-friendly ride. From the rearview mirror, an orange dangled by a string. Protruding from the skin of the fruit over the entire surface, were cloves. A hippie air freshener. Today’s colon-cleansing, environmentally conscious, trash-separating robots disgusted me. I felt if the occupants of the earth could focus more on being genuine, and less on being what they felt others expected them to be, the world would be a much better place. I scanned the lot for Peyton’s Jeep, but saw nothing. After checking my watch, I realized I was ten minutes early. I gazed out into the street, wondering if I could stomach being in the presence of whoever drove the fruit-scented Prius until she arrived. In a matter of seconds, she swerved between two passing cars and into the parking lot. With the top off of her Jeep and Jimi Hendrix’s Castles Made of Sand playing loud enough that I could recognize it, she shot into an empty stall, parked, and hopped out of the Jeep. Wearing her trademark attire of jean shorts, Chuck’s, and a tee shirt, she looked no differently than she had on the other three occasions I had seen her. “Nice day for going topless,” I said. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band from her wrist. “Your subliminal suggestions are falling on deaf ears, biker man.” “It was worth a try, reporter.”

While walking toward me, she dropped her sunglasses in her purse, removed a pair of glasses, and put them on. One of my weaknesses was a hot bitch wearing glasses. With her hair in a ponytail and the bold black frames fixed high on the bridge of her nose, my imagination took over. An image of her peering at me through the lenses while my cock was in her mouth quickly came to mind. “You wear glasses?” “My contacts were killing my eyes.” I admired her until she was at my side, then turned toward the entrance. “Inside or outside?” She stepped between me and the Toyota. “Outside.” We got our drinks, she declined a crunchy biscuit, and we sat outside at a table amongst several coffee-drinking sun worshipers. “So, did you remember my number?” I asked. “Six, one, nine, four, four seven, one, zero, three, five.” “Good memory, huh?” She laughed. “Like a fucking elephant.” “What was so fuckin’ important that you had to come by the shop last night?” She looked embarrassed for a split-second, but quickly donned a smile. “I was working on the piece, and realized I had no way to get ahold of you. I can’t effectively write something informative if my only way of obtaining information is by simply stumbling into you.” “How many more times are we going to have to meet?” After I asked the question, I realized sooner or later, the meetings between us would actually end. As much as I never would have guessed it, the thought of not seeing her again wasn’t something I looked forward to. “I don’t know,” she responded. “Maybe ten or twelve.” “Ten or twelve?” I snapped back. “Jesus.” “Well, four installments.” She took a drink of coffee, then shrugged. “Three or so meetings for each article. It’s not that much.” “Guess not.”

She pulled the recorder from her purse. “You want to do a little more now?” I wondered what else she might ask, and was anxious to find out. “Might as well.” She glanced over each shoulder, raised her hand to her mouth, and spoke. “For the record, I’m Peyton Price conducting my second interview with Nick Navarro, the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC. Today’s date is May 11th.” She placed the recorder on the table between us. “Are you single?” I nodded. “Have been since, shit…for ten years.” “Is your refusal to be in a committed relationship a result of not trusting women?” “I didn’t say I refused to be in a committed relationship. I just said I wasn’t in one.” I said. “And it’s not about trusting women, I don’t trust myself.” “You don’t trust yourself? Can you explain?” I glanced at the woman seated beside us. Long, lean, and tan, she appeared to be in her midforties. Her fake tits were bulging from her designer top, and her hands were covered in jewels. Although she sat with who I suspected was her husband, her focus was clearly our conversation. Her eyes dropped to my boots, and slowly raised “Here’s the issue,” I said. “I like pussy. A lot.” She wrinkled her nose and stared. “So much that it’s a problem?” “Prevents me being in a committed relationship, that’s for sure. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.” I shifted my eyes to the skinny bitch seated beside us, who was still ear hustling our conversation. “So I just fuck the shit out of every girl I meet, but make sure they’re well aware that all they’re gettin’ is my cock.” She cleared her throat. “I think she’s with someone.” I turned to face Peyton. “She’d take it if I was offering.” “Seriously?” I nodded. “Believe me.” “Would you give it to her?” I grinned a mischievous smile. “I sure would. And I’d make you hold her skinny ass down while I did it.”

“I don’t think so,” she snapped back. I looked at the skinny bitch. She shot me a curious look while her husband poked his finger against the screen of his phone. Peyton knocked her knuckles on the edge of the table. “See if you can stay focused on the interview.” I shifted my focus back to her and chuckled. “I’ll do my best.” “Have any kids?” None that I know of. “Nope.” “Do you have a mode of transportation for foul weather days? Anything other than the sled?” “Nope.” “Your thoughts on transgender bathrooms?” “Excuse me?” “A person with a sexual identity that differs from their assigned sexuality. Transgender. Where should they go to the bathroom?” “Wherever they fuckin’ want to. People need to worry more about themselves and their fuckin’ kids, and stop worrying about what everyone else is doing or not doing.” “Do you believe in equality?” I believe I want to shove my cock down your throat. “I believe it doesn’t exist.” “Should it?” she asked. “Sure as fuck should.” “On earth and in your club? Or only where it’s convenient?” “Everywhere.” “It’s common knowledge that the guidelines for the Hells Angels MC prohibit black membership. The Bandidos and Mongols MC’s share this guideline. In fact, a 2008 federal indictment listed many racist acts that were allegedly committed by the Mongol’s members, including beatings and murder. Do

the guidelines of your club allow black members?” “Generally speaking, there are black MC’s and there are white MC’s. The FFMC is an MC that chooses not to discriminate.” “Do you have any black members?” “No.” She widened her eyes. “Will you ever?” “If a man wants to prospect with the club, and he’s a solid dude, we’ll consider it. If he passes the initiation without problems, he’ll be a patched-in member. Skin color has nothing to do with our decision making process.” “What, specifically, is the initiation process?” I admired her for a moment. She was beautiful by anyone’s standards. With the glasses on, she was irresistible. As I felt my cock began to go stiff, I pressed the heel of my palm against it. I exhaled heavily. “By invitation from a fully-patched member, someone becomes a hang-around. A hang-around is a person that comes to club functions by invitation only, and only with the member who vouched for him. After some time, say, after six months, they may become an associate. An associate is a glorified hang-around. Maybe they’ll attend a few organized rides with us, go to a few parties, and hang around the clubhouse – again, by invitation only. Then, if agreed by the membership of the club. They may become a prospect. If so, they prospect with the club for a year, and then must receive a unanimous vote for membership.” “So, the process takes eighteen months?” I nodded. “At least.” “Have you denied anyone membership?” “Yes.” “Who and why?” “Who is none of your god damned business. Why? Because they weren’t capable.” “Capable of what?” I considered my response, and gave one that lacked specifics, but was revealing enough to keep her from continuing. “He wasn’t capable of satisfying every member of the club that he was who we needed.”

She nodded, took a drink of her coffee, and gazed beyond me for a moment. After zoning out for some time, she met my gaze. “Your club, no differently than other outlaw MC’s, claims territory. Often, when many clubs claim the same territory, there’s bickering between the clubs. Does the FFMC have issues with any clubs? Do you have a rival?” “Off the record, there are always issues with someone. On the record. No.” She reached for the recorder, turned it off, and cocked an eyebrow. “Off the record.” I shrugged. It was no secret that FFMC and Satan’s Savages were rivals. “Off the record, Satan’s Savages are poking around where they shouldn’t be.” She nodded and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. I locked eyes with her. “Take off those glasses.” She grinned. “Why?” “Because I want to fuck your pretty little mouth when I look at you. Take ‘em off.” “I can’t see without them.” “And I can’t promise you I’ll keep my cock in my pants if you leave ‘em on.” “So, you’re going to mouth rape me if I choose to wear them?” I chuckled. “Pretty tough to rape a willing mouth.” “Who says my mouth is willing?” “I just did.” She tried to look surprised at my claim. It didn’t work. She scrunched her brow. “Based on what?” I stood from my seat, stepped to her side, and pressed my mouth against her ear. “I want you to suck my big cock, reporter.” She didn’t respond. “Did you hear me?” I growled. She nodded, and an almost inaudible uh huh escaped her lips. “I want to feel those full lips of yours wrapped around it while you dig your nails into my ass. I want you to force so much of it down your throat that your fuckin’ eyes water,” I whispered.

“I uhhm. I…” “So, you don’t want it? You don’t want to suck my big fucking dick?” “Uhhm. No,” she murmured. I reached below the table and slowly dragged my finger along her inner thigh, giving her plenty of time to resist. After no such protest, I forced my finger beneath the denim of her shorts and slid it into her soaking wet pussy. “You’re drenched, reporter. It appears your twat doesn’t agree with that bullshit your mouth is trying to sell me. Your wet little pussy wants you to suck my cock.” “We can’t keep doing this.” I pulled my finger from inside of her and wiped it on the thigh of my jeans. “Doing what? We’re just talking.” “We’re…uhhm…we’re…” she stammered. I sat down and took a drink of my coffee. “We’re talking. I thought that’s what you wanted. To talk.” Her glasses were askew on her face, one side sitting much lower than the other. Probably a result of me pressing my cheek against hers, but seeing her appear unkempt was satisfying in its own regard. “Fix your glasses, reporter. They’re crooked.” She took off her glasses, scowled at me, then placed them back on her face perfectly. She reached for the recorder, tossed it into her purse, and sighed. “We’re done for the day. Now, I want a ride on your motorcycle. For the sake of the article, of course.” “God damned shame I don’t have a helmet you can wear. State law requires passengers to wear ‘em.” “Oh really?” she asked. “Yep. Hell, if I had one for you, I’d give you a ride. Might be uncomfortable, but it’d be a ride.” “So the helmet’s all that’s keeping you from it?” I had no desire to give her a ride, but I nodded anyway. “Yep.” “Good.” She stood up. “I’ve got my Biltwell in the Jeep. Let me get it.” I stood up. “Your what?”

She took off toward her Jeep in light jog. “Helmet,” she responded over her shoulder. Fuck. I wondered why in the fuck she’d have a helmet in her Jeep, but was afraid to ask. “It’s got to be DOT approved,” I shouted. “It is.” She leaned into the back of the Jeep and quickly produced a gold and burgundy helmet. “I bought it for snowboarding, but it’s a motorcycle helmet.” “You snowboard?” She turned around, removed her glasses, and pulled the helmet down over her head. “Yep. Snowboard, skateboard, surf, rock climb, bungie jump. If it makes my heart pound, I’ll do it.” Crazy little bitch. She put her glasses back on. “Ready?” I pointed to my bike. “I’m a man of my word.” But at that particular moment, I wished I wasn’t.

NINE Peyton Riding on the back of the motorcycle was exactly what Navarro said it would be. Uncomfortable. Although the motorcycle was designed to carry two people, he had modified it to carry only one, leaving a slight piece of leather on the rear fender for a passenger to sit on. Even at that, it was much better than skateboarding, far more satisfying than surfing, and was a close second only to snowboarding. Having my arms wrapped around his waist made what would have been extremely uncomfortable seem almost sensual. The vibration from the V-twin engine did the rest. It felt like I was riding a 600pound vibrator, and having Nick Navarro’s muscular torso in my hands made matters that much better. The sound from the pipes as he shifted the gears was a reminder of the power that was wedged between my thighs. I found the entire experience thrilling, and realized as we slowed to as stop that even if Navarro never wanted to give me a ride again, the thrill-seeking part of me would forever yearn for another taste. He tilted his head toward a bar at the intersection. “Want to grab a bite at this bar?” “Sure,” I shouted. “It’s a biker bar. “I’m okay with that.” He nodded and released the clutch lever. “They’ve got good burgers.” Although I had my purse – and my recorder – I had no intention of ruining our lunch by interviewing him. A simple discussion over lunch would be nice, even if he didn’t think so. I realized figuring out who Navarro really was may not ever happen, but obtaining a closer look into his life was an exciting addition to mine, that was for sure. He pulled into the parking lot, turned the motorcycle around, and parked backward in the parking

stall, facing the street. Short of his motorcycle and a few other cars, the parking lot was empty. He switched the ignition to off. Even in the absence of the engine running, my legs, ass, and pussy continued to vibrate. “I really like riding on this thing.” He removed his helmet. “Cheapest therapy money can buy.” I took off my glasses and unbuckled my helmet. “Can I leave this out here?” “Just hang it on the handlebars. Nobody fucks with helmets on a Harley.” “Why?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I look like a nice guy?” I shook my head. “Not really.” “That’s why.” I hung my helmet on the handlebars. “Nothing we talk about here is for publication, by the way. This is all off the record.” He ran his fingers through his hair and nodded. “Good to know.” “I do have some questions, though.” He turned toward the door. “Ask away.” “Why do you park backward?” “What do you mean?” “Well, if you were in a car, you’d park facing the building. But you parked facing the street.” “When we’re ready to leave, all we’ve got to do is fire that pig up and go. It only goes in one direction, forward. So if I was facing the building, I’d have to push it around to face the street before we could go. Doing it when you park makes leaving, I don’t know, easier.” “A quick getaway?” He pulled the door open, motioned toward the open bar, and chuckled. “Something like that.” Surprised that he opened the door, I promptly thanked him. “Thank you.” The bar resembled the bar I met him in. It was dark and void of any wait staff. Two rough looking men sat at the bar drinking beer, and they were the only patrons I could see. “Out of curiosity, how’d you find me on that first day?” he asked.

“I’m a reporter. We investigate things.” “Just like a junior fucking federal agent, huh?” “No,” I said. “Like a private investigator.” “Same fucking thing.” He stepped up to the bar. “What do you want?” I shrugged. “Whatever’s good. Order for me?” “Pete, give me two burger specials and two bottles of Budweiser.” Oh my God. Budweiser. Barf. The bartender opened two bottles of beer and handed them to Navarro. “Burger’s will be right up, Nick. Anything else?” “Nope. Appreciate ya,” Navarro said with a nod. He handed me one of the bottles of beer. “Table or booth?” I took a drink. It was better than I expected. “Booth.” I followed him to a booth in the rear of the bar and sat down. “Riding on that thing is addictive.” He picked at the label on his bottle. “Sure is.” “You know what they say about people who pick at their beer labels, don’t you?” “Guess not.” “They’re sexually frustrated.” “Sounds about right.” “You’re sexually frustrated?” He grinned. “Take off your glasses, and I’ll be fine.” I took a drink of beer and returned a smile. “Suffer.” I fully realized it had been less than a week, but he had already fingered me, fucked me and brought me to climax no less than half a dozen times – counting the two times I masturbated while thinking of him – and I felt like we were developing an odd friendship as a result. “Believe me, I am,” he said with a smile.

Seeing him smile was rewarding. The image he portrayed naturally was one of a rough, take-noshit biker. His smile revealed perfectly situated white teeth, and seeing them convinced me that the true Nicholas Navarro was much more than what was seen on the surface. “Maybe one day, if you don’t piss me off--” “What? You’ll take ‘em off? Or you’re gonna suck my cock?” I shrugged. “Maybe both.” He raised his bottle of beer and grinned. “I’ll wait patiently.” I couldn’t believe how easy it was for me to offer myself to him, but being in his presence made me do all of the things that I told myself in his absence I wouldn’t continue to do. He undoubtedly brought out the best of my worst decisions. The sound of motorcycles in the parking lot made me wonder if some of his FFMC brethren had seen his motorcycle and were stopping in for a beer. We both looked out the window at the same time, and I noticed two men wearing leather vests parking their motorcycles. The look on Navarro’s face, however, told me whoever had shown up wasn’t someone he wanted to see. He stood from his seat and turned to face me. His look was stern, serious, and one of actual concern. “No matter what happens, don’t get out of that seat until this is over.” “Until what’s over? Who is it?” “God damn it,” he bellowed. “Stay right here. Do you understand me?” I fought against my tightening throat. “I understand. Yes, Sir.” “Stay right there,” he said in a demanding tone. “I fucking mean it.” I swallowed hard. “Okay.” “Pete! Got two Savages at the door!” he shouted. Oh shit. Upon hearing the announcement, the two men seated at the bar got off of their stools and walked toward the back of the bar. I pulled the recorder from my purse, turned it on, and placed it on the edge of the table. Navarro took a few steps toward the door, stopped and glanced over his shoulder. As our eyes met, he winked.

Seriously? Did you just fucking wink at me? Two pretty rough looking men – one of which was roughly Navarro’s size – walked through the front door. The other man was slightly shorter, but built like a weight-lifter. The shorter of the two men had a shaved head. The taller had tattoos on his neck and all-over-the-place brown hair. “Looks like you might have picked the wrong place for lunch, Whip,” Navarro said. “Get back on your sled and go somewhere else.” The bigger of the two had Whip and President on his vest. The other man’s vest said Panda, and Sergeant-At-Arms. Whip stopped a few steps in front of Navarro. Panda stood beside him. Both men were facing me, and Navarro’s back was to me. “Where’s my brother?” Whip asked. Navarro chuckled. “Out fuckin’ a goat somewhere?” “I’m not gonna ask you again,” Whip growled. “Somehow, your dumb ass stumbled into the wrong bar. You’re in my MC’s territory, and I don’t like it,” Navarro said. “Take your fat little partner and head back down to Mabel’s.” “Fuck you,” Whip snapped back. In a blur, his right hand swung toward Navarro. Shit, he’s got a knife. Navarro lunged forward, blocked the attempted slash with his left forearm, and grabbed Whip’s wrist with his right hand. In a split-second, the knife went flying across the floor. Some type of martial arts move followed, and Whip’s body came crashing down to the floor. Navarro’s raised his right foot, then stomped down hard. With a gut-wrenching thud, the heel of his boot slammed into Whip’s temple. While Panda’s hand nervously fumbled with the inside of his vest, Navarro punched him in the chest, which clearly knocked the air from his lungs completely. As he gasped for breath, the sound of a half-dozen lightning-fast punches hitting his face filled the bar. With an almost elegant grace, Navarro flipped Panda over his shoulder, slamming him down onto the floor beside Whip. The heel of his boot crashed down violently against Panda’s skull.

After checking over his shoulder and making eye contact with me, he stomped each of their heads one more time. “Fucking idiots!” he shouted. He picked up Whip’s knife, and then took Panda’s pistol. I had no idea what type of military training Nicholas Navarro received, but whatever it was allowed him to singlehandedly pulverize two bikers in a matter of seconds. And, in doing so, he looked like a stunt man in a choreographed scene from an action-adventure movie. I was scared, excited, and turned on at the same time. Using Whip’s knife, he carefully cut the patch from the back of each man’s vest. After folding the patches up, he walked to the bar, then quickly returned. He bent down and grabbed Whips ankles. “If that dumb fuck tries to get up, shoot him,” he said over his shoulder. “Will do, Nick,” the bartender responded. He dragged Whip through the door and into the parking lot. In a few seconds, he returned and then dragged Panda outside. He walked back in, and looked toward the bar. “Sorry about the burgers, Pete.” “No problem, Nick.” He turned toward me. “Come on,” he said dryly. “We need to get.” I grabbed my purse. “Okay.” My heart was racing and my mind was trying to make sense of everything that had happened. I wanted to ask so many questions, but realized the time had come for me to become more of a silent witness and less of an enthusiastic reporter. Once we stepped into the parking lot, Navarro rushed to the semi-conscious men and planted the heel of his boot against their respective heads one more time. Through his teeth he said his goodbyes. “Cocksuckers.” Silently, he started the motorcycle, put on his helmet, and turned to check on me. “Hold on tight,” he warned. I nodded. “Okay.” “I’ve got to go see someone, and I don’t have time to take you back.”

“Okay.” “We’re still off the record,” he said. “Understand?” “Fully,” I responded. Since I was a little girl, I’d always liked to collect facts and tell stories. A journalist was all I ever expected I would be. As sat in the parking lot with two half-dead bikers on the asphalt beside us, I was no longer a journalist working as a reporter for the newspaper. I was an accomplice to aggravated battery. I gripped Navarro’s waist in my hands and waited. He revved the motor and released the clutch. The motorcycle sped out of the parking lot and into the street. For that moment – and the moments that followed during that hot spring afternoon – I learned many things about Navarro. And about myself.

