Thug Page 4

  Even so, it was highly unlikely my comment would get me in trouble. Price wasn’t going to get his cock out in front of thirty-two men, that much I was sure of. My remark was meant as an offering for him to spend some one-on-one time with me, naked, in a place much better suited for cock inspections.

  I gave his manhood another tug, just because I could. Satisfied, I pulled my hand from inside his pants.

  He met my playful gaze with a horrific scowl. A waterfall of regret washed over me. Price McNealy wasn’t happy, that much was clear.

  His hands became a blur. The next thing I knew, my chest was pressed tight against the edge of the bar.

  I felt his hand against my hip. He unbuttoned my shorts. As he struggled to get them pushed down my thighs, my mind said, “No, wait. Not here, not now.” My mouth, however, said nothing of the sort.

  My shorts cleared my knees and then fell to my ankles. My pussy throbbed with each beat of my heart. Being fucked behind the bar while nearly three-dozen men swilled beers and listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Simple Man ten feet away wasn’t on my to-do list, but Price sure didn’t know it.

  So far, I’d given no verbal opposition to his advances whatsoever. In fact, I’d kicked my shorts to the side without a moment’s thought.

  He fumbled with my panties. His eager-fingered efforts didn’t last long. He tore them in two in a show of frustration. With the delicate fabric dangling from my left thigh, I accepted my fate wholeheartedly and widened my stance.

  My eyes darted around the bar. Our antics had garnered the attention of a few of the men, but not all of them. While I tried to find a way to accept what was happening as being part of my life’s destiny, I felt pressure between my legs.

  I sucked an uneven breath.

  With the care of a sex starved satyromaniac, he pushed his swollen girth past my wet folds.

  The air shot from my lungs like I’d been punched in the gut.

  Not only was he big enough to ride the ride, he reset the bar for any future riders to get on. My mind may not have wanted to start a relationship with Price McNealy, but my pussy was starting one hell of an argument in his favor.

  I searched for my happy place. The smell of his leather vest melded with his manly essence. I drew a conscious breath of the heady scent and closed my eyes. He withdrew his length, and immediately pushed himself back in, slowly.

  My entire body shuddered. He was going to ruin me one stroke at a time, and I was going to let him. I gripped the edge of the bar like my life depended on it, arched my back, and opened my eyes.

  Standing thirty feet away, Brisco met my glassy-eyed gaze. I offered him an apologetic look and a half-assed shrug only because I couldn’t think of what else to do.

  From his vantage point, the countertop in front of me obstructed his view. I suspected it looked like Price was standing behind me, pushing me against the bar. That’s what I told myself, at least. While Brisco and I exchanged awkward glances, I felt Price’s stubble against my cheek.

  “Wanna know why we call ourselves the Hard Eights?” he asked.

  At that moment I really didn’t give a shit. I wanted his cock inside of me, and I’d agree to anything to get him to put it there.

  I let out a mental sigh. “Sure.”

  He slammed his entire length inside of me with one thrust of his hips. “It’s hard, and it’s eight inches long.”

  “Oh,” I grunted.

  The response made me sound like a complete idiot, but at that moment, I was one.

  Price commenced to pound his way into my memory bank eight hard inches at a time. His hips rhythmically forced his length into me, repeatedly. Sexually drunk, my eyes fell closed. It wasn’t my dream come true, nor was Price the answer to the question of my many failed relationships. But. Being fucked against the bar for no other reason than to satisfy an argument was an extremely satisfying experience.

  A dozen strokes or so later, my leg muscles tensed. After two more, my pussy clenched his swollen shaft like a vise. My sexual self-esteem plummeted. It had been all of ninety seconds, and he was bringing me to climax.

  I allowed the feeling of euphoria to encompass me like a warm blanket.

  Embarrassed by my lack of stamina, I closed my eyes, hoping doing so would prevent Price from noticing my blissful state. While I relished in his sexual offering, his pace slowed. Then, although I wouldn’t have guessed it possible, his girth swelled.

