Buttercup (3 page)

It had been many years. She would remember him. She would remember
everything just as he did on the dirty roach infested floor of his jail cell waiting for
freedom to come. This freedom. The freedom that would finally break the stifling
hold this torturous desire for Buttercup held him in once and for all.

Silvio bit into her bottom lip, which quickly became pliant. Where tight
resistance greeted him, so did heat, a wet heat that eased his glide deeper through
her channel. Buttercup gripped his arms, accommodating each inch of him,
allowing him to plunge and go deeper. The expansions and contractions left them
both gasping and grunting. Overcome with raw need, he broke.

Uncontrollably, he began pumping at her moist pussy, madly slipping in
and out, power-drilling his urgency for her submission. Buttercup purred in
response. Madness. She enticed his tongue into her mouth and squeezed both
halves of his butt, throwing her hips up to receive him, strike after strike. Oh, he
was going to fuck her good.

The humid cramped quarters, combined with the combustible heat from
their joined writhing bodies, had the air in the tent sweltering. Silvio could not be
stopped. He would not be stopped. He threw his head back, taking down a deep
gulp of air, once his cock became sheathed in the most unbelievably delicious
warmth. He found her body taut, thrumming for more no matter the demands he
put on her. Silvio slowed his eager pace to something they both could savor. But
her body, moving beneath him so tender and soft, made it all for naught. Again, he
ravaged her, pounding inch by inch into her tightness. The press of her nipples, as
he pinned her beneath him, gave way to nice swirls against his sweaty chest. When
the kiss broke, so did his will. She empowered him with her feeble struggles and
made him mad with her light giggles against his mouth.

The physical completion of their joining rendered him mindless. His growls
of pleasure rumbled deep in his chest. The passion was too extreme—nirvana.

There would be none. He looked down on her, his hips now rotating and his dick
tunneling deeper. He gazed upon her in disbelief. How is it that he, a man of such
raw toughness, would desire such a forbidden flower? He tried to weather the
brain fever when her bottom maneuvers reduced his thrusts to quick jerky pumps.

He couldn’t. His brain felt like it boiled in his skull. The air in his lungs became
too thick to release. She was killing him with rapture—sheer passion beyond his
understanding.

Killing him!

“Buttercup,” Silvio whispered. He forced his focus to return to her face. He
thrilled over the gambit of emotions playing over her pretty features as he throttled
her sex into submission. Her lashes drifted down to perfect arcs against her cheeks.

Her nostrils flared, then relaxed from her sweet pants. It only encouraged him to
pump harder and faster. He gave her cock bangs that had his balls slapping her
lower half.

“Ugh!” he grunted, dropping on her but going the distance. He continued
his hard and fast onslaught. His face, buried in her wild tresses, muffled his pants
of pleasure. He came apart, going and going, faster and faster and faster. Chest to
chest, he bore down on her. The tribal beat of her heart matched his own. He could
feel the muscles in the back of her legs weaken. One, dropped over his shoulder in
uncontrollable shakes. The other fell at an awkward angle as she neared her
exhaustive end. Nothing this glorious should ever be denied him.

“Butttteeeeerrrccuuup!” he wheezed. Moving in and out of her sweet,
honeyed flesh, he abandoned his bitter self, his regretful self, his disbelieving self,
and gave in…clenching every muscle in his ass and curling his toes. Silvio cried
out during his release…

1938 Indiana (Present) –A Gangster’s Moll

Silvio jumped. The pistol dropped between his parted knees. The car jostled over a rocky patch of road then leveled off. He pushed up on the front of his fedora, knocking the felt brim higher on his brow. “Fuck…

holy fuck!” he coughed. Eyes darting around, he sucked in three deep cool breaths.
He wasn’t breathing
. His mind was such a fog, and his lungs were so tight that he’d forgotten how.

“You okay, boss?” Manny asked, shooting rod straight in the driver’s seat with hands tight to the steering wheel. He usually drove slumped down behind the wheel. The young hoodlum's face was flushed with alarm. Silvio didn’t speak. Not yet. His dick, stiff between his legs, spoke for him.
No, I’m not okay. After a dream like that, how could I be
? He winced, shifting, adjusting his sack. He was grateful the darkness of the country road concealed his actions. He reached for the floorboard and retrieved his gun.
I need to get it together. Don't need the boy's anxious. It was
only a dream. A dream like all the others, 'cept this time I'll have my reality
.

“Who’s Buttercup, boss?” Manny pressed.

“Drive.”

Manny silenced.

Silvio’s shoulders slumped. He eased back down in the seat. Road weary, the three men in his gang travelled in silence. This night was different. A shiver of anticipation gripped his gut and twisted it like a pretzel. Eventually, the burn for his Buttercup eased. It always did, eventually. But damn it, his dreams had never been that… real. She must be close.

“How goes it back there, Touchy?” Silvio mumbled, desperate for a distraction. A car chase would be nice right about now. He could go for blasting his frustration at those trigger-happy coppers that always wanted his freedom from state to state.

“Clear, boss,” Red answered for Touchy, his backseat companion.

Silvio’s gaze shifted to the rear mirror on the Packard. Touchy cast a steely look. Red had the annoying habit of speaking for everyone. Touchy didn’t take well to those liberties though. He found conspiracies in every unsolicited action, no matter the intent, when leveled his way. But thankfully, he wasn’t in one of his moods. Silvio had no patience for a backseat fistfight tonight.

He kept watching.

Touchy fingered the groove along the trigger of his shotgun. The grip rested between his legs, pressed hard into his crotch. Red shrugged off the glare. He put his hat over his face, dropped his head back and shifted down into the cool darkness of the backseat. “I say we make a stop at Moncrieff. Get off the road before sunrise. I need to take a piss,” said Touchy.