TEN Nick One of the tell-tale signs of a promising prospect is his ability to realize when it’s time to listen and when it’s time to speak. A man who fully understands the difference without being told possesses a certain quality that evokes trust in the men who he exposes himself to. Every passing moment of Peyton’s silence pushed me closer to viewing her as a very intriguing woman, and not simply as the reporter who happened into the bar on that Friday afternoon. We stood by the workbench in the shop while Peyton sat on my motorcycle in the parking lot. With my eyes constantly searching the road in front of the shop through the open garage doors, I conveyed my concerns. “As far as I’m concerned we need to go to war with these pricks.” Pee Bee nodded. “I agree, Boss. If those two fucks came into Pete’s bar, they were looking for what they got. That place is off-limits. Plenty of neutral places they could have caught up to you at, but they didn’t. They were asking for it.” “Agreed.” “You sure you’re ready for this?” “Ready? If I’m breathing, I’m ready to fight. Don’t forget that.” “Just askin’, Crip. Just askin’.” “I’ll call an emergency meeting,” I said. “Let the fellas know to watch their backs. This could get real god damned ugly real god damned quick.” “What about the girl?” I turned around and shot him a glare. “What about her?” “Well, we got to do something with her. She ain’t stickin’ around for the meeting.”

My stare continued, probably a little longer than it should have. For whatever reason, I now felt protective over her. I suspected it was a result of exposing her to the day-to-day life of an outlaw biker, and in doing so, placing her in harm’s way. His eyes widened. “Is she?” “No,” I snapped back. “She isn’t sticking around for the fuckin’ meeting. Her Jeep’s at the coffee shop on Old Grove. I need to give her a ride back.” “Can’t believe you got her to sit on that fuckin’ fender. Don’t know too many Ol’ Ladies that’d ride on that fucker without a fight.” “She didn’t have a choice.” “She’s one tough little bitch,” he said. “How’d she handle the beat down you gave Whip and Panda? Didn’t barf or anything did she?” “Handled it like a true professional.” I chuckled. “When they showed up, I told her to stay in the booth. She sat there and watched me whip their asses. Little bitch never said a word. When we were walkin’ out, I stomped both their fuckin’ heads one more time, and she didn’t say shit then, either. Never asked one fucking question.” He folded his arms in front of his chest and gazed in her direction. “Probably scared as hell.” “Her? Shit, I don’t think so. She isn’t a typical bitch. Said she snowboards, surfs, goes rock climbing, and bungie jumping. I doubt seeing me beat their asses scared her.” He rubbed his beard with his right hand and narrowed his eyes. “She interviewing you, or are you interviewing her?” “She offered, I listened,” I said. “Give me your keys.” He pressed his hands to his hips and shot me a look. “Say what?” “Your keys to the bagger. Give ‘em up. I’m taking her back to the coffee shop, and not on my Shovel.” He dug in his pocket, then handed me the keys. “Where’s your key?” “Ignition’s hot all the time. Don’t need a key.” “If you fuck her on it, clean up your mess,” he said. “If I fuck her on it, she’ll clean up the mess.”

“And make sure she doesn’t drag her feet all over my fuckin’ bags,” he shouted as I walked away. When I stepped to her side, she was still gazing out at the street. “You alright?” I asked. She turned around. “Yeah, why?” “Just making sure.” “I was just thinking.” “About?” “Learning to ride.” “You want a bike?” She grinned and nodded. “Yep.” “Seriously?” “Yep.” “You’ve never ridden before?” “Nope.” “California’s not a great place to learn. Traffic’s a bitch.” “Corbet’s Couloir in Jackson Hole, Wyoming is the most dangerous ski slope in the world. That’s where I learned to snowboard. I surf at Black’s Beach. There, you either ride the wave or eat a rock cliff. I don’t do anything the easy way,” she said. “You’ll probably love it,” I said with a nod. “Hop off.” “Why?” “We’re not taking my bike.” I motioned to Pee Bee’s bike. “We’re taking that.” “Why?” I shrugged. “It’ll be more comfortable for you. It’s got air ride suspension, a CD player, and a gelfilled passenger seat. Hell, it’s like riding a marshmallow down the highway.” “Not interested.” She slapped the palm of her hand against the side of my gas tank. “I wanna ride on this.”

I narrowed my eyes and fought the urge to smile. “Why?” “Because this is a real bike,” she said. I exhaled, nodded, and walked back into the shop. I tossed Pee Bee his keys. “Here.” “Not taking it?” “She didn’t want to ride on it.” He looked disappointed. “Why?” “Said she wants to ride on a real bike.” “A real bike?” I nodded. “Yep.” “Tell that skinny little bitch to go fuck herself,” he said. “That is a real bike.” “Tell her yourself.” “I ain’t walkin’ all the way out there.” “I’m sure you’ll be seeing her again,” I said. And I truly believed it.

ELEVEN Peyton I learned to surf long before anything else. I wasn’t quite a teenager at the time, and Phillip, my oldest brother, was seventeen. Preston was two years older than me, and two years younger than Phillip. With me being the youngest child – and the only girl – my father was slightly overprotective of me. He took another gulp of his coffee and glanced at his watch. “You’re too young.” “I’m almost thirteen.” “Like I said, you’re too young.” “Phil started when he was ten.” “Phil’s a boy. You’re a girl. There’s a difference.” “Is not.” “There is. And, I don’t have time to argue. I’m almost late.” “I’m going,” I said. “They’re going to teach me.” It was summer, and we were out of school. With my father working, we had the entire ten-week period to ourselves. Our adventures were only limited by our imaginations and our courage, which were two things I seemed to have an overabundance of. “They’re most certainly not,” he said. “Now I’ve got to go.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss. It was something he did every day before he left for work, but the level of affection didn’t extend to my brothers. I didn’t really think about it at the time, but as I got older, I came to believe he kissed me each day because I reminded him of mom. And he missed her. Dearly. She died when I was eight, the result of a multi-car pileup on the freeway. There were many cars

that wrecked that day, but she was the only fatality. My father told me that she was far too beautiful of a woman to remain on earth, and that God recognized it and took her to heaven to be with the other angels. I believed him. It was difficult not to. My mother was a beautiful woman, and she was definitely an angel. Her skin resembled porcelain. Her hair was like silk, and her smile was infectious. She had a soft voice, her patience was never ending, and she always took the time to do whatever she must to keep us entertained. “Maybe just a few lessons?” He shook his head. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” “I promise,” I said, extending my pinkie. “I won’t.” “You can’t make that promise,” he said. I extended my arm and offered him my pinkie. “I just did.” “A few lessons, that’s it.” He sighed and reached for my hand. As our pinkies interlocked, he grinned. “Don’t get hurt.” “Thanks, Dad.” I spent that entire summer surfing, and before school started, I was just as good as Phillip and Preston, which made neither of them very happy. Although most families took vacations in the summer, we took a different approach, vacationing during winter break. While Phillip and Preston chose to downhill ski, I, being the more adventurous, learned to snowboard. By the time I was sixteen, I was an avid snowboarder. At eighteen, I was driving to Utah and climbing up the face of mountains where no one else had ventured. People often asked if I had a death wish, or if I placed no value whatsoever on life. I always responded no, but never took time to explain. In reality, my adventures took me to a place far away, somewhere between the heavens above and the earth below. With everything I did, be it surfing, snowboarding, or rock climbing, my feet were never planted firmly on the earth, and the euphoria I felt was heavenly. Sometimes, so heaven-like, that I felt I could reach out and touch her hand. To this day, I miss her dearly.

TWELVE Nick I glanced around the shop, taking time to make eye contact with each of the men. As they returned my gaze – some seeming eager, while others appeared concerned – I remained stone-faced. “It’s no secret that the Savages run thirty deep while our membership is eighteen. I don’t say this for the sake of saying it. I say it because I believe it. Thirty deep or three hundred deep, it doesn’t matter. There’s not an MC on this earth that has more heart, soul, or guts than the Fuckers.” The shop erupted in fuck yeahs, grunts, and shouts. To boost morale, I gave the men a moment of celebration, then raised my hand and silenced the crowd. “It’s no secret that this has been coming for some time, and ever since they stole Bunk’s bike, they’ve been asking for it. Well, now they’ve decided it’s okay to ride right into our territory, and even come into one of our bars. If we don’t stand up now, ain’t one of us worth the patches we’re wearin’.” “What are we gonna do?” Stretch asked. “What’s the plan?” I nodded. “I’m getting’ to that. We’re not huntin’ ‘em down, but we’re giving no grace when it comes to territory. Not now. If one of ‘em is spotted on our turf, it’s on. Right then and fucking there.” “If you whipped Whip’s ass, you know they’ll be comin’ for us,” Ryder said. “If I whipped his ass? If? There’s no if. I beat that motherfucker like he owed me money. And then I stomped his head in the dirt. Him and that little steroid eatin’ sidekick of his, Panda. And, you’re right. They’ll be comin’. So, here’s the best advice I can give each of you.” I raised my index finger in the air. “If you’re on your sled, you’re going to be wearing your colors. If you’re wearing your colors, you’ll be a target. We need to always be in pairs.” I pointed to Pee bee, and then to myself. “No exceptions. I realize there’s going to be little short runs where you’re alone, but what I’m talking about is being out on the road alone. Don’t do it.”

“Closest patch is ten miles from where I stay,” Cholo said. “Meet halfway. A ten-mile run alone on the highway is asking for it. I know some of you don’t like doin’ it, but splittin’ lanes in this state is legal. If you get stuck in traffic, split lanes and get on down the highway.” I studied the men. Each of them stood in wait. Some for further instructions while others waited for reassurance that everything would be okay. A few probably hoped for an invitation to go bust someone’s head. “I know some of you are eager to bust heads, and there’s others who would just as soon have this thing end without any bloodshed. Well, I got news for you, fellas. This won’t come to an end without spillin’ some blood. Not now. The Savages have gone too far this time. And if there’s anyone thinking that what I did was wrong, go ahead and turn your patch in now. They came into our territory, walked into one of our bars, and pulled a knife on me. To tell the truth, if that reporter wouldn’t have been with me, we’d probably be burying those two pricks” “Where’s it end?” Ryder asked. “What do you mean?” “Will this be like the Hells Angels and the Outlaws? A never ending battle that lasts a lifetime? If you say no, tell us what’s going to stop it. What’s gotta happen to get this thing to end?” “Listen up, fellas,” I shouted. “Ryder asked how this thing’s gonna end? My answer isn’t what any of you want to hear, but it’s the best I’ve got. My answer’s this: I’ve got no fucking idea. If these pricks give us the respect we deserve, then I guess it’s over. If they don’t, it’ll continue until they do or they’re all dead.” The men fell silent. “Anyone take exception to what we’re doing?” Silence. “Anyone want out of this club? Now’s your chance. If you’re not willing to be part of this, I’m going to ask you to turn in your patch. I’d rather have you walk away now than not have my back or one of the fellas backs when the shit gets real. And, believe me, it’s gonna get real.” Silence. “Nobody?” “I’ve got somethin’,” Pee Bee said.

“Listen up, fellas. Peeb’s got something to say.” Pee Bee raked his fingers through his hair, glanced around the group, and sighed. Although I was the president of the club, the men looked at him as a spokesperson, their protector, and someone who would never bullshit them about club business. “We might not follow society’s rules, and we sure as fuck don’t abide by society’s laws. But, we’ve got a strict morale code that we live by. Our own set of rules. Each and every rule we follow gets back to the same thing, respect. We don’t ride in San Bernardino County. Because we’re pussies? No. Because we respect the Devil’s Head MC. And we don’t go to the Five Corners in Escondido. Why? It’s a Hells Angels bar. We show respect to these clubs because we respect them. And, in return they give respect. What this is about, with the Savages, is respect. They don’t respect us, and they’re flexin’ their muscles.” He raised his fist and flexed his bicep. “It’s time we flex our muscles. We’ve got two of their patches in the safe. Far as I’m concerned, we ain’t done ‘till we got twenty-eight more. That’s all I got. I’m droppin’ my mic.” “Good point, Peeb.” I nodded. “He’s right, fellas. Respect. That’s all we’re asking for. And until they give it, we need to watch our backs.” Pee Bee’s eyes shot wide and he motioned toward the street. “Fuck. Cops.” I turned toward the open garage doors. Without lights or sirens, police cruisers pulled in one after the other. After the fourth, an unmarked Dodge Charger parked alongside the last cruiser. In unison, eight uniform officers – and who I suspected were two detectives – got out of their cars at the same time. The detective driving the unmarked charger stepped a few feet inside the shop and stopped. His partner and the remaining officers stood in position. “Nicholas Navarro. You can either surrender, or we’re coming in.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll give you fifteen seconds.” “Nobody do anything,” I whispered. “Don’t fucking move.” I took two steps forward, separating myself from the group of men. “I’m Nick Navarro. You placing me under arrest?” He nodded. “I sure am.” “What are the charges?”

“You’ve got six seconds.” “What are the fucking charges?” “The disappearance of Bryan Whipple for starters. Time’s up.” I pulled off my kutte and handed it to Pee Bee. Having it confiscated by the police and used as a trophy during a news conference wasn’t going to happen. After handing him my cell phone and wallet, I gave my only instruction. “Get the reporter to come see me in jail if they don’t let me bond out.” “The girl?” I nodded. “She works for the Union-Tribune. Name’s Peyton Price. She’ll be easy to find.” He folded the kutte over his forearm and nodded. “You got it, Crip.” I began walking toward the officers. After the third or fourth step, guns were drawn and commands were barked out as if I were a suicide bomber. “Do not come any closer! Place your hands behind your head! Interlock your fingers, and lower yourself to the floor!” Standing twenty feet from the officers, I locked eyes with big-mouthed detective. I slowly raised my hands, placed them behind my head, and interlocked my fingers. “Get down on the floor!” “I’m not getting on the floor.” “Get down on the floor!” “I’ve got seventeen fucking witnesses. I’m not resisting arrest. I’m surrendering.” “Get down on the floor!” he shouted. “I’m not telling you again!” No differently than the issues the MC was having with the Savages, I viewed the detective’s demand that get on the floor as disrespectful. If I were resisting arrest, committing a crime, or attempting to evade arrest, I would have no other choice. But I wasn’t. I was peacefully offering myself to them. His repeated commands were for no other reason than to feed his ego. I had little doubt that if it wasn’t for the seventeen witnesses standing behind me, I would have been shot. I shook my head. “I’m not telling you again. I’m surrendering without incident, detective.”

He drew his weapon and pointed it at me. Nine others followed. Sorry, fellas. You’re trying to scare the wrong man. I’d been shot at far too many times to allow myself to become petrified by someone who was simply pointing a gun at me. With his weapon pointed at my chest, he nodded his head toward the floor. “Get on the floor, or I’ll shoot!” I coughed out a laugh. “You got any idea how many of those fellas behind me have cell phones?” His eyes thinned. “And idea how many know how to push the record button?” I asked. He exhaled heavily. “I’m surrendering.” I cleared my throat. “Now. Be a man, and come arrest me.” “Lower your weapons.” He holstered his weapon and removed his handcuffs. “Turn around. Slowly.” I nodded. “Sure thing, detective.” I turned around, locked eyes with Pee Bee, and winked. He shook his head and grinned. The detective frisked me, placed the cuffs on my wrists one at a time, and turned me to face the officers. “Nicholas Navarro, you are under arrest in association with the disappearance of Bryan Whipple. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.” “I’m under arrest?” “You sure are.” “Under the protection afforded me by the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution, I would like to exercise my right to remain silent. And, I refuse to subject myself to any questioning without having an attorney present,” I said. “So you’re a gang member and a legal expert?” he asked in a sarcastic tone. He was doing his best to goad me into a conversation, but it wasn’t going to work. There were only two people I was going to talk to.

The club’s attorney, and Peyton Price. In that order.

THIRTEEN Peyton I’d searched the house from one end to the other and couldn’t find my recorder. I remembered having it at the coffee shop and placing it in my purse before we left, but now it was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I sat at my computer and began to type, using compiled notes from memory alone. Although racism is commonly practiced by many similar clubs, the FFMC harbors no such beliefs, nor limits their membership by anything other than opinion. Navarro isn’t a prejudiced man, and regardless of skin color, creed, or religious belief, if a man is capable of proving his worth to the club – an eighteen-month process – he may be voted in by a unanimous decision. Somewhat of a flirt – and by his own admission a man who doesn’t trust himself in the presence of women – Navarro’s charisma arrives minutes before he does. Be it his confident swagger, his perfectly sculpted cheek bones, or his million-dollar smile, resisting his allure is no easy task. His only means of transportation remains a vintage Harley-Davidson FLH, void of any options available in today’s competitive motorcycle manufacturing market. While others in the club may ride custom baggers fitted with stereos, fairings, and hard saddle bags, Navarro’s personal selection must be kick-started. I read what I had written and decided it was an acceptable place to start. Although I was initially eager to investigate and write the piece on Navarro’s club, now that I had an opportunity to spend time with him, doing so seemed strangely out-of-place. I highlighted everything and erased it. Finding Nick Navarro attractive and being attracted to him were totally different. Any reasonably sane woman would find him attractive, but being attracted to him – especially after taking time to get to know him – would be foolish, or so I thought. There was no real reason for me to be attracted to him.

But I was. I felt my article not only needed to satisfy the expectations of my editor-in-chief, my readers, and myself, but Navarro as well. Leaving him out of the equation seemed irresponsible and insensitive. And I was neither. In a perfect world, I would have him sitting beside me while I wrote the article. Being certain to wear my glasses – and my shorts – I would tease him the entire time, leaving him no alternative other than to make sexual advances. Of course I would succumb to his wishes – all the while telling myself I was using him solely for my own personal satisfaction. I was beginning to wonder if I was lying to myself. As rough and impetuous as he was when it came to sex, I found his manner desirable in an almost infectious way. In his absence, I yearned for his forceful touch. In his presence, I anxiously waited for an opportunity to provoke him to exercise his lack of sexual control. I recalled the exact moment his hand pressed my head into the surface of the workbench. I suspected most women would find such an act forceful and far from sensual. I, on the other hand, found it almost necessary. At least now that I’d experienced it. About the time I realized my daydreaming had made me horny beyond comprehension, the sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust caused me to jump from my seat. I ran to my window, pulled the blinds, and was surprised to see Navarro’s Sergeant-At-Arms pulling into the driveway of my townhome. What the fuck? I rushed to the door and yanked it open, fully expecting Navarro to be right behind him. After he shut off his rumbling motor, the silence that followed made my stomach curl into knots. The look on his face confirmed my suspicion. Something was wrong. He removed his helmet, hung it on the handlebars, and tossed his leg over the gas tank. “Mind if I come in? We need to talk.” My mind started to race, and my throat went tight. “Yeah, uhhm. Come in.” ***

We sat across from each other at my breakfast table, his face rather solemn and me on the verge of tears. I hadn’t cried since my mother passed, and I found it almost haunting that Nick Navarro’s arrest caused a baseball sized lump to rise in my throat and my eyes to well with tears. “Do you know what the charges are?” He nodded and cleared his throat. “They’ve charged him with everything they can. The attorney said it’s pretty common. They charge him with everything in hope of him cutting a deal--” “He won’t, will he?” He looked at me like I was insane. “Crip?” Navarro’s club name caught me off guard, and my response came slow. “Uhhm. Yeah, Crip.” “Fuck no. He’d die in there before he agreed to anything.” “So what are they? The charges? Can you tell me?” He raised his right hand and extended individual fingers as he named each charge. “Breaking and entry, burglary, criminal mischief, theft, and suspicion of murder. There might be another, I can’t remember.” Oh. My. God. My immediate response wasn’t one of wonder. What happened or why never came to mind. Doing any and everything in my power to assist in his release, however, did. “What can I do to help?” Thick strands of his long hair had fallen down into his eyes. He lowered his head, raked his fingers through it, and brushed it away from his face. “You got any beers around this place?” It was late, and a drink sounded good. “Michelob Ultra. That’s the only beer I have. Or you can have vodka and cranberry juice, which is what I’m going to have.” “No disrespect, but Michelob Ultra tastes like water. If I try one of them cranberry drinks, you ain’t gonna tell Crip, are ya?” “Not if you don’t want me to.” He shot me his crazy-eyed stare. Again. “If I wanted you to tell him, I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

I grinned. “Probably not.” “Make me one of ‘em, but make it like you were six-foot-eight and weighed two-sixty. You know, not for a girl.” “I don’t drink like a girl, believe me.” I mixed two drinks, making them no differently than I would if I were drinking alone. I handed him one of them. “Are you really six foot eight?” “Barefoot, yeah. In boots, six-ten and a little.” “Jesus.” “Tell me about it.” “Wow.” “Forty-inch inseam, size sixteen boots, and a double XL shirt. Try findin’ shit that fits. Pain in the ass.” I took a drink. “Size sixteen? Seriously?” He took a drink, swallowed, and then stared at the half-full glass. “Yep. And I know you’re wonderin’, so I’ll just say it now. What they say is true. And no you can’t see it.” I tried to keep from smiling. “I wasn’t going to ask.” To be truthful, if I had a few drinks in me – and if I hadn’t met Navarro – I would have asked. “But you were wonderin’.” I took another drink. “We always wonder. It’s part of being a girl.” He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass. “This fucker’s good. And gone.” I extended my hand. “Let me make you another.” I mixed him another drink and handed it to him. “Here. And don’t be shy. There’s plenty. It’s a staple here. Kind of like cottage cheese and yogurt.” He reached for the drink. “Thanks.” I sat down across from him and sighed. “So, back to what we were talking about. What can I do to help?” “According to the attorney, you interviewed Crip on the 7th of May. For the first time. Now I ain’t

sayin’ you did, and I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t. I’m sayin’ that’s what the attorney said.” I didn’t have to think about it. The date was stuck in my head. “I did. It was our first interview.” “The 7th was a Saturday.” I shook my head. “We started on a Sunday. Sunday night.” “Sunday was the 8th.” I grabbed my phone, opened the calendar, and stared at the dates. He was right. Saturday was the 7th and Sunday was the eighth. I had misspoken when the interview started. “Wow. Sunday was the 8th. We started on the 8th.” “Attorney said that Crip said you started the recording out by saying something like this is Peyton Price and for the record, this is the 7th of May. Crip remembers everything, especially when it comes to numbers.” He was right, I did say it, and I remembered saying it. His quote was almost verbatim. Confused as to what he wanted from me, I decided to just ask. “So, what does he need from me?” “He needs you to say on the evening of the interview, you two were tied up until late. From whenever it started until late at night.” I shrugged. “We were.” He cocked an eyebrow. “And that the interview was on the 7th.” Apparently, Navarro needed an alibi. For whatever reason, I was ready to provide it. “I interviewed Navarro on the 7th. We started at roughly six o’clock, and the interview lasted until eleven p.m.” He shook his head. “It needs to last until 2:00 a.m.” “I interviewed Navarro on the 7th. We started at roughly six o’ clock, and the interview lasted until 2:00 a.m.” He took a drink, then studied me for a moment. “They’re gonna get rough with you in the interrogation room.” “I’m a big girl, I can handle it.” He cleared his throat. “You sure it was the 7th?”