  His breathing became labored and irregular. The thought of him reaching orgasm drove me mad with desire. I bucked wildly, forcing my bare ass against his hips in perfect timing with his predictable strokes.

  Then, as if we were connected by much more than our bare genitalia, we reached climax, together.

  Giddy with excitement at what we’d accomplished, my eyes shot open. Much to my surprise, Brisco was only inches away, leaning against the opposite side of the bar.

  “Jesus!” I blurted.

  I felt like I should pound my fist against the countertop and demand that he leave. My eyes came into focus beyond him. It clearly didn’t matter. There were thirty-one others who seemed all too interested in what we were doing.

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Brisco said. As if seeing Price fuck the bartender was a common occurrence, he nonchalantly reached over the bar and opened the beer tap. The golden liquid trickled into the pitcher I’d began filling moments earlier. “Couple of the fellas need to fill their glasses.”

  “No problem,” I said, my voice quaking beneath the orgasm that was still running through me. “We’re done.”

  “Done?” Price cackled a sinister laugh. “That’s got to be the tightest pussy on the entire fucking planet. We’re not even close to being done.”

  Being paid compliments like your hair looks fabulous, or something along the lines of you look great, have you lost weight? was heartwarming. No praise, however, was more satisfying than one that placed my pussy on a pedestal. Especially a remark that included comparing it to the tight-pussied competition in foreign countries.

  Price McNealy could fuck me any time he wanted to, but I wasn’t going to admit it, especially to him. He’d already proven he wasn’t above paying compliments. I wondered if he was opposed to chasing a woman.

  I decided I’d find out.

  “Actually, we are done,” I said. “This ride is over.”

  4

  Price

  Carp sat cross legged on the garage floor, yanking on his motorcycle’s fuel line so violently that it looked like he was trying to start a lawnmower. After two or three unsuccessful attempts to free the rubber hose from the carburetor, his bike nearly tipped over on top of him.

  “Cock fucking sucker!” He steadied the eight-hundred-pound motorcycle. “This fucker won’t come off.”

  The bike would crush him if he continued. I gave him a serious look. “It’s a five-dollar rubber hose. Cut the son-of-a-bitch. There’s no place in this club for a paraplegic Road Captain, and that’s where you’ll be if that heavy bastard tips over on you.”

  Clearly frustrated with the situation, Carp slashed the fuel line with his knife. Gasoline poured out onto the floor at his feet. He looked at the floor as the fuel puddled as if in a trance.

  Leaving messes in the garage was a pet peeve. I shook my head in disgust. “One would think this is the first time you’ve done that. Shut off the fuel supply. Jesus Christ, Carp.”

  He leaned over the tank and turned the lever. The fuel flow stopped instantly. “Still nursing a hangover,” he said in a weathered voice. “Last night was a shitshow.”

  I shrugged. “I thought it went rather well.”

  He brushed his hands against the thighs of his jeans. “You drank a couple of beers and fucked the waitress. Tough calling that night anything but a success.”

  I gestured to the two-foot wide puddle of fuel. “Put some floor dry on that mess, would ya?”

  He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I was headed that direction.”

  The sound
of a fast approaching bike bellowed in the distance. Although we all rode Harleys, each one had a unique sound. I cocked my head to the side and listened intently to the drone of the exhaust and the way the rider was shifting gears.

  “Sounds like Brisco,” I said.

  Carp glanced over his shoulder. “Hell, let’s make it a party.”

  When I searched for the MC’s clubhouse, I knew I didn’t want something typical. A dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town that would likely be broken into on a monthly basis wasn’t what I was after.

  After nearly a year of searching, I happened onto an old—but still operational—full-service gas station. A hand-written “for sale by owner” sign was taped to a window facing the city’s busiest street.

  The exterior walls of the stucco 3-bay repair shop were adorned with iconic American Indian paintings that had faded from seven decades of exposure to the Arizona sun. It resembled the Southwestern motif tourist traps that peppered the highways throughout the 1960’s and 1970’s.