They would definitely make a stop,
thought Silvio. But it wouldn’t be Moncrieff. Silvio smirked, his eyes trained on the dirt road. Bold bright light-beams cut down the darkness from out of the front pods of a silver-blue Packard with white wall tires and bullet holes peppered along the rear. It powered an eight cylinder V-12 engine near 80 mph down Route 36. The men were barely seen behind the opaque dust covered windows.

The Packard was barely heard as it coasted through the countryside, and that was the point. In fact, the ride would have been uneventful if it weren’t for the locusts.

Swarms fluttered in and out of the cornfields on starless nights.

Nasty critters on blind suicide runs. They torpedoed the windshield, leaving blots of yellow-greenish slime, legs, and antennae smeared across the pane. Manny hit the wipers, to no avail. They just kept coming. The bugs couldn’t necessarily be blamed. They were seduced out of the fields by the glare of lights from back road travelers: bootleggers, racketeers, bank robbers and gangsters. The quad at one time or another had been all of that and more.

Night travel was best for the business of Silvio ‘Bloodshot’ Garelli.

The press bestowed the name ‘Bloodshot’ upon him after a bank robbery in Mason County. It started and ended with a spray of bullets over the heads of terrified customers. The press reported that he carved his name with bullet spray into the safe to blast it open.
Horseshit
! Not a single person took a hit in all the fun, and still they labeled him a killer because some bank manager up and died from a bad ticker when it was all done. Silvio had never killed a man that didn’t have it coming.
This infamy I'm saddled
with is all complete horseshit
. When asked of his outlaw fame from bank robbing by his crew or the men in their circles, Silvio made it pretty clear that no crime was committed. He needed money like the rest of the country during these bleak times. The banks claimed to be empty but they had plenty, and he wasn’t too keen on asking for it.

He'd come up empty a few times. His men were losing faith. But the last ride had been it. He and his boys had hit the mother lode. The job was ace. His crew was with him all the way to Mexico. In the backseat was Red Lafferty, a lean second generation Irishman with hair so red it appeared orange in the sun. Red had a sleepy eye, was missing a front tooth, and spit when he talked. That wasn’t all. Red was best known for an unnatural cruel streak when it came to the dames. Sure, they all had quick tempers and a history to justify it. But Red’s brutality toward the birds, brave enough to spend a little time with him, gave even Silvio pause, especially when he was liquored. Silvio had heard tales of Red’s mother being the cause. She was a prostitute who used to put her cigarettes out on Red's arms and then force him to watch her when she serviced her clients.

The rumor in the can was that Red killed her. He had heard from an even more reliable source that Red had witnessed the murder of his mother.

Whatever the story, it was Red’s to tell. And in his gang, no one had to share a thing.

Next to Red running the gun, was Touchy—he earned his name in the can. A hard-boiled stick-up man who’d rather kill first and ask questions later. Touchy was the reason two jobs got messy quick. When the vault turned up empty, a cash teller took it in the face and a customer in the gut for just giving questioning looks over Touchy’s tantrum. Of course Silvio ‘Bloodshot’ Garelli got blamed for it. As a reward, they all had nooses fitted for their necks in over ten states.

At the wheel was always the same, Fat Jim’s little brother, Manny.

Fat Jim was the only casualty of the gang. Manny rolled with them ever since. The
Gimp
is what they called him. Having a clubfoot, Manny was prone to scratching whenever he got nervous. He was an alright kid though. Manny would empty his pockets for any pair of legs promising to split and give him a good time. But he was far too shy to make a real connection. He reminded Silvio of Jelly, but that was a long time past.

Manny wasn’t useful for much except driving. He used to run firewater before the repeal of prohibition; something Silvio did in another lifetime as well. Racing cars was their blood until the hunt for money became its supplement. On a night like tonight, with coppers on their backs and the main roads blocked, there was only the bootlegger run to take them across the state lines.

“I said I need a piss!” Red grunted from under his hat.

“Keep a lid on it,” Manny shot back. “We can’t stop just yet. Right, boss?”

Silvio’s eyes darted to the night, the silent black void beyond the tangled branches of the forest trees and beyond them the open plains of farmland. Normally, a straight run in the night and then a hiding place at sunrise was in order. Capture might be waiting after each bend of the road.

Not tonight. Plans had changed just for her. In another life, she would be his
Moll
, but in this one she was just his ghost. She cursed him with night-sweats and dreams. It had been six years since he laid eyes on her. He reached inside his coat pocket and removed the worn brown paper flyer.

In the dark of the car, he studied the writing. It was a hand drawn carnival advertisement that promised food, games, girls, and fun times.

Silvio didn’t believe in fate. But even he had to marvel at the hand of destiny. After years of wondering and searching, a drifting wind blew his second chance under his boot heel just as he stepped in front of the Wells Fargo Bank’s doors. Curious, he knelt to retrieve it from the sidewalk. The carnival boasted wonders never seen, such as the bearded lady, elephant boy, snake charmer, and twins with one body. A Ferris wheel and trapeze act were the main draw. But at the very top corner was a
featured
spot for a hooch dancer, Buttercup.

“Gimp, take Danberry lane. We’re making a stop,” Silvio said, crumbling the flyer in his gloved fist.

“Stop? Out here? Why, boss? You said—”

“Because I need to take a piss, kid. Do as he said,” Red grumbled, stumping his foot in the backseat. Silvio didn’t bother to answer. He found her. He thought about this moment constantly before he broke the chain gang. His search always turned up nothing. Hunting for a colored woman in a travelling carnival was harder than he could have foreseen. Each time he came close, the carnival moved on.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he’d find her and no matter what they thought, she was not going to leave his side.