“Positive.” He leaned forward and glared at me. “You’re lying.” “Fuck you. I’m positive.” He wagged his finger in my face. “If I find out you’re lying--” I pushed myself away from the table and glared back at him. “You won’t find out, shit, mister. I’m telling the truth. The interview started on Saturday, the 7th of May, and lasted until 2:00 a.m.” “How do you know it was the 7th?” “Because it was on Saturday. And, I always start off my recordings with the date and the name of the interviewee.” “You got a copy of the recording?” Fuck. My recorder was lost. “You don’t need a copy of my recording, all you need is my testimony.” “I need a copy of that recording.” I stood up and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Actually, you don’t. Under oath, and facing the penalty of perjury, I have provided testimony. As a matter of law, testimony is a solemn statement or declaration of fact, and is a form of evidence in itself. Now, release Navarro or my next article will be a full front page on the corruption within the judicial system, and I’ll start with my experiences here today with you, officer fucktard. Now, release Navarro or face the wrath of the Union-Tribune.” He grinned. “One last question. How do you know it was 2:00 a.m.? Could it have been 1:00? Midnight? 1:30?” “if you want the specific time, it was 2:06. Navarro and I had just finished speaking about a charity run he was trying to organize for orphaned children, and I looked at my watch. I recall saying, holy shit, it’s 2:06, I need to go.” He stood up. “I ain’t sure what you and Crip got goin’ on, so I ain’t tryin’ to get in the middle of that. And I ain’t tryin’ to be disrespectful either. But god damn, girl, you’re the first bangin’ ass hot bitch I ever met that’s got her shit together. Most hot bitches are dumb as fuck.” I grinned. “Thanks.”

He reached into his pocket, produced a tattered business card, and handed it to me. “I’m gonna get before you get me drunk. Give him a visit tomorrow. Call first. What you and I talked about? It didn’t happen. When you talk to him, whatever you say--” “I’ll tell him the truth,” I said. “That the interview was on the 7th, and that it ended at 2:06 a.m.” He clenched his fist and extended his arm. I clenched mine and pounded it into his. “Good lookin’ out, Peyton Price,” he said. “You get Crip out of jail, and I’ll owe you. Big time.” “I’ll hold you to it,” I said. He reached for his drink, and finished it in one gulp. “Good luck tomorrow.” “I don’t need luck,” I said. “I’ve got charm.” He grinned. “You’ve got something, that’s for fuckin’ sure.” He was right. I was a thrill-seeking weirdo. And lying to the cops to get Navarro out of jail was thrilling to me. Now, all I needed to do was find an outfit to wear. And I needed to remember to wear my glasses.

FOURTEEN Nick I sat in my jail cell, wondering just how it was that a judge found it necessary to deny a bond hearing, claim me as a flight risk, and a modern-day terrorist on my native soil. My service to the nation was apparently all for naught, and my release from incarceration was dependent on the false testimony of a girl I didn’t really know. In club terms, I was fucked. The sound of keys jingling warned me of a guard’s approach. As the sound got closer and closer, I couldn’t help but wonder if either Peyton decided to testify, or if they found DNA evidence of Whip’s dead brother. “Navarro! Hands to the door, I need to cuff you for court.” I had been placed in a maximum security cell, and unlike the majority of other men who were incarcerated in the jail, I wasn’t free to roam. I turned around, backed up to the door, and placed my wrists in front of the hinged opening in the steel door. Within a few seconds, my hands were cuffed. A few seconds later, and I was fitted with a waist chain and shackles. I walked in a few steps in front of the guard, well aware of the route we were taking to get to the courtroom. Upon entering the room, however, I was pleasantly surprised to see Peyton, dressed in a black skirt, white shirt, and black blazer. Her conservative heels topped off the ensemble, but it was her glasses that commanded my attention. You wore those on purpose, didn’t you? Almost immediately after being seated beside Tristan Beecham, the club’s attorney, the judge entered the courtroom.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. Although she was seated twenty feet from me, the smell of Peyton’s shampoo and perfume caused my mouth to water. The judge sat down. “You may be seated.” The judge shuffled through a stack of paperwork, picked up a sheet of paper, and studied it. After a moment, he placed the paper down on his desk and raised his head. “In the matter of the people versus Nicholas Navarro, new testimony has been given which corroborates previous testimony given by the accused, and supports statements regarding the whereabouts of the accused on the night in question. The witness has agreed to testify before me, which I require in any such case.” “Ms. Price, will you approach the witness stand?” Peyton stood. “Yes, Sir.” She gracefully walked to the witness stand. “Raise your right hand.” She did. “State your name.” “Peyton Penelope Price.” “Ms. Price, do you swear – or affirm – that the testimony you give here today is the truth, the entire truth, and nothing but the truth?” “I do.” “Have a seat, please.” Peyton sat in the witness stand. The judge nodded toward the prosecutor’s bench. “Your witness.” “Ms. Price. I haven’t had an opportunity to hear your testimony, but it’s been brought to my attention that you gave testimony today in the presence of two detectives regarding the whereabouts of one Nicholas Navarro on the night in question. Is that correct?” “I have no idea,” she responded. “Excuse me? Can you speak up?” She leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “I have no idea.”

“You have no idea? Regarding what, Ms. Price?” She cleared her throat. “You stated that I gave testimony to two detectives regarding the whereabouts of one Nicholas Navarro on the night in question. My response is this: I have no idea when the night in question is. I gave testimony regarding Mr. Navarro’s whereabouts on the night that he was involved in an interview with me. If the night of the interview and the night in question correspond with one another, I suppose you have your answer, Sir.” “On the night of May 7th, did you interview Nicholas Navarro?” “Yes, Sir. I did.” “What is your profession, Ms. Price?” “I’m a journalist, employed by the Union-Tribune, as a reporter.” “On that night, when did the interview start?” “6:00 p.m.” “Are you certain?” “I’m positive. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t testify, Sir.” The prosecutor nodded. “I appreciate that, ma’am.” “And when, Ms. Price, did the interview end?” “2:06 a.m., Sir.” Thank you. “2:06, huh? Are you certain it was 2:06?” “Yes, Sir. Again, if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t provide testimony regarding a specific time.” “How, Ms. Price, are you so certain of the time?” “I checked my watch immediately prior to ending the meeting. I recall saying, it’s 2:06 a.m., I need to go.” “2:06 on the 7th?” “No, Sir.” “It wasn’t the 7th?”

“When it ended, Sir, it was the 8th. It was after midnight.” “At any time during the interview, did Mr. Navarro leave your sight?” “No, Sir, he did not.” “Not once?” “No, Sir.” “Are you certain?” “Quite.” “So, you interviewed Mr. Navarro for eight hours?” “That is correct.” “At any point in time did you or Mr. Navarro eat?” “No.” “Drink?” “Yes.” “Did you or Mr. Navarro take an opportunity to urinate?” “Yes, as a matter of fact, we did.” The prosecutor chuckled. “Did you assist him?” “No, I did not.” “So, he did leave your sight?” “No, he did not.” The prosecutor shook his head. “Can you explain?” “Sure. I interviewed Mr. Navarro in the equivalent of an abandoned warehouse. Mr. Navarro and I, on the evening and night that we’re speaking of, consumed drinks. At one point, Mr. Navarro stated that he needed to piss. I informed him that I needed to as well, and asked the way to the bathroom. He laughed and said the building did not have a working bathroom, but that it was in the process of being repaired. I then asked where he intended to urinate. He pointed to the parking lot. I chose to hold it, and he chose not to. While he urinated, Sir, I stood in the building and watched.” Where the hell did that story come from?

The prosecutor sighed. “No further questions.” The judge cleared his throat. “Ms. Price, do you understand that it is a crime for providing false testimony?” “Yes, Sir, I do.” “The crime of perjury.” “Yes, Sir, I understand.” “And, you understand you’re under oath to tell the truth?” “Yes, Sir, I do.” The judge nodded. “Will the accused please rise?” Beecham and I both stood. “Mr. Navarro, testimony has been provided that corroborates your claim, and provides you with an alibi on the night in question. Regarding the fingerprint on the fuel tank of the motorcycle, we must assume that was left at a date prior to the victim’s disappearance. For the mix-up, the court apologizes. You are free to go.” I nodded. “Thank you, your honor.” “Have you any questions, son?” “None, your honor.” “Be it a matter of record, that in the matter of the people versus Nicholas Navarro, the charges, in their entirety, have been dismissed.” The judge stood. “Please rise,” the bailiff bellowed. The judge left the room. “You may be seated, and you’re dismissed,” the bailiff stated. The sheriff’s officer walked to the bench, unlocked my cuffs, and removed the shackles. “Any questions?” Beecham asked. “Nope,” I said. “I’ll send you a bill.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Peyton walking toward the door. I felt like yelling at her, telling her to stop, and asking to use her cell phone, but realized I had to refrain from any contact with her – at least in the courtroom. Not telling her how much I appreciated her help was difficult. Having no idea if she was going to remain the same person toward me after she gave her testimony was worse. The possibility of losing whatever it was we shared sank into the pit my stomach like a rock. It was painfully obvious she meant more to me than some girl who was simply interviewing me. I liked the thought of it. But I wasn’t sure if I could allow it.

FIFTEEN Peyton I ran down the hallway and ducked into my office. After retrieving my laptop, I turned around and attempted to run out of the building without being seen. I was mere inches from the door, and the sound of Camden Rollins’ booming voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Peyton! What in the world are you doing?” Fucking fuck fuck fuck. With my laptop clutched under my right arm, and my purse dangling under my left, I turned around and forced myself to smile. “Just came in to get my MacBook. It’s has some stuff on it that I need to make reference to.” He crossed his arms and stared back at me in disbelief. “Were you running?” “It uhhm. It was. It was more of a light jog.” “Why are you in such a hurry?” I shrugged. “Just. I uhhm. Trying to get done with the first installment of an awe-inspiring piece.” “Come on back.” He turned away. “I haven’t seen you in weeks.” “Has it been weeks?” I asked. “It seems like hours.” “Come on back,” he said over his shoulder. “You can bring me up to speed.” “I really need to try and get this done before I have a brain fart.” He didn’t respond. I took a few backward steps, inching closer to the door. “I uhhm. My recorder. I lost my voice recorder. Misplaced is more like it. But I figured out where I left it. Or at least I think I did. I was having lunch with Navarro. Kind of. Well, we never actually ate, but that’s an entirely different story. Anyway,

I’m thinking I’ll have a rough draft here pretty soon.” He walked away from me, reached the end of the hallway, and disappeared around the corner. I glanced at the receptionist. She returned an innocent smile and shrugged. “Thanks for the warning,” I whispered. I sighed, placed my MacBook on the receptionist’s desk, and took off in a dead run toward his office. When I reached the door, I reluctantly pushed it open. “I really need to go. I need to get my recorder. I left it at the bar.” He waved his hand toward the front side of his desk. “They’ll be open all day. Have a seat, Peyton.” I sighed and flopped down in the chair. “What’s on your laptop that’s so important?” he asked. “Just stuff.” “What kind of stuff? Must be pretty important if you’re rushing in here to get it in the middle of the day. And why are you dressed like that? The Filthy Fuckers will never trust you if you’re dressed like that.” I was still wearing my outfit from testifying in court. “No, I had a meeting. I uhhm. My insurance company. New insurance. They were going to cancel me. Too many tickets.” “You need to slow down. You drive like a maniac. How many times have I told you? You need to slow down. You’re going to end up--” He paused, swallowed and shook his head. “You need to slow down.” I nodded. “Duly noted.” “So, what was it you were after? Tell me about the Filthy Fuckers. Are they going to war with Satan’s Savages?” I sat up straight. “I was wanting to look at some notes from a few years ago I was chasing that missing person’s case.” “Suspect the MC for a murder?” “No. No.” I shook my head and forced a laugh. “Not even close. I was just wanting to look at some things. Unrelated. Kind of.” “What about Satan’s Savages? Heard anything?”

“Not a word,” I said. “Interesting bunch, though. The Fuckers, that is. It’ll be a great piece.” “We won’t be able to give the piece away if there isn’t any action. MC’s are a dime a dozen if they’re riding up and down the PCH swilling beers and getting in fist fights.” “You’ll be pleased. I promise.” He fixed his eyes on me and rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. After a moment, he relaxed in his seat. “Alright. Go get your recorder. Dig deep, Peyton. I know you’ve got it in you.” I inhaled a deep breath and prepared to stand. “Before you go, what about Navarro? He’s a mean son-of-a-bitch from what they say. Have you had a chance to spend some time with him?” I sighed. “Uhhm, yeah. I mean, the spending time with. Not as much as I need to, though.” “Is he as hot-tempered as they say?” I stood up and shrugged. “I sure haven’t seen it. Not yet.” He picked a pencil up from his desk and wagged it at me. “Dig deep. That’s my advice. The deeper, the better.” “Will do, Sir.” I said with a nod. “It’ll go deep. I mean I’ll go deep.” “Keep me posted,” he said. During the lull in conversation, I made my way to the door. “Will do.” No response. I walked out the door, stepped into the hallway, and as soon as I was out of sight, took off running. A case I was working on two years’ prior shared almost all of the characteristics of Navarro’s case. Whether or not Navarro was involved with either case was irrelevant, I simply wanted to know if the charges against him were according to state statutes, and if they could re-charge him at a later date. I picked up the laptop, shot the receptionist a scowl, and ran to my Jeep. One more stop, and then I could see if Navarro was out of jail yet. ***

I pulled into the parking lot of the bar, which was empty. From what Navarro said, the bar was a biker hangout, and his club had claimed it as their own. Although other people may frequent the bar, there was no worry of another MC stepping into FFMC’s turf, which made the bar safe – at least for me. I shouldered my laptop and walked inside. Pete stood behind the bar staring at the wall-mounted television in the distance. He turned toward me and nodded his greeting. I nodded in return. After scanning the bar for patrons and finding none, I walked to the bar. Pete’s focus shifted from the T.V. to me. He resembled Navarro, but was smaller in stature, and missing the tattoos. “I was in the other day with Crip.” I motioned toward the area where the incident went down with Panda and Whip. “I think I might have left something--” He raised his hand. “Looking for this?” “Yes. Oh my God, that’s great.” I slapped my hand against the carrying case for my laptop. “Mind if I sit over there and look for something on this?” “Take all the time you need.” “Do you have wi-fi?” He nodded. “Sure do. Password’s go home.” I laughed. “Cute. Uhhm. Can I get. Can I get a Budweiser?” I reached for my purse. He looked at me like paying was an insult. “On the house.” “Let me just--” “It’s on the house.” I raised the bottle. “Thank you.” I sat down at the same table Navarro and I had shared a few days prior. After logging onto the wifi, I began sipping my beer and searching through the documents of my old case. In no time, I was buried in legal facts and needed another beer. The unmistakable sound of approaching motorcycles made my heart race. Expecting Navarro, Pee Bee and maybe more, I tore my eyes away from my laptop and peered through the window. Much to my surprise, Whip, Panda, and several other Savages pulled into the parking lot.

Fuck. My eyes shot toward Pete. I felt the need to warn him, just like Navarro did. “Savages coming in,” I shouted. He shifted his eyes toward the back door. “Go out the back.” I shook my head and reached for my recorder. “I’m staying.” I was almost sick from the excitement. I turned on my recorder, wedged it between the cushions of the booth’s seat, and then slumped in my seat. Whip, Panda, and two others came through the door and walked directly toward the bar. “You got some of our shit,” Whip growled. “And we need it back.” “I’ll give it to you when go, and you need to go.” Pete pointed toward the door. “Now.” “We’ll leave when we’re good and god damned ready,” Whip responded. “Give me our shit.” I considered getting my phone and after sending Navarro a text message, recording video of the debacle. So far, I had gone unnoticed, and drawing attention to myself was the only thing that prevented it. Standing directly in front of Pete, but on the other side of the bar, Whip checked over each shoulder, and without any further warning, thrust his head into Pete’s face. Instantly, blood burst from Pete’s nose. After Whip threw a few sucker punches, he climbed over the bar and began to rummage around. While he did, one of the other bikers – a tall lanky man with long strands of filthy hair – scanned the bar. Upon seeing me, our eyes locked. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Whip handed Panda his pistol and then a shotgun, which I suspected was what Pete used to protect the bar. My heart sank at the thought of Pete not being able to defend himself – or me for that matter – from the Savages. The lanky biker pointed toward me. “See this?” Whip’s eyes met mine. “I’ll be god damned. That’s Crip’s girl. The one that lied in court this morning.” Please. Let me live through this. That’s all I ask. Don’t let them kill me.

Let me tell this story. He shoved his knife into his pocket and began walking toward me. Two of the other three men followed. I considered doing a lot of things, but only managed to do one. I turned toward him, blocking my right arm from his view. And, like a true journalist, I swept my purse and the recorder onto the floor. My only hope was that he didn’t find them, leaving the recorder to capture the event in its entirety. I stood up. “He’s on his way. We’re meeting here.” It was all I could think of, and was well worth a try. He stepped directly in front of me, stopped, and eyes me from head to toe. “Better get this over with before he shows up.” Before I could react, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me to his side. A sharp pain shot through my scalp and along my spine. I looked down, saw the toe of his boot, and stomped my heel into it as hard as I could. He spun me around. “You little bitch,” he seethed. His hand slammed against my face. It wasn’t a slap. Not even close. He hit me. With his fist. I stumbled, but didn’t fall. “He’s gonna kill you,” I said through my teeth. He pulled off my blazer, ripped my shirt, and pulled my bra up over my boobs. I fought against him at first, but it did little good. His hand shot up my skirt and ripped off my panties. “Don’t you dare rape me,” I said clearly and concisely. I wanted the recorder to catch every word. “Shut the fuck up. We’re all gonna get some of you, you lying little whore.” He shoved me against the booth, bent me over, and pulled my skirt over my hips. I refused to become a victim. Shedding a single tear wasn’t an option. While the sound of the other men’s voices either cheered him on or claimed their place in line, I felt his filthy skin against mine. The smell of gasoline, beer, and filth filled my nostrils, and I fought not to vomit. I bit my lower lip and closed my eyes. I mentally struggled with him, the other, and what – if

anything – I could do. Eventually, my mind gave up and drifted away. While he pounded himself into me, my body may have been in the bar with him, but my mind and spirit were far away. On a ski slope in Wyoming. So high I could almost touch the clouds.