  Considering my affinity for tacos and pastries, the location was perfect. The building was situated across the street from a locally owned donut shop that was flanked by a taqueria that employed no one who spoke English and a leather repair facility ran by an old man who still hand-stitched his goods.

  Eager to strike a deal, I strolled inside the gas station. A lighted glass case filled with arrowheads, vials of fool’s gold, and rabbit’s foot keychains was on one side of the cash register. A rotating display of postcards depicting Arizona’s must-see stops along Highway 10 was on the other. Between the two displays stood the eighty-year-old owner, Manny Lopez.

  Manny and I washed down a dozen donuts with a pot of coffee while discussing the changes he’d seen over the years. According to him, Arizona’s new youth rode bicycles and drove battery-powered Japanese cars that simply didn’t break down. As we toured the facility, he explained the need for a few memorable years of retirement before his death.

  Following a fish taco and Coca-Cola lunch, we reached an agreement. On nothing more than a handshake, I agreed to a price of twice what the building was worth. Nevertheless, we were both happy with the decision.

  Carrying a cup of floor dry, Carp sauntered from one end of the neatly organized garage to the other. Over the years, the building had changed very little. The gas pumps were long gone, but the awning that once covered them remained. It now provided a shady place for the men to park. The club used the three service bays for vehicle and motorcycle repairs. The customer service space became my office. All in all, the building suited us well. Its size allowed any amount of the MC’s members to show up without ever causing me to feel like we needed more space.

  Carp sprinkled the cat litter-like substance over the puddle of fuel. “Surprised that thing doesn’t explode, the way Brisco rides it.”

  “At least he’s not scared of it.”

  He faced me and glared. “I’m not scared of this fucker. I’m just trying to take care of it.”

  “Well, the way you ride it, the thing ought to last a lifetime.”

  The sound of the accelerating motorcycle came to a halt before the rider was within sight, all but confirming it was Brisco. He rode his motorcycle like a bat out of hell, but always shut off the engine a block north of the clubhouse and coasted into the parking lot silently.

  Carp peered beyond me, toward the street. “Hoe-lee-shit.”

  “What?”

  He laughed out loud. “Look at what he’s wearing.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Brisco’s wrists were draped over his ape hangers and his boots were perched on top of his highway bars. His legs, surprisingly, were completely bare from the tops of his boots to his hips. If I didn’t know better, I’d bet he was wearing nothing but his kutte and a pair of underwear.

  He silently crossed the two oncoming lanes and coasted into the parking lot like he was sitting in his living room recliner watching an episode of his current favorite TV show, Barry.

  Wearing an ear to ear grin and a backward flat bill cap, he rolled through the parking lot and came to a stop in the garage, ten feet away from where we were standing. He lifted one of his mile-long bare legs over the tank, flipped down his kickstand, and faced us.

  He tugged the frayed hem of his denim micro-shorts out of his crotch while alternating glances between Carp and me. “Mornin’, fellas.”

  I was speechless. He was wearing embroidered cowboy boots, his kutte, and a pair of cut-off jean shorts that were barely long enough to cover his dick. A backward flat-bill cap topped off his chosen outfit of the day.

  Carp began laughing, but I couldn’t do anything but stare in disbelief.

  “Don’t even start,” Brisco warned. He turned his cap around and tugged it low on his brow. “I swear, these fuckers didn’t used to be this small.”

  “What possessed you to ride here in cut-off jean shorts, no matter what size they were?” I asked. “You look like a complete fucking idiot.”

  “What’s your inseam?” Carp asked dryly. He scanned Brisco from the tips of his boots to his waist. “Those legs of yours go on for fucking ever.”

  Carp was right. Brisco’s legs seemed twice as long as normal, and they were normally twice as long as anyone else’s. I shook my head in disbelief.

  Brisco glared. “Fuck you.” He looked at me. “Fuck you, too, Price.”

  “I’m serious,” I said, trying my best not to burst into a laughing fit. “What would ever possess you to leave the house looking like that? Hell, I can’t understand why you’d even wear those little fuckers in private. You look like that Jessica Simpson chick in The Dukes of Hazard, if she shaved her head and was two feet taller.”