SIXTEEN Nick Sitting in jail wasn’t something I ever yearned for. Each time it happened, however, it caused me to appreciate the small things in my life that I had been taking for granted. It seemed having them stripped away – along with my freedom – was a bit of a reality check. “So she didn’t even hesitate?” I asked. “I’m fuckin’ tellin’ ya.” Pee Bee grinned and shook his head. “She just kinda volunteered.” I shook my head. “She’s a good woman.” “Best one I ever met. Smart bitch, too. She was tellin’ me about laws and what they could and couldn’t do to you. I’m tellin’ ya, she’s got her shit wired tight.” I leaned against the work bench. “I’m thinking about taking her to dinner. Doing something nice with her. Letting her know how much I appreciate it.” I didn’t need Peeb’s approval, but I wanted it. I took a drink of beer and waited. “You should probably take her to dinner and then throw her some dick. Maybe instead of fuckin’ her in the shop, you should do it at your house.” I chuckled. “You think dicking her at the shop’s a bad idea?” He shook his head. “Givin’ her some cock in the shop ain’t no big deal, Crip. But chicks want dicked on somethin’ soft every now and again.” “On something soft?” He finished his beer and got another from the fridge. “A bed, in the yard, on the couch. Hell, even in the back seat of a car. They like it. Take her out to eat and then give her some cock on somethin’ squishy.” “Something squishy.” I laughed. “I’ll look into that.”

Pee Bee – which stood for Pretty Boy – was a former USC football player. Although he had a college education, one would never really know it from talking to him. It was obvious that the mainstream idea of an education was not what he walked away with during his tenure as a student. His heart was huge, his devotion to the club was undeniable, and he was – if anyone was – my best friend. He was a very handsome man. So handsome, that immediately following college he was chosen to be on a reality television show. From time-to-time, he was recognized by someone in a bar – generally a woman. The conversations seemed to always start with do I know you from somewhere, and ended with Pee Bee balls-deep in yet another stranger. Obtaining his advice on what women wanted seemed out of place. But he was one of the few men I trusted. His eyes dropped to his boots for a moment. After some thought, he met my gaze. “I need to do somethin’ for her too, just haven’t decided what.” “Why’s that?” “Told her if she got you out of jail, I owed her one. A big one.” “Well, aren’t you fuckin’ sweet.” I said sarcastically. “Just remember--” I paused, and tried to decide whether or not to continue my thought. Before I had a chance to do so, he read my mind. “I ain’t gonna touch her.” I nodded. “Last fuckin’ thing I need is some split-tail hangin’ around. She’s uhhm. She’s pretty entertaining, though.” My phone beeped, indicating a text message had been received. Although I had a phone, I never really used it, nor did I have a desire to. If someone was sending me a text message, it was generally regarding being late for a meeting. With no meeting scheduled, I was left believing the text must have been from Peyton. Eager to see what she wanted, I grabbed my phone. After opening the text message screen, I saw one unread message. But it wasn’t from Peyton. It was from Pete.

Sabages got thr girl htfu bring forepower. Whip here now Sorry they got my gun “Motherfuckers!” I screamed. “God fucking fuck…” “What?” “I’m gonna kill…I’m going to kill all those motherfuckers!” I kicked the bench, sending shit flying everywhere. My vision blurred, my ears started to ring, and I began to shake. “Fuuuuuuuuck!” “What?” Pee Bee shouted. I’d brought her into a world that she had no business in, and if something happened to her, it was on my shoulders. I fought against the rising lump in my throat and tried to swallow, but couldn’t. I turned toward the safe. While I poked the tip of my finger against the keypad, I tried to explain the text to Pee Bee. “Text’s from Pete. Can’t tell for sure, but it looks like the Savages are at Pete’s bar. They’ve got Pete’s gun, and they’ve--” I swallowed heavily, pulled the door of the safe open, and grabbed two pistols – one of which was fitted with a silencer. I pursed my lips and inhaled a long breath through my nose. My hands began to shake. “They’ve got the reporter.” “Motherfuckers.” He grabbed the silenced pistol. “If they even touch her, I’ll kill the whole fucking club.” You’ll have to beat me to it, Brother.

SEVENTEEN Peyton More than anything, I wanted to scrub myself with soap and water. I needed the filth washed away. All of it. I feared I would never be clean again, regardless of how hard I scrubbed. “Let me call an ambulance,” Pete said. “Please. You need…you need to be checked out.” I fastened my bra and tried desperately to button my shirt, but there were no buttons. My eyes dropped to the floor. Scattered about, the small pieces of faux shell littered the floor surrounding the booth. “I’m okay.” I rubbed my hand against my swollen lip. “I’ll be okay.” I knelt down, picked them up, and stood. I gazed blankly into the palm of my hand, wishing they were where they belonged. I noticed my torn panties on the bench where Navarro and I had been sitting just days before. I clutched the broken buttons and reached for my panties. “Do you have a trash can?” He nodded. “There’s one by the bar.” I walked to the trash can and dropped my panties inside. When I returned, I crawled under the table and retrieved my purse. After dropping the broken buttons inside, I grabbed the recorder and turned it off. “You’re in shock,” Pete said. “No. I’m okay, really.” I wanted to rewind the recorder and make sure it recorded everything, but I wasn’t ready to listen to it. Not yet. The sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust caused me to flinch. It seemed something I had yearned to hear only hours before had somehow become repulsive, and I didn’t like it. I peered out the window just in time to see Navarro and Pee Bee pulling up to the front of the bar.

“Navarro’s here. I uhhm.” I tugged against the sides of my shirt, attempting –to pull them together, but couldn’t. I held the two pieces of material, concealing my bra from sight, and then remembered I had worn a blazer. I searched the floor, found my jacket, and slipped my arms through it. Remarkably, it was unharmed. Methodically, I fastened the buttons, yet still felt slightly undressed when I was finished. I brushed the lint from my skirt and tossed my hair. “No ambulance. I’ll be fine. I need a drink. Maybe get us three beers?” Navarro and Pee Bee came rushing in. Pete turned toward the door and met them halfway. Navarro ran past him, and came where I was standing. Pee Bee stood at Pete’s side and talked to him while Navarro looked me over. I gazed at him, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, and then realized I didn’t have my heels. He pressed his hands against my shoulders and held me steady. “What happened?” I wished I didn’t have to tell him. Sooner or later he’d find out for sure, but I just didn’t want to have to talk about it. Not to him. “Peyton,” he squeezed my shoulders in his hands. “What happened?” “Four of them. Whip, Panda, Lowbrow and Taffy. They uhhm.” My eyes began to well with tears. I pointed to the portion of my shirt that the blazer didn’t cover. I fought to swallow, eventually did, and continued. “They…” I pointed to the trash can. “I put my panties in the trash.” He pulled me into his chest and held me tight. “I’m sorry. Believe me, they’ll…I’ll make sure that they…” His voice faltered, then he cleared his throat. “Did Pete call an ambulance?” “I don’t need one.” He looked into my eyes. “You need to see a doctor.” I nodded. “I will. I’ll get checked out. But I’m not calling the police. I don’t want them involved. I want…” I wanted to tell him to take care of it, but couldn’t put the responsibility on him to do so. I wished he would volunteer, and explain to me in detail how he would make them pay for what they did to me. Pee Bee walked to Navarro’s side, inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled into the palms of his hands.

“Pete said it was Whip, Panda, Taffy, and someone else, but he wasn’t sure.” “Lowbrow,” I said flatly. “You sure?” I nodded. “Positive.” “Already called Ryder,” he said. “Cholo and a bunch of the fellas were at his place. They’re on their way now. You stay here with her.” Navarro released me and turned to face Pee Bee. “I’m going. I’m gonna kill every motherfucking one of ‘em. Real god damned slow.” Pee Bee shook his head. “Somebody’s got to stay with her.” “This is my fight, god damn it. Mine,” Navarro seethed. “And I’m gonna fight it.” “You want him to stay?” Pee Bee asked. “Here with you?” I nodded. “Uh huh.” “You don’t want him to leave?” I wrapped my arms around Navarro and pulled him into me. “I’d rather he stay, please.” Pee Bee folded his massive arms on front of his chest and sighed. “I’m the Sergeant-At-Arms of this club. It’s my job to protect what’s ours, at any cost. Like it or not, she testified for you, and this is the price she’s paid for it. The club owes her. The club needs to protect her. I’m goin’ for these motherfuckers, and I ain’t stoppin’ till I got ‘em.” He turned around until his back faced us. “Either let me get ‘em, or cut off my fuckin’ patch.” Oh, wow. “You know good and god damned well I’m not cuttin’ off your patch,” Navarro growled. “It’s settled, then. You’re stayin’, and I’m goin’.” Navarro leaned over and rested his head on my shoulder. His warm breath on my neck made me smile. His strong arms provided assurance that I was safe from harm as long as he was near. “I want ‘em to pay.” Pee Bee nodded. “They will.” “Be careful,” I said. “Panda’s got a gun.”

He laughed a dry laugh. “Me? Shit. Make me up one of those cranberry drinks. A double. I’ll be over to drink it before the fuckin’ ice melts.” I lifted my head. “Promise?” A thunderous rumble rattled the windows of the bar. The sound continued for some time, almost resembling a passing train. I peered outside. Side-by-side, motorcycles pulled into the lot, one row after another. A string of headlights as far as I could see filled the road leading to the bar. It seemed it was never going to end. In no time, the lot was filled with bikes. Completely filled. And, it wasn’t just FFMC’s men. Pee Bee bent down, looked through the window, then stood up. “We’re gonna roll, Boss.” Navarro cleared his throat. “Who else you call?” “Hell On Earth and The Dragons. We’re rolling about fifty deep, Boss.” “God damn you,” Navarro said with a laugh. “We didn’t need to--” “You want my job?” Pee Bee interrupted. “Start wearin’ my patch. Until you do, you be the President. I’ll be the Sergeant-At-Arms.” The door opened and twenty or so men came in, all wearing leather vests. Two massive men came to our side and stood, each crossing their arms in front of their chests as they positioned themselves beside us. “What’s shakin’, motherfuckers?” Pee Bee asked. Each of the men hugged Pee Bee and patted him on the back. “Good to see you, Brother,” one said. “Tiny.” Navarro nodded to the man on the left. “Big Frank,” he said to the other. “Crip,” they said in unison. Pee Bee turned toward the door. “Pee Bee,” I shouted. He turned around. “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

He turned around, clenched his fist, and extended his arm. I pounded my fist into his. “I’ll have that drink waiting.” He walked away, and Navarro held me in his arms. As the walls and windows once again began to shake, I watched them leave. Two at a time, fifty motorcycle’s taillights rode away from the bar and into the street. Each stood as a reminder that someone was going to pay dearly for what happened to me. But nothing would ever be enough.

EIGHTEEN Pee Bee It was darker than a motherfucker in Whip’s kitchen, but there I sat, waiting for his dumb ass to come home. Sooner or later I knew he would, even if it was just to get some stuff for the road. With the silenced pistol in my lap, and a straight razor in my pocket, I was ready to give him exactly what the other three men got, which was much less than what he deserved. The life of a one-percenter is an interesting life to live. Sometimes years pass, and it’s nothing but breathing in and breathing out. Then, something happens, and each day is like a trip through a boobytrapped minefield – one carefully placed step after another. Without having some kind of laws in effect, society would be in utter turmoil. In a world without strict rules and regulations, it would stand to reason that the strong would survive, and the weak would perish, but I’m not convinced that’s actually the case. At least not in the world I live in. Outlaws live beyond the limits of conventional law, most abiding to a strict set of moral codes and standards that prevent the complete collapse of the world they live in. Outside the world of the outlaw, two types of people live. Law abiding civilians, and the lawless. One adheres to society’s standards. To the other, there are no rules. The lawless prey on any and everything that will provide them with a means to fuel their unrestricted life for one more day, never caring who or what they harm in the process. The lawless have one concern. Themselves. The faint sound of a motorcycle exhaust shook me from what was soon to be a light sleep. I glanced at my watch.

3:30 a.m. As the sound grew closer, I stood up, stretched, and checked the breech of the pistol. I’d checked it half a dozen times before, but doing it was from force of habit. The garage opener activated, and I grinned to myself. One way or another, satisfaction was going to come. Hidden behind the doorway that led into the kitchen, I could see into the living room, but it would be almost impossible for anyone entering from the direction of the garage to see me. I lowered myself to the floor, pointed the pistol toward the living room, and waited. I heard the bike pull into the garage. The garage door closed, and then the door to the house opened. In the complete silence, the sound of the creaking floor warned me of his arrival. With each step that he took, I held my breath and waited. As his silhouette passed into my line of sight, I steadied my gloved fingertip against the trigger. “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked. He gasped and jumped to the side, still uncertain of where I was. “Raise both your hands in the air right fuckin’ now, or I’ll drop you where you stand,” I said through my teeth. The little bit of light that seeped in through the blinds illuminated him enough that I could see the expression on his face. Concerned, and still unsure of my exact whereabouts, his eyes narrowed. He scanned the perimeter of the living room hoping to catch a glimpse of me. But his hands didn’t immediately go up. I pointed the pistol at his left thigh and pulled the trigger. The sound from the silenced .45 caliber pistol was about as loud as a can of beer being opened. The screaming that followed was deafening. He fell to the floor. I stood up. Over the sound of his wailing and crying, I gave my only demand. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em, or I’ll put one in your other leg.” His arms shot out to his sides. “I need…a…I need a tourniquet. I’m gonna bleed…fucking hell, I’m gonna bleed to death.” I pointed the pistol at his other leg and pulled the trigger. “Shut the fuck up.”

He screamed and clutched his thigh in his hands. I had experience at making gunshot wounds, but I had no experience regarding treating gunshot wounds. I had no idea if he would bleed to death or not. I’d read enough articles over the years about random shootings to know that gunshot victims often lived for hours before reaching a hospital. To be honest, I prefer that he live, especially in the state I was going to leave him. When he and his three club brothers showed up at the hospital with the same exact wounds, police would assume – rightfully so – that revenge had been sought out for a crime committed against another club. But the Savages wouldn’t say a word about who did it. A combination of embarrassment and a hatred for law enforcement would prevent them from it. The one and only constant shared between the lawless and the outlaw was that snitching to the police didn’t happen. Resolution was obtained from within the ranks. It was a matter of honor. I pushed the pistol into my front pocket, unbuckled his belt, and pulled up on the buckle end. After lifting him off of the floor by the belt, the wide leather slipped through his belt loops one by one, until it was finally free. “I guess I’ll wrap this fucker around the first one I shot.” “Just call me an ambulance, brother. I won’t say a word.” “Brother? We’re brothers now? You dumb fuck. You don’t have a clue, you know it? I’m just gettin’ started.” While he moaned and bitched, I wrapped the belt around his left thigh and pulled it tight. I then reached for the button of his jeans. Whip wasn’t as big as me, but he was a big man. As soon as I attempted to unbutton his pants, he knew what was next, and the struggle began. A few seconds into it, and I stood and pulled the pistol from my pocket. I pointed it at his head. “Tell you the truth, I don’t care. We decided not to kill you pricks in a vote, but I’ll let you pick. Either lay still or I’ll put one in your head.” “Fuck you.”

If it worked on your brother, it ought to work on you. I kicked him in the side of the head as hard as I could. Now on the floor unconscious, he provided no resistance. After putting the pistol in my pocket, I bent down, unfastened his pants, and pulled them to his thighs. I reached in my back pocket, pulled out the straight razor, and grabbed his nuts with my gloved hand. I had visions of talking mad shit to him while I did the deed, but with him unconscious, it made the experience much less enjoyable. I pulled down on his scrotum, stretched it tight, and swung the straight razor directly under the base of his cock. The entire wad of flesh came off in my hand, nuts and all. “Holy fucking shit, that’s nasty.” He began to stir around. Instead of listening to him, I kicked him in the head again. Now, the really gross part. It’s a good thing I’m wearing rubber gloves. I gripped the tip of his cock between my left thumb and forefinger, pulled up on it as hard as I could, and stretched it to its limit. As he began to writhe around, I swung the razor into the flesh and cut it almost all the way through. “This motherfucker’s dull as fuck,” I said. “Makes sense, I’ve been through three cocks tonight. Four, now.” About the time he opened his eyes, I swung the razor into the little flap of flesh that still remained. His entire cock came off in my hand. “Holy shit. That’s a lot of blood.” He screamed out in pain and shoved his hands between his legs, no doubt in shock from what had happened. “Well, Whip. You won’t be raping any more girls with this, because I’m gonna take it with me.” I reached into my kutte, pulled out the Zip-Lock bag, and unzipped it. After dropping his cock and scrotum into the bag, I squeezed the air out, zipped it closed, and folded it up. Whip would spend the rest of his life – if he lived through the gunshot wounds and the castration – without having sex again.

Not a day would pass that he wouldn’t regret what he did to Peyton. A life of pain, agony, humiliation, and regret. But it would never be enough. *** Crip’s door opened a few inches. Standing in nothing but his boxers, he looked at me through the crack with sleepy eyes. “What’s shakin’ motherfucker?” “Jesus H. Christ, Peeb. Any reason you gave an order that no one could tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on?” I shrugged. “Wanted to show you myself, so I told the fellas to keep it quiet. You gonna let me in? “It’s five o’clock in the morning, be fuckin’ quiet,” he whispered. “She’s still sleeping.” “She’s here?” “Yeah, she’s here,” he said. “Now shut the fuck up and come in.” “Nice seeing you, too.” I walked past him and toward his kitchen. I needed a beer, and I needed one bad. As soon as I stepped into the dining room, I grinned. On the center of the table, a glass sat. Filled with what looked like pink water, it was a reminder of what a good solid bitch Peyton Price was. I motioned toward the glass. “She make that for me?” He nodded. “We went to the hospital and got her checked out. They did some tests for diseases and some other shit. She claimed she got drunk and agreed to let a bunch of guys fuck her. Doctors didn’t believe her at first, but she convinced ‘em in no time. Tell you what, that’s one strong fuckin’ woman. Anyway, when we got back, she made that for you. Been sittin’ there since about 10:00. She fell asleep at 2:00. She’s been worried about ya. She’s not the only one.” I wagged my eyebrows at him. “Alive and well, motherfucker.” “Tell me what happened.”

“I’m getting’ to it.” I pulled off my backpack, unzipped it, and removed the four Zip-Lock bags. He glanced at the bags. His face distorted, and then he looked at me. “What the fuck is that?” I tossed the bags on the table. “Cocks. Four of ‘em.” “You cut off their fuckin’ dicks?” “Sliced off their cocks and their balls. All four of ‘em,” I said. “Well, four cocks, and eight nuts. Cut the fuckers off right at the base, too. Didn’t even leave ‘em a stub. Was Cholo’s idea. Said that’s how they do it in Mexico. Figured if it was good enough for the cartel, it was good enough for me.” I picked up the glass of pink liquid and downed it in one drink. “You have one of these yet?” “Seriously?” he snapped back. His mouth curled into a smirk. “You did, didn’t ya?” He nodded. “Don’t tell anybody. Fucking shit was pretty good.” “Man, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s good as fuck.” “Is that you, Pee Bee?” “Hey, Peyton,” I said. “How you feelin’?” “Just tired,” she said. “Other than that, I’m fine.” She walked into the dining room in one of Crip’s poker runs shirts from 2011 and a pair of his boxers. Crip reached for the sacks of cocks, but it was too late. She’d already seen them. “What are those?” she asked. “Just…” Crip swung his hand across the table and tried to scoop up the sacks, but knocked one of them onto the floor in front of her. She bent down and picked it up. She lifted the blood-filled sack and stared at it. “Gross. What is it?” Crip shrugged and glanced at me. Then, she looked at me. Pretty soon, Crip followed. Thanks, motherfucker. I cleared my throat. “One of those fella’s cocks.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Seriously?” “Yep.” “You cut off their cocks?” “Yep.” “Like, off?” I pointed at the bag. “Off enough that it’s in that Zip-Lock bag, yeah.” “The whole thing?” “Cut em off at the base,” I said. “Their nuts, too.” She looked at Crip. The other three sacks of cocks were clutched in his right hand. He shrugged, and eventually started laughing. “It ain’t funny,” I said. “You ever cut off a man’s cock? Kinda gross, if you ask me. Bleeds a lot, too.” “What are we going to do with them?” Peyton asked. “We?” I asked. “We? I’m done with ‘em” “Can I flush ‘em?” Crip eyes widened. “You want to flush ‘em?” Peyton grinned. “I do.” He shrugged. “They’re about the side of a good turd. I suppose they’d flush.” She stood up and reached for the other three bags. “I want to.” I reached into my pocket, and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. All along, I figured I’d be in charge of the disposal. “Here,” I said. “You’ll need these.” She took the gloves. “Thanks. Be back in a minute.” Crip and I looked at each other, but we didn’t talk while she was gone. After the toilet flushed six or eight times, the sound of running water followed. Then, she walked past us and into the kitchen. “Trash bags?” “Under the sink,” Crip said.

“Here.” She handed me neatly folded a trash sack. “You probably want to throw that away somewhere else. Or burn it. Get rid of the DNA.” I looked at Crip. He shrugged. “I needed that,” Peyton said. “You know; victims of sexual abuse say they need closure. Well, flushing their dicks down the toilet felt pretty fucking good.” I made a fist and held it at the center of the table. “Good enough?” She pounded her fist into mine. “Good enough.” And, just like that, those two words made riding around all night with a bunch of cocks in ZipLock bags worth it.

NINETEEN Nick I pulled into the driveway, turned the bike to face the street, and shut off the ignition. After a deep breath, I stepped over the gas tank and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans. The short walk up the driveway brought back memories, but it always did. And it always would. I knocked three times on the door. “Enter!” I pushed the door open. My father was sitting in his chair watching the news. He still resembled the military man he spent his lifetime being, his buzz-cut hair and athletic physique were a testament to his devotion to the Navy. Retired after 30 years in the military, he was now employed as a groundskeeper at a golf course. In his mind, however, he was simply on extended leave from the Navy. “Get another tattoo?” he asked. Nice to see you, too. “Who is it?” my mother asked, her voice coming from the kitchen. “It’s Nick, and he’s got a new tattoo,” my father shouted. “A god damned bumblebee. On his neck.” “Let him in for heaven’s sake.” “He’s already in. Wouldn’t be seeing his tattoo if he was still on the porch.” “The tattoo’s old, Pop. Been there for a few years.” “It’s dark.” He got out of his chair and glared. “Looks new.” “It’s not.”

He studied my neck for a moment, then glanced over the patches on my kutte. “So, who died?” “Nobody died, Pop. Just came to talk to mom.” “Elizabeth, he’s here to see you.” I shook my head and walked past him. “I’m here to see both of you.” “Well, when you and your bumblebee get done talking to your mother, I’ll be here.” To the unknowing bystander, my father would appear to be an asshole. Truthfully, he wasn’t. He had an opinion about everything, and offered it whether the recipient liked it or not, but he meant no harm in doing so. Over the years, I learned to dismiss a good part of what he said as being nothing more than bullshit. “We’ll both come back and see ya,” I said in a sarcastic tone. I stepped into the kitchen. My mother stood at the sink washing dishes. “Why don’t you use the dishwasher?” “It doesn’t get them clean.” “It’s got a heat exchanger that superheats the water. It’s gets them clean and sterilizes them.” “This is relaxing,” she said. She turned her head to the side and waited. I pressed my lips to her cheek and kissed her. “How’s work?” “Long hours. One of these days, I’ll retire, but I don’t know when. I’ll be done in just a minute.” “No hurry,” I said. I opened the fridge, rummaged through each of the Tupperware containers, and eventually found some fried chicken. I grabbed a few pieces and sat down at the dining room table. “Get a plate.” “I don’t need a plate. It’d just be one more to wash.” “Get something to drink so you don’t choke. That chicken was dry. I don’t know what happened to it.” “I’m fine. And the chicken’s good. Really.” At the same time that I finished the second piece of chicken, she got done with the dishes. After

drying her hands and tossing the towel on the countertop, she sat down at my side. “You never come over just to see us, so what’s going on, Nicholas?” I tossed the chicken bones in the trash, washed my hands, and sat down. “I’ve got some questions about a girl.” Her eyes lit up. “Did you meet a girl?” “Settle down. I met a girl, but it’s not what you think. There’s nothing going on.” She smiled. “Why are you asking about her?” I shrugged. “I just want to make sure she’s going to be okay. Something happened to her.” She placed her hand on my forearm. “Is she okay?” “I don’t know. She seems to be.” My mother worked as a counselor for a sexual assault center, and had for as long as I could remember. Her lifetime of exposure to domestic violence, sexual abuse, and other traumatic events women experienced made her a wealth of information on the subjects. She gripped my forearm. “What’s bothering you?” “Don’t go gettin’ all mad, just listen, okay?” “Okay.” I stared at the center of the table, and tried to speak without emotion, but it wasn’t easy. “If a girl is gang raped by four men, is it possible that she will recover from it without counseling?” “Oh, Nicholas,” her hand shot up and covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” I shifted my eyes to meet hers. She looked overwhelmed. “Recover? No. Not without professional help. Survive? Sure. She can survive, but her choice to not seek counseling is foolish. The center should be able to get her all the help she needs. Have her call me.” “She doesn’t want counseling.” “Why isn’t she following the recommendations of her case worker?” “It’s complicated. She didn’t report it as a rape. She doesn’t want to.” She shook her head. “She still can. And she needs to. It’s part of the process that she needs to go

through. Tell her to report it.” “She won’t. She’s stubborn.” She sighed. “The men who did this need to be brought to justice.” My eyes fell to the table. While I contemplated what to say next, she squeezed my arm. “Nicholas…” I met her gaze, but didn’t respond. “Nicholas…” She gripped my arm firmly. “Nicholas Michael Navarro. I’m your mother. Remember, you came from my womb. I know you all too well. What did you do?” I shrugged. “They’ve been brought to justice, Mom. Believe me.” “What did you do?” Lying to my mother wasn’t possible. Providing very little detail was my only option. “Just trust me. They’ve been dealt with.” She sighed. “Your friend needs help. What’s her name? I’ll pray for her.” “Her name doesn’t matter.” “Tell me her name so I can include her in my prayers.” I needed all the help I could get. “Peyton.” She nodded and released my arm. “You’ve got a convincing way about you, Nicholas. Convince your friend to get help. If nothing else, bring her in to see me.” I stood up. “I’m not bringing her in.” “People listen to you. They always have. God gave you a gift. Use it.” She reached out and poked me in the chest. “And what did I tell you about wearing that thing in this house?” “I was in a hurry.” “I wish you’d grow up and get out of that gang. I feel like we failed you every time I see you wearing that thing.” “It’s not a gang, it’s a club.” “Call it whatever makes you feel better about it. It’s a gang. And, when you wear it, you’re a gang

member. You’re going to get shot one of these days, and probably for nothing more than wearing that ridiculous thing. Get your friend some help. And go talk to your father, he misses you.” “Thanks, Mom. I love you.” She hugged me and kissed my cheek. “I love you, too.” She told me exactly what I expected. Peyton’s hope of sweeping her assault under the rug wasn’t going to work. If she wanted to recover, she would need to seek the help of a professional. I walked into the living room. My father cleared his throat. “Sit down.” I sat on the sofa across from him. He reached for the remote control, turned up the volume on the television, and leaned forward in his seat. “They still alive?” I acted surprised. “Who?” He arched his brow. My father may have been elderly by most people’s standards, but his hearing was fantastic. His service in the Navy taught him to be attentive, if nothing else. I glanced over my shoulder. My mother was putting up the dishes. I turned to face him. “For now.” He relaxed in his seat, folded his arms across his chest, and exhaled. “Don’t you dare get caught.” “I wasn’t involved, Pop. I’m clean on this one.” He shook his head. “You and I? We’re a lot alike. I raised you, remember? It isn’t over. If it was, you wouldn’t be here. Remember your training, don’t be driven by anger, and don’t get caught.” I nodded. “Thanks.” “Fucking judge gave some kid six months for raping a girl the other day. You see that shit on the news? She was incoherent and drunk, and the little prick raped her.” I nodded. The case disgusted me. “Yes, Sir. I sure did.” “When a man rapes a woman, he doesn’t just rape her. He rapes her entire life. She’s forced to live with the pain from that memory for a lifetime. And for that judge to send a message that six months in county jail is a fair trade for what happened to that woman?” He sat up in his chair, clenched his jaw, and took a long breath through his nose. “I’d like to get my hands on that judge and that kid.”

“You and me both, Pop.” “I can forgive a lot of things. Rape isn’t one of ‘em.” I didn’t want to talk about it any longer. The more I thought about it, the angrier I was becoming. I stood up. “Yeah? Me neither.” He could tell my blood was boiling. After studying me for a moment, he lowered his chin slightly. “Love you, Son.” “Love you, too.”

TWENTY Peyton Although it seemed my mind was elsewhere, I sat at my desk and attempted to manufacture a story out of minimal facts and zero desire. “Working your magic?” The sound of Mr. Rollins’ voice made me cringe. I had no story, no passion to write one, and for the first time that I was aware of, didn’t really care about performing my job or exposing the facts. “It’s coming pretty slow,” I responded. “It’ll come. It always does. At least for you.” I grinned and turned toward the monitor. “I hope so.” “Anything I can do to help?” “Just give me some time.” “Take all the time you need,” he said. “Just make sure you get it right in the end.” “Okay, thanks.” “Let me know if you need anything.” I nodded. “Will do.” I stared at the screen while my hands hovered over the keyboard. After several minutes of zero productivity, I opened my browser, did a search for any information about the Savages being hospitalized, and found nothing. Disappointed, I closed the browser, and began to type. The life of an outlaw biker is one that most individuals will never completely comprehend. I have had the luxury of being exposed to one such group, the Filthy F*ckers MC, for some time.

In doing so, I have learned I stopped typing, read what I had written, and erased everything. Frustrated, I picked up my phone and sent Navarro a text message, hopeful that he’d respond favorably. It was a long shot, but well worth a try. Want to grab lunch? No interview. Just lunch?? I tossed the phone on my desk, looked around my office, and decided it was a disastrous mess. Thirty seconds into the reorganization of my entire library, my phone beeped. I picked it up, hopeful, but without much expectation. Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes. The message was from Navarro. Meet me at the clubhouse in 30? I smiled, typed yes as my response, and paused. After erasing the one-word message, I re-typed my response. Thank you.

TWENTY-ONE Nick Standing in the clubhouse parking lot, I stared at my bike and tried to imagine it with paint on it. “I don’t think the fucker will look any better. It’ll just look different.” Pee Bee cocked his head to the side and studied the rusty gas tank. “Up to you. Been lookin’ like shit as long as I’ve known ya. Don’t know why you’re wantin’ to paint it now.” I shrugged. “Just thinking about making a change.” “Changin’ your bike ain’t gonna change anything, Crip. When you get done, your life’s still gonna be here.” “Well holy fucking shit. Listen to you. What? You a certified fucking therapist now?” “No.” “So why you trying to tell me how to live my life?” “I’m not.” I lifted my leg over the seat, sat down, and draped my arms over the handlebars. “Sure sounds like it.” “I don’t like it either, motherfucker. Not even a little bit. But I can’t fuckin’ change it. Only thing we can do is keep on keepin’ on. That’s it.” “Thanks for the words of wisdom, Peeb.” “Whatever I can do to help, asshole.” I gazed toward the street, not really focusing on anything. The building we used for a clubhouse was in Oceanside, twenty miles north of San Diego. The city was the home for many Marines stationed in Camp Pendleton, which was a few miles north. Along with the neighboring cities of Carlsbad and Vista, the overall population was about 200,000.

Our location was on a street that had minimal traffic, making passing cars something of an oddity. The unmarked police car that was approaching stood out like a dick on a wedding cake. “Fucking hell.” Pee Bee’s eyes widened. “What?” “My three o’clock. Cop.” “No shit?” He turned toward the street. “Looks like your fuckin’ buddy.” He was right. The car and the driver looked pretty god damned familiar. It was none other than detective shit-for-brains, the man who arrested me in the shop. “Here he comes,” I said. He pulled in the lot, pulled up alongside us, and came to a stop. He rolled down the window and poked his head out. “You know, on some days, I wish I didn’t have to work,” he said. “I could just hang around, sit on my motorcycle and look mean. Wouldn’t that be the life?” “Only a couple of problems with that, detective.” He lowered his sunglasses and peered over the top of the frames. “You know I’ve got to ask. The problems? What are they, Navarro?” I stepped off my bike, folded my arms in front of my chest, and flexed my biceps. “You don’t have a motorcycle, and you look like a pussy.” He laughed a sarcastic laugh, opened the car door, and stepped out. He removed his mirrored cop glasses and hung them on the collar of his police-issue polo shirt. “That’s funny.” “I’m the club joker. Jokes? I got a million of ‘em. Something I can help you with, detective?” “Maybe. And, just so you know, I’m not on a fact finding mission. I’m really just here to make you…” He glanced at Pee Bee. “…and your cohort aware of something.” “So you stopped by to talk to Peeb and me?” “That his name?” he nodded toward Pee Bee. “Peeb?” “No. Name’s Pee Bee, but I call him Peeb.” “Pee Bee, huh? What’s that stand for?”

“Peanut Butter,” Pee Bee said. “One of the other fellas is named Jelly. We’re fuckin’ besties.” He alternated glances between Pee Bee and me. “You two should come on down to La Jolla and get a job at The Comedy Store. Shit, you could get rich, funny as you two pricks are.” I cleared my throat. “Never much cared for the smell of pork, detective. And we’re getting’ ready to ride out of here. What can I do for you?” “This entire state is filled with outlaw motorcycle clubs. Personally, I never gave a shit one way or another about most of ‘em. You know, you guys kind of clean up your own messes. Makes it nice for people in my line of work.” “Get to your point,” I said. “Well, there’s one local club I always kind of detested. Maybe you’ve heard of ‘em. Satan’s Savages. Bunch of shit birds, if you ask me. Always flexing their muscle, and trying to be something they’re not. They want to be like the big boys. You know, the Mongols or Hells Angels...” He shook his head. “But they can’t.” With my arms still crossed in front of my chest, I stared back at him. “What’s this have to do with us?” “I’m getting to that. So, a few nights back, we got several reports of a group of bikers riding through town. A big group. Maybe sixty or so. It was late at night, which isn’t when most outlaw MCs are out and about in full force, unless something’s going down. With no reports of violence or gunfire, we really had no reason to react, because riding motorcycles in itself isn’t a crime. So we waited. Then, late that night, one of Satan’s Savages showed up at Scripps Mercy. Someone had cut his cock clean off. Castrated him too. Thirty minutes after that, two more showed up at Kindred. Same damned thing. Relieved of their cocks and balls.” I cocked an eyebrow. “Wasn’t some kind of club initiation, was it? Cut off your cock to jump from prospect to patch?” Pee Bee laughed out loud, but the detective remained straight-faced. “All three of ‘em claimed it was an ISIS attack. They said some towel-heads did it.” he paused and forced a laugh. “So, about five in the morning, the president of Satan’s Savages shows up at Scripps. His cock had been cut off so short he was left with a twat. But one thing that was different about him was that he’d been shot. Once in each leg with a .45 caliber.” “Same thing? Towel-heads?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “Said he cut himself shaving. When we asked him about the gunshot wounds, he

said he didn’t even notice ‘em. Crazy prick rode his motorcycle to the hospital. He’d lost so much blood they had to give him a transfusion.” “But all four of ‘em lived?” The detective nodded. “It’s a damned shame, but they did. Which is why I’m here.” “Why are you here?” I asked. “Never cared for the president of that group. The Savages,” he said. “Had him on a couple of rape cases a few years back, but neither of them materialized. Sad thing about rapists is that they seem to maintain a pattern of repeating the crimes. Considering the facts of this case, and that someone cut his cock off, my guess is that he dipped his dick in the wrong skank.” I clenched my jaw at the thought of him calling Peyton a skank. “So you came by to tell us this, why?” “Like I said in the beginning. I don’t mind MC’s. They have their own means of administering justice, which saves me time, and saves the taxpayers money. Rumor has it that Whipple and his boys are going after whoever did this. You might get the word out.” “So, you want Peeb and me to spread the word that four dickless bikers are looking for revenge?” He put his glasses on, pressed them high on his nose and got in his car. He then draped his right arm out the car window, brushed his left palm up his arm, and lifted the sleeve of his polo shirt slightly. “No, I want you to finish what you started.” My eyes locked on the tattoo in the center of his bicep. An eagle, trident, anchor, and pistol. “Have a nice day,” he said. And he drove away. “That was fuckin’ weird,” Pee Bee said. “Sure was.” I waited to see if Peeb was going to mention the tattoo, but it never came. After a few minutes of small talk and trying to decide if we were going to stay at the shop and drink beer or go eat lunch, my phone beeped. Anxious to see if it was Peyton, I pulled it from my pocket and read the message.

“Peyton wants to go to lunch. You want to go?” He shrugged. “Long as you don’t mind, sure.” “I don’t mind. And she might like the company.” “Sounds good. It’s almost noon now, want to meet her somewhere?” “I’ll just have her meet us here.” I said as I typed her a text message. “I’ll see if she wants to ride. Maybe it’ll will clear her mind.” And maybe it’ll clear mine, too.

TWENTY-TWO Peyton I sat on the hard fender with my hands at his waist and tilted my head back. Riding on the back of Navarro’s bike was like flying, and each time I did it, I grew a little fonder of it. While we rode along Mission Beach Boulevard looking for a place to eat, I thought of the phrase as free as a bird, and wondered if most bikers felt no differently than I did. Riding was an unexplainable thrill, something that words couldn’t come close to accurately describing, but the word flying immediately came to mind. With the feeling of flight came a sense of freedom. When I recognized the sense of freedom, it all made sense. The outlaw biker really wanted nothing more than to be left to his own devices. The ride freed them from the clutch of whatever it was that brought them to drop their respective asses into the seat in the first place. The satisfaction from riding seemed to be much different after the incident. Before, I enjoyed it immensely, but other than the thrill of being on the back of the bike, nothing else happened. After the incident, the ride seemed to rid me of all contamination, leaving me feeling cleansed of everything that was impure. I couldn’t help but wonder if each and every hard-core biker had some underlying reason – some catastrophe in their life – that made riding more of a necessity, and not merely a simple desire. We parked in front of a small taco shop. I adjusted my hair tie and reluctantly released Navarro’s waist. “I have a lot of questions to ask while we’re waiting on food.” He stepped off the bike and steadied it for me to get off. “I thought you’d be done with that article by now.” “Actually, I haven’t even started,” I said. “But this has nothing to do with the article. Not really.”

“Ask me anything you want,” Pee Bee said. “But prepare for the truth. I won’t bullshit you like Ol’ Crip.” I climbed off the fender. “How did he get his name?” Navarro shot me a look. I winked at him. “Crip. Short for cripple. Because he’s an old man.” I looked at Navarro. “True?” He nodded. “That’s what it stands for, but I’m far from an old man.” “What about yours,” I asked Pee Bee. “P. B.,” Navarro said. “Pretty Boy. Because he looks like a bearded girl.” I laughed. “Pretty Boy and Crip. I like it.” “Come on,” Pee Bee said. “I’ve got to feed the machine.” I followed them into the restaurant, feeling much better than when I was at work. Riding was therapeutic, and whether or not I wanted to admit it, I needed a little therapy in my life. “Why do you ride?” I asked Navarro as we sat down. “Me?” I nodded. “Yes, you.” “Big picture?” “Sure.” He folded his fingers together as if he was preparing to pray. I studied his tattooed knuckles. On his upper knuckles, the word STAY. On the lower, REAL. It was easy to get lost in admiring his tattoos, and I enjoyed doing it. “It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I get a sense of freedom when I ride that I can’t seem to get anywhere else. Being in a cage makes me feel like I’m locked up. Like an animal. The difference between riding and driving is the difference between a tiger in the wild, and one in a zoo.” “And by cage, you mean a car?” “Yep. A car is a cage. That’s what we call ‘em, anyway. Write that in your little fucking article.” “I like that. And, I reserve the right to use it.” I turned to Pee Bee. “What about you?”

“You like rollercoasters?” I grinned. “Love ‘em.” He arched a brow. “Love ‘em, or like ‘em a lot?” “Love ‘em.” “Can you imagine riding one to work? And home? Like every day? Wouldn’t that be fuckin’ cool?” “I wish there was one that went from my townhouse to my office. That’d be awesome.” “I ride for the same reason people ride a roller coaster or jump off a cliff. It thrills me. Basically, I’ve got a rollercoaster that takes me everywhere.” “Drinks?” the waitress asked. “Budweiser.” “Budweiser.” “And you?” she asked. “Budweiser,” I responded. “Menus are on in the condiment caddy, I’ll be back in a few.” “What’s good here?” “Fish tacos,” Pee Bee said. “Don’t even look at the menu, just order.” “Seriously?” “Bitch, do I look like I’d steer you wrong?” He wasn’t as tattooed as Navarro. Hell, no one was. But both of his upper biceps had tattoos, each of his shoulders were covered in a tribal pattern, and he had a star tattooed on his upper forearms. To the unknowing, he looked like a thug. But I knew deep down inside that he’d never steer me wrong. “No,” I said. He raked his fingers through his long hair and leaned back in his seat. “Then get the fish tacos.” The waitress brought our drinks. “Three Bud’s.” She handed us the bottles of beer. “Had a chance to look at the menu?”