  “Listen, motherfucker. I didn’t just wake up and say, ‘hey, I want to wear a pair of little cut-offs’,” he said. “There’s a reason behind it.”

  I raised my brows. “I’m dying to hear it.”

  “Well, I needed to dig up a box of money, and all my jeans were in the laundry,” he explained. “I put on a pair of sweats to start off with, but the fuckers didn’t have a draw string. Every time I stomped on the shovel the sons-of-bitches came crashing down, leaving me standing there with my cock swinging in the breeze.” He looked at Carp and then at me. “So, I dug through my dresser and found these little bastards. Made ‘em back in the day, and when I was cuttin’ ‘em, I kept getting’ one of the legs shorter than the other, and I’d have to cut a little of the other leg to try and get ‘em even. When I got done, this is what I ended up with.”

  I stared like I was witnessing a giraffe roller-skate through the produce aisle of the local Safeway. I blinked a few times, just to make sure it was as bad as it seemed.

  All it did was get worse.

  Still in sheer disbelief that he left home in shorts that weren’t long enough for a fifteen-year-old girl, I raked my eyes up and down his lengthy frame. “No man should ever wear shorts that produce the possibility of his dick dangling out the leg hole, and the tip of yours has peeked out of there twice since you got here,” I said, trying not to laugh. “If you end up within 1500 feet of a school, you’ll be arrested for exposing yourself to children.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks, including you,” he snarled. “Nobody’s going to say shit to me, anyway. Other’n you two fuckers.”

  He was probably right. Brisco was every bit of 6’7”, although he claimed he was 6’-4”. He weighed a little over three hundred pounds, all of which was muscle. With his permanent tan, bald head, and occasional graying stubble of a beard, he looked like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s much bigger brother.

  “Why didn’t you wait for your laundry to dry?” I asked. “Or ride to Cortaro and buy a pair of pants?”

  “Because.” He tugged against the legs of his shorts. “I needed to tell you something.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  He glared. “You never have your phone.”
<
br />   “I’ve always got my phone.”

  “You’ve always got it close, but you’ve never have it on you,” he argued. “Hell, half the time you leave here without it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  His brows raised. “Where is it?”

  I hated relying on, using, or even carrying a phone. Although I knew I didn’t have it, I felt the front pockets of my jeans, and then the back. After coming up empty-handed, I shrugged. “Probably in the office.”

  He pressed his hands against his faded denim hips. “In the office with two voicemails and a half-dozen texts from me.”

  “What’s the emergency?”

  “What emergency?” he asked.

  “Whatever emergency forced you to leave your house in those ridiculous fucking shorts.”

  After a few seconds of looking confused, it seemed he had a revelation. “Oh.” He raised his index finger. “The girl.”

  I was puzzled. “What girl?”

  “The girl from the bar.”

  The puzzled look continued. “What about her?”

  “I know who she is.”

  From the look on his face, she was a spy who had been sent to infiltrate the MC, steal the money he buried in various spots on his property, and plant a bomb in the clubhouse.

  “Who is she?” Before he answered, I continued. “And why were you digging up money at ten in the morning?”

  He forced out a sigh. “Marbella’s cat had kittens, and I wanted the first choice of the litter. Cost a grand to reserve a spot. Figured I’d go ahead and pay the whole boat now, being I’ve got to ride up to her place, anyway. Don’t keep that kind of cash layin’ around, so I had to dig some up.”

  Carp choked on his spit. “A grand?! For a cat?”

  “It’s a Bengal,” Brisco said, trying to justify his spending. “They’re not cheap.”

  Brisco was the type of guy that wouldn’t swerve to miss a pedestrian, but he’d sit at home with his cats in his lap while he watched TV shows about mass murderers, hitmen, and unsolved crimes. Hypersensitive to the care and treatment of animals, he wouldn’t think twice about breaking the neck of a man who crossed him or his MC brethren.