“Don’t need to,” I said. “I want the fish tacos.” “One order of fish tacos.” She looked at Pee Bee. “And you?” “Fish tacos.” “What about you?” Navarro’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Give me the pork chili verde. Corn tortillas.” “Just couldn’t go for the fish tacos?” She joked. “Make it easy?” “I’m a non-conformist, and nothing’s ever easy for me,” he responded. “What a surprise,” she said. I didn’t totally agree, but I kept my mouth shut. In my opinion, Navarro was a non-conformist, but I believed life was extremely easy for him. All Navarro had to do to succeed in life was be Navarro. And being Navarro, at least for him, came naturally.

TWENTY-THREE Nick My opinion was all that mattered. If someone didn’t share my views, they were wrong, because I was always right. Being exposed to life-changing events seemed to be the only thing to ever get me to look at life – or myself – with honest eyes. Pee Bee and I stood in the shop, solving the world’s problems, one at a time. The conversation soon included talk of Peyton, and to my surprise, he didn’t accept it well. “How the fuck am I supposed to answer that? I’m not you, and you sure as fuck aren’t me. It really don’t matter what I say, you’re gonna come back with some bullshit and tell me I’m either dumb or crazy. When we’re done talkin’, you’ll be right. Because you’re always fuckin’ right,” Pee Bee said. I kicked a small stone across the floor of the shop, then met his gaze. “I asked you. I want your opinion.” “I think you’re reacting to what Whip and them did. You know, in Pete’s bar.” I shook my head. “I think it’s more than that.” He shrugged. “Like I said. I give an opinion. You shoot it down.” “I didn’t shoot it down.” He picked at his fingernails for a few long seconds, then cleared his throat. “All I know is this. Been knowin’ you for damned near ten years. You ain’t never had – and you ain’t never wanted – an Ol’ Lady--” “I didn’t say I wanted--” He leaned forward and shot me a glare. “Motherfucker, let me finish.” I took a drink of my beer and nodded. “Fine. Finish.” “Where was I?” His eyes fell to the floor. He rubbed his beard for a minute, then looked up. “Oh, yeah. So, you always say how you don’t need an Ol’ Lady. Fellas with Ol’ Ladies aren’t devoted to the club. When Stretch had that Ol’ Lady from El Cajon, you told me his devotion to the club went to shit, and he needed to get rid of her. Remember that?”

I nodded. “I do, but--” He raised his hand in the air. “Motherfucker, I ain’t done.” I sighed. “Continue.” “Okay. So you don’t like Ol’ Ladies, and you bang bitches like the rest of us. Hit ‘em and quit ‘em. Some cute little bitch with an attitude comes along, and you start beatin’ that little pussy of hers up. Well, here’s my point.” He crossed his arms and shot me a glare. “All you was doin’ was fuckin’ her. That’s it. Never would have amounted to shit. When she was done with that article, I guarantee you that you’d have kicked her to the side.” “What’s your fucking point, Peeb?” I tossed my empty bottle toward the trash can, missed, and it crashed to the floor and shattered. He nodded his head toward the trash can. “See what I mean? There you go, tryin’ to intimidate me.” “What?” “Bustin’ bottles and shit. Subliminal stuff. You ain’t tryin’ to hear what I got to say.” I shook my head and turned toward the fridge. “I missed the trash can. And your little speech made no sense.” “I was tryin’ to be nice.” “Since when are you nice?” “Fine, motherfucker. How about this,” he snapped back. “Until Whip and them fellas raped her, you didn’t give a fuck about her or how she felt. All you cared about was dippin’ your dick. Then, they raped her. All of a sudden, you feel like you gotta take care of her.” I opened my beer and stared back at him. “Not true.” “True as fuck.” I shook my head. “She’s been different since she came to the shop on the first day.” “Grab me a beer, motherfucker.” He motioned toward the fridge. “Different how?” I shrugged. “She surfs, snowboards, fucking bungie jumps, drives a Jeep--” “She drives a Jeep? She drives a fucking Jeep?” He burst into laughter, and eventually caught his breath. “That’s your excuse?”

“Amongst other things.” “There’s 200,000 bitches in SD that drive Jeeps.” “Like you said earlier, asshole. I wasn’t done.” “Hurry the fuck up and get done,” he said. “I got another point to make.” I turned to the fridge, grabbed another beer, and handed it to him. “All the things she does aren’t important. The fact she does them is.” “What the fuck does that mean?” “It defines what type of person she is. She’s adventurous.” “And that’s what you like about her?” I nodded. “Yep.” “That’s what you’re lookin’ for in life?” “I’m not looking to get fucking married, Peeb. Not even to have an Ol’ Lady. I was just saying that I enjoy it when she’s around, and I hoped she keeps coming around after the article’s done.” “And you say you’re sayin’ all this because she’s adventurous?” I nodded. “Yep.” He glared at me while he took a long drink of beer. He lowered the bottle and wiped his beard with his free hand. “Why didn’t you put an ad on Craigslist five years ago? Tattooed biker seeks adventurous bitch. Must drive Jeep and bungie jump.” “Now you’re being an asshole.” He chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, I like the little bitch. She seems to be a solid motherfucker. I mean, if you’re askin’ me. But you sayin’ you’re wantin’ to keep her around and shit just makes me think it’s for the wrong fuckin’ reasons.” “What if I was saying it, and she hadn’t been raped?” “But she was.” “I’m asking you, asshole. What if she wasn’t?” He shrugged. “It’d be a different story. I’d probably say somethin’ like, damn, Crip, you’re finally settlin’ down.”

“I’m not settling down. I’m saying I enjoy her company.” He finished his beer, tossed the empty bottle into the trash can, and met my gaze. “I guess all I’m sayin’ is this. Don’t enjoy it for the wrong reasons.” Standing there staring back at him, I had no response to give. All I could do was hope that what I felt was a result of a clear mind, not a sympathetic one.

TWENTY-FOUR Peyton The weather in the San Diego’s area was perfect, at least in my opinion. Spring and early summer temperatures were in the high 60’s and low 70’s. Navarro and I sat at the coffee shop, enveloped in silence. As the early-morning sun warmed my legs, I wondered just why he had scheduled our morning meeting. He rocked his chair on its rear legs. “Got anything for me to read yet?” “The article?” “Yeah.” It seemed things between us had become awkward. At least much more than before. It had been two weeks since the incident, and although I felt much better about everything, I certainly didn’t feel normal. I wondered if he sensed it, or if he had reasons of his own for being someone other than his natural self. “No,” I said. “Not yet.” He dropped the chair back down on its legs and reached for his coffee. “What’s the hold up?” “Hold up?” I shot him an evil stare. The real kind, not the friendly version. “Have you ever written anything for publication?” He looked at me like I had three heads. “No.” “Well,” I said. “It isn’t easy. I’m trying to decide where to take it. And we’re not done with the interviews.” “I was just asking.” I was tired of people asking. Camden asked every time he saw me. Navarro was asking. I even asked myself, but lately those times had become infrequent.

“It’ll be done when it’s done. And, when I’m done with it, you’ll be the first to know. You’ve got to proof it, remember?” He took a drink of coffee and nodded. “Just asking.” I took a sip of my latte and studied him. Relaxed in his seat with his coffee in his hand, his shoulders were rolled forward. His broad chest looked deflated, and he seemed considerably smaller than he actually was. “What’s been wrong with you lately?” I asked, the words coming out before I had a chance to stop them. I wanted him to be the way he was when I met him. Rough. Aggressive. Angry. In-you-face. But something was different. He rocked the chair on its back legs again. “What do you mean?” “Look at you.” I shrugged. “You’re docile. He shot me a look, but it was forced, and I couldn’t really identify it. “Docile?” I nodded. “Compliant. Unassertive. Accommodating. You know, docile.” “No I’m not.” “Okay. Whatever. Let’s go get some ice cream.” “Now?” “Yeah. Right now. I want ice cream.” He stood up. “You gonna bring your coffee with you?” “See? That’s what I’m talking about. A month ago you would have told me to fuck off, and you would have shoved your cock down my throat to shut me up. Now? Now you’re different.” He loomed over me with a blank look on his face. “Sit down,” I said. He complied, sitting back in his seat. He looked defeated. I wondered if I was being shallow and insensitive. I quickly decided maybe I was simply being selfish, and that something may have happened in his life that I was unaware of. “I’m sorry. It’s just. Here lately, you’re different. Like I said, you’ve been kind of soft and passive. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

He shook his head. “No. How about you?” “Me? I’m not different. I’m the same. You? You’re--” I paused and waved my hand toward him. “You’re not you.” He took a drink of his coffee and leaned forward. “Can I speak freely?” “Sure.” “I’m worried about you.” I wrinkled my nose. “Me?” He nodded. “Yeah, you.” “Why?” “You came to me and were some cute bitch that was going to write an article about my club. I was flattered, excited, and pretty gung-ho about the whole deal. Add to it that you’re cute as fuck, and it made everything that much better. Or worse. Or whatever. So, I invite you to the clubhouse.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbed his beard, then sighed heavily. “You asked questions and I answered. It was interesting, and I actually enjoyed it. Then. We fucked. Enjoyed that, too.” So did I. He paused and shook his head. “Then, one day we got coffee and we went to get lunch. That day we went to lunch? I was having a pretty good time with you on the back of the bike. Actually wondered for a minute what it’d be like having you around. Never met a tough little bitch like you. Thought you were pretty fucking good stuff.” I wasn’t sure where he was going with the conversation, but hearing him say how he felt warmed me much more than the morning sun. I never would have guessed being called a bitch could be such a rewarding experience, but it was. His face went solemn, but didn’t last long. An angry look soon replaced it. “Then, they raped you. And, I’m worried. I want you to be the same, but I wonder if you ever will be. I wish it never would have happened.” I started to speak, but the words got caught in my throat. I sat and stared, incapable of speaking and not really sure what feelings – if any – my face was conveying. I was filled with anger. I didn’t want what took place to have happened either, but it did. Afterward, all I wanted was for things in my life – and for me – to be the same, but I knew they never would be. The fact that four complete strangers viciously stole my chance of having a perfect life from me

and left me feeling guilty, filthy, and forever tainted caused me to feel pain that I never knew existed. “I feel responsible,” he said. My response was dry and coarse. “Don’t.” “I can’t help it.” “You know,” I said. My eyes began to well with tears. I fought not to cry, but wondered how long it would last. “That day? I keep replaying the morning in my head. When I decided to go get the recorder. I should have called the bar. I knew the name of it. I could have. But I didn’t. I wanted to go in there without calling. I wanted to put on my big girl panties and go to the biker bar without you. Sit where we sat. Do some research. Watch who…watch who came and went. If I would have called, and maybe gone ten minutes…ten minutes…” He raised his hand, trying to get me to stop. But I needed to finish. He stood. I waved him off, and then realized tears were dripping off my chin and onto my lap. I cleared my throat. “Ten minutes. Just ten minutes later. Ten fucking minutes.” I wiped my face with the tips of my fingers. “So, somehow…somehow I convinced myself it’s all my fault.” His jaw was tight, and he was breathing through his nose. He was angry, but I knew he wasn’t angry with me. He shook his head. “It’s not your fault.” I bit down on my lower lip and tried to stop it from quivering. It did very little to calm me. I was taught not to hate, but I hated the men that did what they did to me. Cutting their cocks off might have satisfied everyone else, but it didn’t satisfy me, no matter what I tried to tell myself. “Can you just…could you…hold…” I wanted him to hold me, but I couldn’t say it. The crying got worse, almost turning into a full-blown blubber. Everything just seemed to come crashing down, and I began to feel heavy inside. My heart began to ache. I closed my eyes and wondered what I had ever done to deserve feeling the way I felt.

Nothing. Life wasn’t fair. I closed my eyes and cried, wishing Navarro wasn’t watching. I wanted to be in North Carolina, where my father could comfort me. As I wept, and wished things were different, I felt Navarro’s arms around my waist. He lifted me from my seat and held me in my arms. But the pain never stopped.

TWENTY-FIVE Nick While at war, I initially struggled with taking another man’s life. When the time came to act, doing so didn’t come as a decision I made, it was more of a reaction. An instinct to survive. Contrary to the belief of many, Soldiers, Sailors, and Marines during wartime didn’t kill without cause. In almost every circumstance when I was required to take a life, doing so was to protect myself or my fellow SEALs from being killed. At no point did the value of another man’s life diminish, but the decision to kill became much less of a struggle. In the end I decided I had become insensitive and damaged. A byproduct of war. My decision to start the MC was done to rid my mind of the day-to-day demons that seemed to take possession of my soul after the war ended. It worked, but I was left void of the voices in my head that somehow provided justification for the atrocities of war. What remained was a soulless shell with the body and mind of an insensitive killer. I pointed the barrel of the pistol at his head and sighed. “I struggled with this, you know. I told myself it wasn’t necessary, but it is.” The muscles in his jaw went tight. “Do what you gotta do.” It was the first time I’d seen him since our fight in the bar. No differently than Peyton, I regretted decisions that I had made, and wondered if I should have just killed him and Panda the day they came into our bar. I could have even done something when they trespassed on our turf. Had I acted on either of those occasions, Peyton’s life would have been as it was before. Filled with guilt, sorrow, and a tremendous amount of hatred, I stared back at him. In his eyes, I saw nothing. No regret, no sorrow, not even fear. I wanted to say so much. I had envisioned giving a long speech, telling

him how murdering him was the final step in serving justice for the life he had chosen to live. For the pain that he caused so many others. Instead, I simply pointed the pistol at his forehead and pulled the trigger. He fell to the floor with a heavy thud. The carpet around him slowly darkened as the blood poured out of the cavity in his skull. I felt no differently. I expected to be cured. Free of pain. To immediately believe that Peyton’s life would quickly transform back to normal. But I wasn’t cured. My heart still ached. Filled with the belief that the only cure for what I was feeling would be the passage of time, I stepped over Whip’s body and walked away.

TWENTY-SIX Peyton I pushed the door open and met the receptionist’s gaze. After scanning the lobby and finding it empty, I proceeded to walk toward her. With each step, my legs felt heavier, a little less capable. Eventually, I made it to her work station. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled in return. “Hi. I uhhm. I need to talk to someone.” “Are you looking for anyone in particular?” “Uhhm. I mean. No. Well, kind of. Someone who. Someone who has. I’d really like it if. Do you have any women?” She looked caring. Understanding. And confused. “Are you a victim?” My lip began to quiver. I clutched my purse and nodded. “Uh huh.” She lifted her hand and reached toward me. “I’ll get you one of our counselors, and if needed, an EMDR therapist.” I took her hand in mine. I wanted to tell her thank you, but lately it seemed wanting to speak and actually speaking were two totally different things. Either her hand was shaking or mine was, but together, we stood there and shook like it was the right thing to do. “What’s your name, beautiful?” she asked. “I’m Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.” “I’m Candace,” she said. “I’m a survivor. It’s going to get better, okay?”

I chewed on my lip and nodded my head. A woman walked through the door beside Candace’s desk. She was older than I expected, probably sixty by my guess. She was dressed in a navy pants suit, and was an attractive woman, but I had little desire to talk to someone that had no idea about what I was going through. I wanted to talk to Candace, she was a survivor. I was done being a victim. I wanted to be a survivor. “Peyton,” Candace said. “This is Elizabeth. She’ll take you back where you can talk in private, okay.” “The woman smiled a genuine smile. “Peyton?” I nodded. “Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I’m one of the center’s counselors, and I’m a survivor,” she said. I felt a little bit better. “Hi, I’m. I’m uhhm. I’m Peyton. Peyton Price.” She extended her hand. I glanced at it, and eventually took her hand in mine. “Come on back, Peyton,” she said. “Who does your hair?” I reached for my head, and pressed my hair to my scalp. It seemed like an odd question. “My hair?” “The highlights look wonderful. And I just love the cut. I need to go somewhere new. Mine always looks awful,” she said with a laugh. “Uhhm. The highlights are natural. I spend a lot of time in the sun. I surf. And, thank you. I get it cut at Crystals in Old Town.” I followed her through the door and down a long corridor. “Crystals?” she asked. “I’ll have to give them a try. Who’s your stylist?” “Beth.” “I’ll remember that.” She walked through a doorway and into an office. “Have a seat.” The office wasn’t like a normal office; it was more like a lounge. I glanced around, sat on an overstuffed chair, and she sat beside me on the edge of a loveseat. “We have a little different approach here at SDTT. How’d you find out about us?” I looked around the room. “Google.”

“Isn’t the internet a wonderful tool?” I nodded. “Uh huh.” “If I told you I knew how you were feeling would you believe me?” “Uhhm. Like really believe you?” She laughed. “Yes.” “Probably not.” “I see. Well…” She adjusted herself on the cushion, crossed her legs, and fixed her eyes on mine. It was the first time I had really noticed her eyes, but they were a lot like Navarro’s. A memorizing blue, and definitely not easy to look away from. “I was seventeen. My husband was twenty-one, and he was at work. We married much younger back then. We’d been married for two years at the time.” I was shocked. “You got married when you were fifteen?” “I sure did. He was in the military, and we married immediately after he completed his basic training.” “Wow.” She smiled. “I wanted to be the perfect housewife. I had his dinner ready every night when he got home from work. We lived off-base in a small house – just a one bedroom. We were renting it for $250 a month.” I laughed. “Those days are long gone.” “Isn’t that the truth,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?” Her voice was soothing, and I enjoyed listening to her tell her story. Although she was considerably younger, she reminded me of my grandmother, which I found comforting. “No. I’m good for now.” She smiled, rested her hands in her lap, and continued. “So, one day, I had dinner in the oven, and was waiting for my husband to come home. A man knocked at the door, and I answered. Back then, people walked from door to door selling things. Door to door salesmen, that’s what they called them. We didn’t have the internet, or cell phones, for that matter.” I grinned at the thought of living back in the day, and not having all of the distractions of the

modern world. Life would be so much different, for sure. “He was selling vacuum cleaners. I wanted to tell him we couldn’t afford one, but to be really honest, I was interested in seeing what it was capable of. A Kirby. That’s what they called it. Nothing, he said, could get my house cleaner than a Kirby. I had almost an hour to spare before my husband was to get home, so I agreed to see his demonstration.” “Was it as good as he said?” She shook her head. “We never got that far. He closed the door, locked it, and then he raped me.” My heart sank. I had no idea that’s where she was headed with her story. “I’m so sorry.” She smiled a faint but genuine smile and continued. “I felt guilty. For letting him in, you know. I felt responsible, because I was wearing the skirt that my husband liked so much, and though if I had chosen a pants suit, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” She didn’t seem upset at all talking about it, but I felt terribly sorry for her nonetheless. To think of someone doing something like that to an unsuspecting housewife was horrible. I stared back at her, at a complete loss for words. “Mood swings, fits of anger, anxiety, and periods of having less than zero self-esteem followed. It lasted for years. We were trying to have a child at the time, so, I told my husband I needed to go to the doctor. I went that day and got help. I talked to someone like me, a counselor. And, here I am. I’ve spent my entire life helping people like you and me.” “Thank you. For everything.” “So, if I told you now that I knew how you were feeling, would you believe me?” I nodded. “Yes.” “Are you ready to talk, Peyton?” “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I am.”

TWENTY-SEVEN Nick She thrust her hip into the door of her Jeep, and swung it closed. I watched as she walked into the shop, a plastic bag dangling from her right fist. She swung it back and forth comically, as if to bring attention to the fact she was carrying it. I hadn’t seen her for an entire week and I didn’t like it much, but she told me she’d come around as soon a she was able. By the look on her face, she must have been a little more than able. Smiling from ear to ear, she continued to walk toward me, the grin all but covering her entire face. Watching her walk was a treat in itself, and I could do it for as long as she would let me. Her jean shorts, Chuck’s, and Jimi Hendrix tee shirt were a reminder of the way things once were. “Here,” she said, tossing the bag toward me. I wasn’t expecting her to throw it, but caught it before it fell to the floor, nonetheless. It wasn’t heavy, but it was heavier than I expected. “What’s this?” “Open it.” I opened the bag and removed the box that was inside. Covered in Harley-Davidson wrapping paper, the 12-inch by 12-inch box was perfectly wrapped. “Did you wrap it?” “No,” she said. “I got some random lady to do it.” I nodded and glanced down at the box. “Yes, asshole. I wrapped it.” “Oh. It looks nice.”

“Open it.” “What is it?” “It’s a fucking gift, you big goon.” She’s only been gone for a week, and it seemed in the time that she was away, she’d got her spunk back. Surprised, and feeling like I was feeding off of her playful nature, I tossed the box on the workbench and spun her around by her arm. As soon as I did it, I realized I probably shouldn’t have. Her reaction told me otherwise. She bent over and pointed her ass at me. After a few seconds of hovering there bent over, she stood up. “I thought you were going to spank me. Fucking tease.” “I was just fucking around.” She brushed her hair away from her face. “Open it.” I peeled the paper away from the box carefully, and placed it aside. After opening one of the flaps to the cardboard box and looking inside, I laughed. “You know what it is? she asked. I nodded. “Yep.” “So, you’ve been aware all along that they existed?” “Yep.” Her eyes narrowed. “When were you going to tell me?” I shrugged. “I don’t know.” “Dick.” “Excuse me?” “You’re a dick.” I opened the other end of the box. “That’s kind of harsh.” “Really?” she snapped back. “Why don’t you ride on that steel fender for a few hours and then find out they make a little suction cup seat for it. I fucking swear. I was so mad.” I couldn’t do anything but laugh. “Sorry.”

“The guy at the shop said it was a one-size-fits-all type affair. Is that right?” I nodded. “Sure is.” “Asshole.” “Enough with the names, you little fucker. Jesus.” “I just can’t believe that you’ve had me on the back of that thing sitting on a bare fender. And, there’s another thing I realized after I was looking at some motorcycles at the dealer.” “What’s that?” “You turned it into a hardtail. It doesn’t even have fucking shocks.” I chuckled. “Yep.” “Yep it does, or yep it doesn’t?” “It’s a hardtail.” “Fucker,” she hissed. “Thanks for the gift, reporter.” “You’re welcome, outlaw.” She looked remarkable. The way she was acting led me to believe she was feeling better about everything. I had no way of knowing if the deaths of the four men contributed to her state of mind, but I really couldn’t ask, either. The newspaper had their names listed in the obituaries, but other than that there was nothing on the news, in the newspaper, or on the internet. Further proof that their lives, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t really matter. “Why are you so fucking giddy today, Peyton?” She shrugged. “Dunno. Just happy. Maybe it’s the seat.” “Quite a bit of excitement over a little seat.” “That little seat’s going to make a huge difference. That’s what the guy said.” The thought of having her on the back of my bike excited me. Especially as happy as she was. “Only one way to find out. Have dinner yet?” “Not yet, why?” I tossed her seat in the air. She caught it and grinned.

“Let’s roll, reporter.” “Music to my ears, asshole,” she snapped back. And hearing her smart-assed remarks were music to mine.

TWENTY-EIGHT Peyton Two weeks and five sessions of EMDR therapy later, and I was feeling better than I ever believed could have been possible. One eighty-dollar suction cup seat later, and my ass was in heaven. I felt like kidney-punching Navarro as he leisurely rolled down the street for keeping me in the dark about the possibility of a comfortable ride. We rode along Mission Beach Boulevard after our fish taco dinner, and the ride was a completely different experience altogether. The new seat made riding much more pleasurable. I thought I liked it before, but riding without having my teeth jarred with each bump was allowing me to enjoy everything around us. I peered beyond the boardwalk and fixed my eyes on the beach. It was late in the evening, and although the sun wasn’t setting yet, the low clouds on the horizon seemed to be reaching for the orange ball of fire as it descended toward the ocean. Seeing the beach, ocean, and soon to be setting sun while riding on my new seat took me to a place I hadn’t been since I was a little girl. I tapped Navarro on the shoulder and leaned forward. “Can you pull over?” “We’ll hit Belmont,” he said. “Okay.” After a few more wonderful minutes of riding, he turned into Belmont Park and came to a stop. I pulled off my helmet, climbed off the bike, and waited for him to get off. Instead of hopping off in a rush like he normally did, he gazed toward the beach for a moment, and then looked right at me. “Got any plans tonight?” I hung my helmet on the handlebars and shook my head. “No, why?” “Want to just sit here and watch the sunset?”

It seemed like an odd question, coming from Navarro. I had hoped that he’d pull over and allow me a few minutes to sit and watch the clouds transform from white marshmallow puffs to picturesque brush strokes of oranges and pinks as they encompassed the sun. Actually witnessing the sunset, especially with him, seemed like a dream come true. “I’d love to,” I said. He hung his helmet on the handlebars. I waited for his usual five-steps-ahead I’m bigger and badder than you stroll, but he stepped to my right side and waited. “You ready?” he asked. I took advantage of the situation, and of him. I gripped his left arm in hand and prepared for his refusal. His eyes met mine, then he looked ahead like nothing had happened. After a few steps, I felt guilty, and released his arm. I really wanted to know if he was going to tell me to get the fuck off of him or if he’d somehow manage to find a way to allow me to touch him. Knowing he wasn’t going to browbeat me over it was nice. After a few steps, he reached for my wrist, tucked my arm inside of his, and continued walking. No eye contact, no spoken words, just a gentle gesture by a man who probably didn’t have a gentle bone in his body. I fought against my urge to grin, not wanting him to know just how special he was making me feel. I realized we were nothing more than associates, but having someone understand exactly when to act like a human wasn’t a common occurrence in the world any longer, and I knew it. I accepted his offer of kindness and wore an internal smile all the way to Oceanfront Walk. A thigh-high concrete wall separated the walkway from the beach, and when we reached it, we both naturally stopped. I wondered if he planned on standing there or actually going down to the beach. About the time I decided to ask, he turned to face me. “You gonna step over that fucker, or you want me to toss you over it?” I spread my feet shoulder width apart, and gave him my best fighting stance pose. “If you think you’re big enough.” For that fleeting moment, I had forgotten that he possessed the skills of a ninja. He reminded me really quick of it, though. In one effortless move, he picked me up and flipped me over his shoulder and onto the other side

of the wall. Somehow, while doing so, he retained control, and lowered me to the ground on the other side. More than likely some instructional judo move he learned in preparation for combat. No matter how he came to learn it, I was impressed. With him on one side of the wall and me now on the other, I stood there and grinned. “More soldier bullshit?” “Soldier?” he snapped. His eyes quickly thinned to slits. Oh fuck, I hit a nerve. I prepared for an evening-ending argument. “Soldier? For fucks sake. You think I was a soldier?” Not now, no. He wasn’t just acting like he was insulted, he was insulted. I didn’t know what else to do, so I shrugged. “United States Navy. SEAL Team One. I wasn’t a fucking ground pounder,” he barked. My throat constricted, my mouth went dry, and my pussy started tingling. All at the same time. I swallowed hard. “You were a SEAL?” He inhaled a deep breath and glared. After a forced sigh, he shook his head. “Some fucking reporter you are.” He hopped over the wall. “Come on, shit-for-brains, let’s go watch the sunset.” We walked down to within a few feet of where the ocean met the land and sat down. The sound of the waves washing ashore was calming, and exactly what I needed. One benefit of having an outlaw biker accompany me to the beach was that most people – upon seeing his kutte and tattoos – decided to move further away, leaving us with our own little private spot. “Thank you.” He shot me a look. “For what?” “This.” He shrugged. “Used to do this when I was a kid. We didn’t live very far from the beach. It’s nice thinking back to when I was a kid. Before things went to shit.”

I wondered just what he meant by before things went to shit. Eventually, curiosity won the battle, and I proceeded to offer him an even trade. My when things went to shit in trade for his. “When I was eight, my mother went to get some things from the store. My two brothers and I were at school. There was a pileup on the freeway, and she was sitting there waiting on traffic. They said the guy was going seventy or so when he hit the car behind her.” He touched my hand. I looked right at him, and he looked back. We shared a moment with our eyes locked, and then I continued. “She didn’t make it home. They said she wasn’t in pain though. I guess it broke her neck. At least that’s what they told us. That was when things went to shit for me.” He decided to sit down, and pulled against my wrist as he lowered himself to the sand. We sat side by side with his hand touching my wrist lightly. Just enough that I knew it was there, but I didn’t look. He stared out at the ocean for some time. All the while, he seemed to be doing breathing exercises. In through the nose and out through the mouth, which I never really noticed before. The sound of it became comforting, so instead of disturbing him, I just decided to watch the clouds change color. “She looked about your age.” His eyes were fixed on the beach. “That’s what I told myself when I saw her. Twenty-five. I remember thinking that.” If it took him fifteen minutes to develop the courage to speak, I knew better than to look at him. I simply nodded and continued to watch the clouds transform into a rainbow of colors. “We’d just cleared a building that was filled with insurgents. They were assembling the IED’s that were blowing up our troops. A bomb making facility. I stepped around the corner, and there she was. Our eyes locked. She looked worried there for a second, and I figured she was just scared. Hell, everyone was scared. She must have seen it in my eyes. The relaxation, or the tension leaving. I don’t know. But she saw something.” He turned his head away from me and I heard him spit. He looked back at the horizon, but I didn’t turn toward him, I could see him out of my peripheral. “Whatever she saw let her know I was no longer a threat. She relaxed. I relaxed. We pressed on. Maybe ten meters. And then I saw it. She started to raise a Kalashnikov. It wasn’t a choice. It was a combination of training and experience.” He didn’t have to say it. My heart sank for him. I lifted my hand and placed it on top of his. Our hands touched, and he looked at me. The skin under his eyes was swollen, but he wasn’t crying. More than anything else, he seemed exhausted. “She was twelve.”

He must have seen it in my eyes. The shock. I didn’t respond. He looked out at the horizon. “I shot a twelve-year-old girl. You want to know the sad thing?” I fought to swallow, and once again, didn’t respond. The silence encouraged him enough to continue. Either that, or he simply needed to say it. “If I hadn’t shot her, she would have shot me or one of my team members. If I had to do it all over again, I’d do it the same way. Sad, but it’s true.” “I’m sorry,” I somehow managed to say. I squeezed his hand for sincerity’s sake. “So, I came home from the war. I’d been fighting in one place or another for fifteen fucking years, and I was ready to settle down. I tried to get a VA loan for a house.” He turned toward me and shook his head. “They denied me. The motherfuckers put me in a position where I had to kill a fucking pre-teen girl, then denied my government home loan because I had insufficient credit. Tell me how the fuck I was supposed to get credit when I was busy fighting for this country’s fucking freedom?” I’m so sorry. “Anyway. That’s when things went to shit for me.” He looked away, obviously upset, but not angry. I was upset too, with our government. I turned toward the setting sun, but left my hand on top of his. He didn’t object. Not in the least. In a few moments, the sky illuminated. It was a glorious display of the most magnificent colors I had ever seen. Slowly, the sun lowered itself into the water. Together, Navarro and I watched it happen. While we held hands. On the beach.

TWENTY-NINE Nick “My vote’s for pork. Beef gets all fucking tough and stringy if you don’t do it up right,” Pee Bee said. I turned away from the meat case and shot him a look. “If you don’t do it up right?” He nodded. “You know, if a fucker don’t know how to cook it.” “What can I get for you?” the butcher asked. “We’re not sure yet,” I said. “Give us a minute.” He wiped his hands against his apron and grinned. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” I turned toward Pee bee. “You come to last year’s barbeque, Peeb?” “You know I did, why?” “Year before?” “What the fuck you gettin’ at, asshole?” “Were you here year before last? At the barbeque?” He sighed, and then nodded. “Yep.” “Was the barbeque good?” “Damn good.” “Flavorful?” “It was good as fuck, why?” “Was any of it stringy or tough?”

He shook his head. “I just said it was good.” “Ryder was in charge of the smoker for the last two years. If you liked it, it’d stand to fuckin’ reason that he’d know how to cook the fuckin’ meat.” He shrugged. “Okay.” “We’ll get some of each. Fifty-fifty.” “Get more pork than beef. Beef ribs are a fuckin’ bitch to get right, Boss.” I folded my arms in front of my chest and glared at him. “Didn’t we just settle this? Fifty-fifty?” “We didn’t settle it. You did. You don’t ever fuckin’ listen to me. You might ask, but you don’t give a fuck what I say.” “Oh, so now you got your fuckin’ feelers hurt huh? Over some beef ribs?” “Make a decision yet? The butcher asked. We both glared at him. “I’ll just…I’ll…I’ll come back in a few minutes,” he said. I turned toward Peeb and huffed out a sigh. “You don’t pay attention to the details, asshole. I asked you what you liked, not what you wanted. I was being polite. Courteous.” He laughed. “Now you’re a kind-hearted fucker, huh?” “Something like that.” “So you were just askin’, but not givin’ a fuck what I responded?” “Jesus fucking Christ. Not exactly. Are we really standing here in the fucking store arguing about meat? Why does everything have to be so god damned difficult with you?” He shook his head. “It ain’t difficult. I ain’t difficult. Beef ribs are a bitch to get right. Get pork. That’s pretty simple. You wanna be a prick and go fifty-fifty, do it.” I flexed my biceps. “You calling me a prick?” “I just called you one, yeah. You flexin’ on me, Boss?” I shook my head. “Just asking a question, you big dumb fuck.” “I’ll beat your presidential patch-wearin’ ass, Crip. Don’t call me a dumb fuck.” “Dumb pork-eatin’ fuck.”

He raked his hair from his face and took a step back. “I mean it.” “So, did you make a decision?” the butcher asked. We both turned toward him. His eyes widened. “I’ll be back.” “Beef,” Pee Bee snapped. “Pork,” I said. His eyes darted back and forth, alternating between Peeb and me. “Go with a little of each?” “Fifty-fifty,” I said. “We need about 75 pounds of ribs, total. No, make it 80. And 30 pounds of beef brisket.” “When would you like it?” “Can we pick it up Friday?” He nodded. “We’ll need you to pay in advance on that much meat.” I reached for my wallet. “Just give me an amount.” “So, 40 pounds of beef ribs, 40 pounds of pork ribs, and 30 pounds of beef brisket?” I nodded. “Sounds right.” He punched his finger against the keyboard on the scale, printed off three stickers, and stuck them to a piece of butcher paper. He handed me the slip of paper. “Just pay at the register. They’ll scan those for you.” “Appreciate it.” He chuckled. “I thought for a minute you two were going to actually fight over it.” “Like a fist fight?” I asked. He nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.” I wagged my finger between Peeb and me. “Who do you think would win?” The look on his face changed to worried. “Oh, I’d hate to guess.” “Guess.” I said. “I really…”

I narrowed my eyes. “Guess.” He pointed to me. “Come on, Peeb,” I said with a laugh. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Pee Bee said, laughing as he spoke. “I’ve got fifty pounds and seven inches on him. You picked him?” The butcher shrugged. Pee Bee chuckled. “Why?” “Why’d I pick him?” “Yeah, why?” “Because he looks mean.” “He might look mean, but I am mean.” “Come on, tough guy,” I said. “Let’s go before you hurt someone.” We paid for the meat, and walked out to our bikes. “Wanna eat?” I asked. “Sooner or later, yeah.” I raised my leg over the seat and sat down. After strapping on my helmet, I turned toward Peeb. His helmet still hung from his handlebars. He sat staring blankly out at the street. I cleared my throat. “You coming?” He nodded. “You bringing her to the barbeque?” The annual barbeque was a family event and everyone was welcome. “Was thinking about it.” “Funny how things change.” “What do you mean?” I asked. He looked at me. “You ain’t brought anybody to the barbeque since we been havin’ ‘em. Just funny. Not funny haha, but funny weird.” I glared back at him in disbelief. “It’s weird that I’m bringing her?” “Now you’re bringing her? Not thinking about it?”

“I’m fuckin’ bringing her. Jesus.” I shifted my eyes to the street. After a short pause, I continued. “She’s a good woman.” “No argument here. It’s just weird, that’s all.” “Don’t make it into something it isn’t. She’s not my Ol’ Lady.” “Ain’t makin’ it into nothin’, Boss. Don’t get me wrong, I like that little bitch. A lot. She’s good people.” I nodded in agreement. “Fish tacos?” “Sounds good,” he responded. “But changing the subject ain’t gonna make me stop asking questions.” He could ask all the questions he wanted, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer them. Because I had no earthly fucking idea where my life with Peyton was headed.

THIRTY Peyton The night was almost over. Eating barbeque wasn’t something I had much experience with, but so far I was enjoying it. At least until the argument started. With Navarro on my left, and Pee bee seated across from me, I felt like I was being attacked from two different directions. “Just take a bite out of each one and tell us which one’s better,” Navarro said. “Hold on a fuckin’ minute. Not which one is better,” Pee Bee said. “Which one feels better in your mouth. You know, texture or whatever.” “Overall,” Navarro said. “Yeah. What he said. Taste, texture, and if the meat’s all stringy and kinda nasty or tough to eat, don’t be afraid to say so.” “Just stop,” I shouted. “You two are like a couple of little kids. Hold on.” They looked the same to me, and I had no idea why they were having me sample ribs. Eating meat off a bone was pretty gross in my opinion, no matter what it was. For the sake of ending their argument, however, I agreed to give it a try. I bit some of the meat off the rib on the left, chewed it, and swallowed it. It was kind of greasy, but it tasted good. The right rib followed, and the meat wasn’t as easy to chew, but it had great flavor. I wiped my fingers on the napkin. There was no way to pick. Both were equally gross. I did eeny, meeny, miny, moe and picked up the rib on the right. Pee Bee’s eyes went wide and he smiled from ear to ear. It wasn’t what I wanted. I waved the rib in the air. “This one sucked ass.” Pee Bee’s hand slapped the table. “Fuck!”

“Told you,” Navarro said. He held out his hand. “Pay up, sucka!” Pee Bee dug in his wallet, and then handed him a $20 bill. “Fuck off. She’s not a rib expert.” Navarro put the money in his pocket. “She sure picked it.” Pee Bee glared at me. “Fuckin’ novice.” I shrugged. He got up and walked away, leaving Navarro and me sitting alone. Most of the other people were walking around, dancing, or just standing and talking. It was nice to meet more of Navarro’s group. Seeing the men with their girlfriends, wives, or whoever they chose to bring was nice. “Here, I’ll toss that in the trash for you.” “Thanks,” I said. He took my plate and walked toward the trash can, which was up by the building. While he was walking back to the table, two guys stopped him to talk. Five minutes later, when he hadn’t returned, I glanced nervously around the packed parking lot. Men in vests were everywhere, but it wasn’t solely FFMC’s men. Various other members of clubs were scattered about, talking to each other or just standing and drinking beers alone. I was seated at a group of picnic style tables, and as most people were walking around drinking, I was left sitting alone. I am in control. I am safe now. I looked toward the building, and saw Navarro trying to make his way back to the table. After waving off a few men who tried to get him to talk, he finally sat down beside me at the table. “Tell me the truth?” “I’m bound by a promise, remember?” He chuckled. “Oh, yeah.” “What’s the question?” “The rib. The one you picked up. Were you going to say that it was the good one, and then you changed your mind when you saw Peeb celebrating?” I nodded. “Yep.” “No shit?”

“No shit.” “You didn’t like the other one?” “It was kinda weird. They were both gross, but the other one was more gross.” He twisted his mouth to the side. “Fuck.” “Fuck what?” “I’m going to have to give him his money back.” I shrugged. “Maybe wait till tomorrow. It’d be more fun.” “I’ll probably do that.” “Thanks, by the way. I don’t remember if I told you that. But thanks.” “For?” “Letting me come.” “I didn’t let you come,” he said. “I asked you to come. There’s a difference.” It seemed like splitting hairs to me. “Thanks for asking me to come.” He grinned, but I was left wondering what he meant by what he said. It gnawed on me for a minute, and then I asked. “What’s the difference? Between letting me and asking me?” “Letting you would be agreeing to allow you to come if you asked if you could. If you said, hey can I come to your barbeque? Asking you to come means I wanted you to come, and I asked you, because I wanted you here.” I liked the difference that he explained, but I wanted to know more. There was no way that Navarro and I would ever amount to anything more than elbow-rubbing associates, but it was nice to dream. Now that I knew him better, I found him to be so much more than an intriguing biker. He was caring, could be kind, and most of what others saw in him was a hard outer layer that he used to protect his significantly more sensitive inner being. Getting through the outer shell wasn’t easy, though. “Why’d you ask me? Or why’d you want me?”

His response was quick and without thought or hesitation. “I like you,” he said. It wasn’t much. In fact, I’d been told a lot more than that from lesser men over the years. But, coming from Navarro, it was pretty fucking significant. At least to me. The sound of the people, the music, and even what I could see of my surroundings all became insignificant. Elizabeth told me to always be aware of my surroundings, but at that moment I wasn’t. And it didn’t matter. I had tunnel vision, and all I could see was Navarro. I leaned forward. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. He leaned into me, and kissed me lightly on the lips. “I’m not broken,” I said. “Really.” He wrapped his hand around the back of my neck, pulled me into him, and kissed me like I had never been kissed. Ever. My mind raced. His beard against my face reminded me that he was a real man, and I liked it. Both of my palms went sweaty and I wiped them on my shirt. Passion filled me from head to toe, and a tingling shot through me, shaking me to my core. Our tongues intertwined and we fought to find the perfect spot for our hands to land, but it seemed to never happen. While we continued to grope and kiss, Pee Bee’s complaint brought us both back to the reality of the situation. “Get a fuckin’ room, Crip!” Our mouths parted. I looked at him. He looked back at me. He stood and reached for my hand. “What?” I asked.

“Come on,” he said. The party wasn’t over, and I knew he really didn’t want to go anywhere. I loved kissing him, but making out in the shop on the bench would just ruin it for me. “Where are we going?” “To my house,” he said. “We need to be laying on something squishy.” Something squishy. I like that.

THIRTY-ONE Nick I had sex for one reason, and one reason only. To blow my load. I had never been concerned with a woman’s desires, needs, or thoughts. Now, Peyton’s desires, needs, and thoughts were all I was concerned with. My hands pressed against the soft skin of her breasts. I waited for rejection, but received none. Carefully, I kneaded her flesh, paying special attention not to be too rough. She wiggled and twisted her body, but I could tell by her moans that she was as pleased as I was. I lowered my mouth to meet her nipples, kissing them softly with my lips, then following with a few flicks of my tongue. She responded by digging her nails into my back, further proof that so far I had yet to make a mistake. Perfection wasn’t my goal, nor was it an expectation. I wanted to please her, and the thought of doing so pleased me. It was a first, that was for sure. Before the barbeque, I had an idea of how I felt about Peyton, but I wasn’t certain what I wanted in the end. When we kissed, something either changed, or I came to a realization. As ridiculous as it seemed to admit afterward, kissing her was all the confirmation my mind needed. With my body, spirit, and soul released from my mind’s grip, I cautiously worked to satisfy her, hoping to bring her to climax without causing her any mental or physical pain. I sucked and kissed her breasts repeatedly, grinding my hips against hers with each touch of my lips to her nipples. Her moaning continued, and fueled by her expressed pleasure, I continued. Several minutes later, the moaning had all but stopped. She pressed her elbows into the mattress and lifted her head. “Uhhm. I’m more than a set of nice tits. You know that, right?”

“Huh?” “You’ve been fucking around with my tits since we started,” she complained. “I told you, I’m not broken.” Hurting her in any way would crush me. Still harboring the guilt for what happened to her, an extremely cautious advance was all she was going to receive from me. At least for now. “I know,” I said. “But I just don’t want to--” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Hurt me?” I nodded. “Yeah.” She sat up completely. “I’m safe with you. That’s one thing I need to always remind myself of, and I do. I’m safe here.” I rolled to the side and continued to listen, but paid more attention to admiring her perfect body. “You’re not going to hurt me,” she said. “We both know it. Ultimately, I’m in control. Me. Not you. Me.” “Okay.” “I’m safe, and I’m in control. But guess what?” I was lost. Completely. “What?” “I want you to fuck me. And I don’t mean I want you to stick your cock in me and gently work your hips back and forth. If we’re going to do this, I want to be fucked.” “I just…I don’t want to--” “Hurt me? Roll over,” she said. “I fucking swear. If a woman want’s something done right, she’s got to do it herself.”

THIRTY-TWO Peyton On his back with his raging cock pointing at the sky, Navarro looked at me with guilt in his eyes. I wrapped my hands around his thick shaft and looked him in the eye. “Watch me. Okay?” His Adam’s apple rose and then fell. “Okay.” I worked his cock in and out of my mouth until it was deep in my throat. After the tip caused me to gag a few times, I raised my head and met his gaze. With wide eyes, he looked back at me. I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “See, I’m fine.” “Uh huh,” he murmured. I considered sucking his cock for a few more minutes, but I didn’t ponder it for long. The aching in my pussy was more than I could stand. As a result of him sucking my tits into a frenzy and me gratefully gagging on his thick cock, I was more than ready to feel him deep inside of me. I straddled him and studied his muscled torso. Covered in tattoos and not wearing a shirt, he looked ten times better than he did with one on, that was for sure. I licked my lips at the sight of his chiseled abs. “Grab my waist,” I said. He placed his hands against my hips. “No,” I said with a laugh. I raised his hands to my waist. “Here. My waist.” I gripped his cock in my hand, hovered over him, and then guided him into me. Although the first attempt didn’t go very deep, feeling him inside of me sucked the air from my lungs. I gulped a breath, raised myself up and then forced him into my drenched pussy again. And again.

Then, taking his full length, I began to ride his cock like it was the last cock on earth. I slapped my hands against his chest. “Fuck yes. See? You. Feel. Fucking. Amazing. God, I needed this.” I thrust my hips back and forth, taking every inch of him in with each downward motion. “Grab my tits,” I said. “Squeeze ‘em.” As I continued to fuck him like a woman on some kind of a once-in-a-lifetime sexual mission, he began to squeeze and suck my boobs. His mood soon changed from the overcautious protector to bad-ass biker, and it was exactly what I needed. While nibbling on my tits, he bit into one of my nipples. Hard. I wailed out from the extreme mixture of pleasure from the pain. “Ouch!” His eyes shot wide, and he pulled away. “Do it again,” I gasped. “Bite me.” He sank his teeth into my nipples gently and eventually began to bite them. I closed my eyes and continued to fuck him with all I had. As the bed creaked from my frantic thrusts, my breathing became irregular, and I felt somewhat embarrassed. I was reaching climax, and he wasn’t. I tried my best to hide my pleasure, hoping to slip an orgasm past him without his knowledge. As my emotions began to mount, I closed my eyes and allowed the orgasm to shoot through me like an electric shock. I shook from head to toe, and the pace of my strokes slowed considerably. Exhausted and feeling rather sensitive in the downtown region, I climbed from his cock and bought myself a moment’s time. I stroked his cock a few times, then began to suck it like I was in a timed event, trying to beat the clock. His hips began to lift from the bed slightly, and when I realized it, I raised my mouth from the tip and fought to catch my breath. “Fuck my mouth.” “What?”

“Fuck. My. Mouth.” “Get on your knees.” I complied. He got off the bed and stood in front of me with his thick cock sticking straight out, he gripped my head in his hands, and began to shove his cock down my throat. “That’s right, suck that cock,” he growled. Oh, God yes. Talk dirty to me. He forced himself deep into my throat, causing my eyes to water from the force. “I’m going to make you gag on this motherfucker if it’s the last thing I do.” After a few seconds my eyes began to bulge, and I slapped my hand against his thigh, tapping out. He pulled himself from my mouth, and immediately after I gasped a breath, he forced himself right back into my throat. “You’re a good little bitch,” he growled. “Now suck that cock like you know you can.” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, forcing the tip of his dick into to the soft flesh in my throat. I reached down and fingered my clit as the shaft of his cock stretched my mouth wide. Nick’s trust that I was not broken was bringing me dangerously close to another orgasm. I pulled myself away and fought to catch a breath. As I gasped for air, he lifted me from the floor by my arms. “Bend over,” he said. Fuck yes. I bent over the end of the bed and hiked my ass high in the air. I was soaked and more than ready for whatever he had to offer. He seized me from behind, slid in with ease, and began to fuck me deeply. In no time, he had my hair in his hand, his muscular chest pressed into my back, and his mouth on my right ear. “I’m going to fill your tight little pussy with cum,” he breathed. Oh God. “Full,” he said. Please… My body began to tingle.

I spread my feet wider. His balls began tapping a tune on my clit with each stroke. I bit into my lower lip, prepared for the orgasm of the century, and waited. A few strokes later, and my eyes went wide. I felt like I was on the verge of coming apart. I wanted to scream for him to stop, fearing something was wrong, but before I had a chance to throw in the towel, I exploded. “Ohmyfuckinggod!” I stammered. “Ohmyfuckinggod!” I must have repeated myself half a dozen times as the jolts ran through me like mini-lightning bolts. His cock swelled, and he pulled my hair taught. “Fuck yes!” he wailed. “Here I come!” His breath went from grunts against my neck and face to irregular fits of breathing that burst out into the open room. And he came. Another orgasm shot through me as I felt him discharge into my cervix. I cried out in pleasure, gripped the comforter tight in my hands, and came close to crying from the pleasure I felt. Seconds later we had collapsed side-by-side on the bed, our legs dangling over the edge, and our arms draped to the sides. He turned to the side and gripped my neck in his hand. I sighed and met his gaze as he pulled against my neck, forcing my lips to his. A few kisses later, and he pulled away and looked me in the eye. “My little bitch,” he said. Hearing that wouldn’t have made very many women happy, but I wasn’t very many women. “I sure am.”

THIRTY-THREE Nick I couldn’t claim to have fallen in love before, so identifying what it was I felt and giving it a label wasn’t something I found easy to do. And, to be truthful, with me being a big bad-ass biker, even if I was in love, I probably wouldn’t want to admit it. But I was able to identify pride. And I was proud of having Peyton in my life. I turned the corner and rolled up the street. Not in a million lifetimes would I have guessed I’d be doing what I was doing. “Why won’t you just tell me?” she asked. “Because it’s a surprise.” “I think that’s chicken-shit,” she said. I released the throttle and coasted down the street. “See the light blue one over there?” She leaned forward and rested her chin on my shoulder. “The one with the big rock garden?” “Yep.” “What about it?” “Brent Houseman lived there. We were buddies in high school.” “You used to live around here?” “Yep.” “Cool” The bike slowed to an almost stop, but I had half a block or so to go, so I rolled on a little throttle. “The yellow one over there was where Becky Tharp lived. She was a cheerleader. And, no, I didn’t bang her. She was a bitch.”

“Nice to know,” she said. As we came closer, I felt nervous, and really, nothing made me nervous. Hell, I had walked into abandoned buildings that were filled with men who were armed and wanted to kill me, and I wasn’t as nervous as I was with her. “See the white one there on the right?” “Yep.” “That’s where I grew up.” Her grip on my waist tightened, and she leaned forward. “Really?” “Yep.” “Until when? When did you move out?” I shifted into neutral and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street, thirty feet or so from the drive. The exhaust rumbled a low drone as it idled, echoing the sound of our arrival for all to hear. “When I went to war, pretty much.” “Oh wow. Where do your parents live now?” I motioned toward the house. “Still live right there.” “You’re not. Were you. Is that where we’re going?” “Yep. If you’re ready, that is.” “Nick, you shit-head. Really?” “If you’re ready. If you’re not, tell me now so I can get the fuck out of here before either of them see me.” “I’m wearing shorts, Chuck’s and a shitty shirt,” she complained. “You look cute,” I assured her. “Yes, or no?” “I mean, I want to, but--” “Yes, or no?” “I would love to, but I look like--” I pulled in the clutch, shifted into gear, and released it. As the bike got even with the drive, she slapped my shoulder.

“Yes.” I got on the brakes, but it was too late. I rolled past and had to turn around in the middle of the street to get into the drive. We parked, and I shut off the bike. “Ready?” “Oh boy.” She took off her helmet, brushed the wrinkles from her shirt, and adjusted her ponytail. “Okay.” I hung my helmet on the bars. “Let’s do it.” Together we nervously walked up the walk. After stepping on the porch, I rapped my knuckles against the door three times. “Enter!” And I opened the door.

THIRTY-FOUR Peyton Nick opened the door and I stepped inside. I hadn’t seen my father since Christmas. After his relocation to North Carolina, the holidays were the only time I saw him or my brothers. I hoped meeting Nick’s mother and father, although traumatic, would provide me comfort. I stepped to Nick’s side. He rested his left arm on my shoulder, and sighed. “Pop, this is Peyton.” His father jumped from the chair he was sitting in and held out his right hand. He looked just like Nick, only twenty or so years older. Regardless of his age, I was shocked at the similarities in their appearance. “Well shit, Son. You should have warned us. Nice to meet you, Peyton.” “We were just in the neighborhood,” Nick said. “Thought we’d stop by for a minute.” I heard some noise in the kitchen, and suspected it was his mother. “Our son’s here!” his father yelled. “And he brought a surprise.” I laughed to myself at the fact he yelled at her like she was a mile away, when in fact she was only a few feet away. “We’ll go in there,” Nick said. “Be right back.” I followed him to the kitchen. When we stepped in, his mother was at the sink, bent over scrubbing it with a scouring pad. “Always doing something,” he said. “Turn around, I want you to meet someone.” She sighed, and turned around. Oh my God. I almost fainted. My legs went wobbly. I may have even gasped, but I wasn’t sure. If I did, no one said anything afterward. I fought to stay composed, and although it wasn’t easy, I followed her lead.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m Elizabeth, Nicholas’ mother. What was your name?” I swallowed heavily and fought not to cry. “Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.” But she already knew my name. She was the woman who saved me from myself. “It’s so nice to meet you, Peyton,” she said. “Nicholas, go take off that thing, and come back when it’s gone.” Nick sighed. “Fine. I’ll hang it on my bike.” He walked away. I stood there, not knowing what to do or say. She gripped my hand in hers, pulled me to her side, and rinsed the sink. “It’s so nice to have you here.” She knew everything about me. I’d told her about the incident entirely, about my mother dying, and about all of my quirks, shortcomings, and my strengths. I’d told her about my job, the need to write the article, and about having a man in my life that I wasn’t sure about. I had, more than anything, simply told her the truth. Knowing that she knew everything about me, I couldn’t help but wonder if she would accept me or reject me as Nick’s significant other. “Thank you,” I said. “Do you know how to make chicken marsala?” she asked. I shook my head. I really didn’t know how to make much. Growing up without a mother, going to college, and having a demanding job left me with little time to learn to cook. “No,” I said. She took me by the hand and led me to the oven. “Stand right there, and let me get everything. We’ll make it together, how’s that?” I grinned. “Sounds good.” “Sounds good?” She chuckled, then opened the refrigerator door. “Nicholas says that all the time, and now he’s got you saying it. It’s nice to see he’s rubbing off on you. He’s a nice boy.” I nodded. “He is.” She placed everything on the countertop. “All he’s ever needed was a nice girl.” She looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I’m so glad he finally found one.”

She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. I loved having Nick hold me and hug me, but there would never be anything that would come close to be being held in a mother’s arms. Elizabeth may not have been my mother, but my heart sure didn’t know it.

THIRTY-FIVE Peyton I sat at my desk with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, knowing I was on the verge of losing my job. If it bleeds, it sells. Words to live by in the world of journalism. Children being saved from a burning building were never as popular as a mass shooting. A front page color photo of a sunset would sit stagnant, while a front page color photo of a grotesquely graphic car wreck would sell out. I needed something graphic, something gut-wrenching, something memorable. But, I refused to use Nick or his club as a vehicle to sell newspapers. There were many stories to tell, but none that I was willing to divulge. Camden Rollins III would probably fire me when it was all over, but I could not pen a vicious story about Nick and the FFMC. At least not something worth reading. I decided, above all, I needed to write a story that made a difference. Something that was gutwrenching, but not too gory. A heartfelt, but tear-jerking story that stuck with the reader long after they were done reading it. Something that made them say, what the fuck was that about? Something they may even read again. After they thought about it. I relaxed in my chair, stared at my monitor, and sighed. After a long period of silence, it came to me. My fingers no longer hovered over the keyboard. They tapped at record pace. In a few hours, I had the story. I read it, re-read it, and printed a copy.

Proudly, I walked into Mr. Rollins’ office, tossed it on his desk, and grinned. “Sorry I’m a few months late.” His eyes met mine. After a short glare, he picked it up. A few seconds later, he looked up, but his eyes fell right back down to the page. When he finished, he dropped it onto his desk. “This? This is why I let you do what you want, when you want.” I grinned. “Like it?” He shook his head. “Love it.” “Thank you,” I said. “I’m rolling with this on Sunday. What’ll the headline say, Peyton?” I shrugged. “Call it what it is.” He widened his eyes. “Hard,” I said. “Call it hard.” Because it was.

EPILOGUE Nick Peyton, Pee Bee, and I were at the shop, trying to decide where to go to lunch. “It’s Sunday,” Pee Bee said. “Nothing’s fucking open that’s good.” “Pizza?” Peyton asked. “Haven’t had pizza in forever.” “I’m not interested,” I said. “Shit,” Pee Bee said, his voice a few octaves lower than normal. “What?” “Behind you,” he said. “Your fucking buddy.” I turned around just in time to see the detective pull into the parking lot. My asshole puckered at the thought of being arrested again, or being questioned in front of Peyton. His car came to a stop beside us. He rolled his window down, and reached into the passenger seat. After turning around, he stuck his head out the window and grinned. “Can you read, Navarro?” I nodded. “Comics and shit, yeah?” He tossed me a newspaper. “Read that,” he said. “That right there? The front page? That’s good shit.” “Peanut Butter, Navarro, Ms. Price.” He nodded toward each of us as he said our names. “Have a nice day.” He grinned and drove away. I opened the paper, saw the headline, and made note of the reporter’s name. I looked at Peyton. She shrugged. And, I began to read.

*** A mother dies in a horrific car crash, leaving her children to be raised by an overworked father and an immigrant babysitter. No one cares, because there wasn’t a photo attached to the story of her death. A pic or it didn’t happen. If it bleeds, it sells. But that shouldn’t be the case. The world has changed. A best-selling love story will soon be a thing of the past. If it hasn’t happened yet, it’ll be here before you know it. The romance world has been turned on its ear by step-brother romances, slaughterotica, and priests with a penchant for girls. It must be shocking, or it won’t sell. If it’s a tale of love, hatred – or anything in between – it doesn’t sell. And it won’t. Be the first to pen a new way to have sex with a corpse, and you’ll hit the New York Times bestsellers list. Write a book about two people who fall in love, get married, and have triplets, and you’ll go broke. Front page articles are used to sell the newspaper. The cover story. Lure them in at any and all costs. Write it long enough to require them to flip to two or three more pages, and you’ve done your job. How does a journalist tell a tale of love and still capture the interest of the reader enough to provoke them to complete the story? Make it a shocker. Race. Color. Creed. Religion. In the eyes of the almighty, we’re equal and we should remain so, but we don’t. As a nation, we’ve been taught to judge. The world, in fact, has been taught to judge. We tell ourselves we don’t, but we do. A man at a red light sits quietly with his wife and children, listening to his favorite music. A sound in the distance makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He fills with fear, for he has heard the sound before, and he knows what it brings. “Don’t look,” he warns the family.

A group of men on motorcycles pull alongside the Buick. The man, petrified, stares straight ahead and prays to his maker for the traffic light to turn green before something happens. Because something, he is certain, will happen. The light turns, and he speeds away. Is he right, or is he wrong? At a bar the motorcyclists stop. Once inside, they notice a woman. A woman who is alone. Oneby-one, they take their turn, raping her. They rape her of her innocence, of her trust, and of her ability to sleep at night. They rape her of her life. Yet, somehow, she survives. She stumbles through her days and nights that follow, not knowing how – or even if – she’ll ever survive. The rapists are eventually caught, taken to court, and tried for the horrific crime they committed. After a lengthy trial, they are convicted and await sentencing. On judgment day, they receive six months in the county jail – in protective custody. Even jailhouse justice is impossible. They’re protected from harm. The girl, once again, is raped. By the judicial system. Downtrodden and beaten, she stumbles to the bar, hoping to dull the pain. Halfway through her first pitcher of beer, she hears a familiar rumble. Through the window, she confirms her suspicions. A motorcycle club. In fear for her life, she attempts to grab her things and go. Before she is able, however, they are upon her. Slowly, and without expression, one of the men approaches her. She cowers in her seat. He reaches for her. She flinches. And he picks a piece of lint from her coat. “We heard about your case,” he says. “Don’t worry. Justice will prevail.” She swallows hard, and attempts to acknowledge his presence, but the words do not come. He physically looks no different than the men who haunt her dreams, but somehow she feels

that he is. With a glimmer of hope, her eyes meet his. Memorizing and blue, they provide her with comfort. Embarrassed for her initial fear of the club’s intentions, her eyes fall to the floor. When she looks up, the men are gone. She hears the rumble. Through the window, she watches as the taillights fade off into the darkness of the night, and her heart fills with warmth. Is she right, or is she wrong? Six months later, on the eve of their release, the rapists leave their protective cells. One by one, they walk away. And one by one they meet their fate. When the woman gets the news, she feels justice is served. Right, I ask you? Or wrong? For the first time since that horrific night, she falls into a deep uninterrupted sleep. And she dreams. She dreams of equality. Of love. And of a world that does not, will not, and cannot hate. The familiar rumble wakes her from her sleep. Through the window she sees the man, sitting on his motorcycle. Waiting. And, without hesitation, she climbs on the back of the motorcycle, and she rides away. Forever. Right, or wrong? Ask her the next time she crosses your path. She is any survivor. Signed, a survivor.