Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance (25 page)

“Instead, I hit him in the throat. I didn’t think it was going to look as good as whacking him on the nose. Boy, was I wrong.” Fat Tony laughed. It was not a nice sound. “Kid grasped at his throat, his face went red, he staggered about with his arms flailing. It was some sight. So then, he wobbled around and he fell into the canal. Me and his buddy, we watched, but there was no sign of him coming up. After a long time, there was one long stream of bubbles, but that’s all.

“I figured he was dead before he hit the water, anyways. So this kid shakes his head, and he looks at me before he turns to go. Well, he’s going to tell Claudio Champino, this kid’s dad, what happened. The underboss who made my Daddy’s life a misery.

“Long story short, the cops found the kid by the canal, dredged Bruno out. I went to Claudio Champino and told him the other kid had been in a fight with Bruno and Bruno wound up in the canal. The kid saw me and I knocked him down. Must have used a little too much force, because he didn’t get up again. Claudio sat me down and he asked me how the fight started. I told him I didn’t know. He asked me again and again and I wouldn’t say.

“Bruno was a bully and he was always starting fights, I knew that his Daddy would think that was what happened, and if I gave him a hard time not telling him that, he could think about whether I was being respectful in not wanting to blemish the memory of his son, or if I was afraid to say, or if I was just a good soldier. That counted for a lot around there. Still, whatever he thought, it kept his mind off whether the other part of the story was true or not.

“Man, I grew up fast that day. Eleven years old, can you believe it? That underboss, Champino? After that, he went easier on my Daddy. But he was still a pig. I bided my time for two years before I whacked that motherfucker.

“So, everybody who calls me ‘Fat Tony’ behind my back—and I know that includes your Daddy, Princess—it started when people had to remember who I was. And I guess they still do.”

He pushed the chair back slowly and it scraped. Uneasily, Princess stood, too. As did Pierce. Anthony met Pierce’s gaze.

“She’s got balls, this woman.” His eyes were on her, but he was still speaking to Pierce. “You think you can cope with her?”

There was silence. Anthony said, “Well, take good care of her. And take care of yourself, too. Both of you are welcome here at any time.”

On the drive back to Park Place Pinnacle, he said, “You took both our lives in your hands there, you know that?”

The Sicilian edge was still coming off his voice.

“You weren’t scared were you, Mr. Gangster?” She squirmed in her seat when she saw the strain in his pants.

The look in his eye was all the answer she needed. She wondered if anything at all would scare him. “So, now you can give me back the deeds.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to set you free.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you set me free and I’ll be gone so fast the dust will be burning.”

“It’ll be hard getting used to you not driving me mad.”

“Likewise, Mr. Gangster.”

“Perhaps I’d better not.”

“Better not what?”

“Let you go.”

“You’ve only now worked that out?” She banged her fist on his chest. “Do I have to hold you against your will?”

“I like it that way so far,” she said. “Other than that, hold me against whatever you damn well please.”

“You won’t struggle?”

“Sure I will.”

“It’s a deal, then. I’ll hold on to you.”

She breathed hard. The moment was somewhere she never thought she would be. Never wanted to be. Or never knew that she wanted it. Now Princess was certain, nothing mattered to her as much as this.

“Did you know that story?” she asked him.

“No. Well, certainly not that version of it. Actually, all I knew was that he was fat when he was a kid, and now he’s not.”

“So, aren’t you better off for knowing the whole story?”

He looked at her as he drove. “You’ll get me killed.”

“So, how long are you planning to hold me for?”

He thought for a moment. Raised an eyebrow in that sarcastic way and said, “Hmm.”

She banged his chest again

“Ow! You really will get me killed.”

“But you’ll love it.”

“Every second.”

“So?”

He grinned. “Okay, how does ‘forever’ sound?”

“It’s a start.”

He accelerated, and she was glad. She couldn’t wait to get back to the dungeon.

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© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.

Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2014-2015

Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing
 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

All the people and places are portrayed in this story are fictional. All characters are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary.

Dedication

for those who have ridden on
and for all those who ride still,

especially for those who give

 
help and inspiration.

Love, Alice

Angel

I wanted tonight to be the best that it could possibly be, something really special, for him as well as for me. That way, even if he killed me, at least I’d have tonight to remember as the lights all went out.

If he knew what I’d done, I didn’t think that Cox would ever forgive me. I doubt it. Bikers don’t do much forgiving, and they’re even less likely to forgive a woman.

We hadn’t put on the light in his upstairs room at the clubhouse, and the sun was going down. The fading sunlight that sloped in through the window splashed his hair with a golden glow.
 

Watching his back, the
Savage MC
colors on his black leather cut, the denims loose over the muscular symphony of his tight, round ass. Knowing what I knew, I was on fire for him.
 

I wanted that big, hot, wild intimacy, that sense of being lost, that feeling of falling, going over the edge. Falling though the fire, like we were the fire and the world would burn away around us. I called his name,

“Cox?” and he turned slowly, the black leather creaked as he looked at me from under that unruly dark blond mop. He said my name back, “Nikka?” my stomach still dropped every time my name came out of Cox’s mouth.
 

That look in his pale blue eyes, somewhere between rage and hunger, it always turned my knees to water, made my breath catch in my chest. I wanted to speak but the words clogged in my throat.

So badly I wanted to explain things, but I didn’t know where to start, and I was afraid I’d say something there’d be no going back from. That I’d tell him something that would be the end of it all.

I reached my arms towards him, but that doesn’t work with Cox. You have to be clearer. More... definite. I took a step towards him. The light from the window was sloping and fading, and it made the shadows deep and dramatic on Cox’s face as the sun turned the sky red outside.

Coming closer, I felt him breathe. I felt the heat of his body. The swell of his powerful chest. I felt his heart pound.

I said, “It doesn’t matter, Cox. Really it doesn’t.” Our eyes locked, “It doesn’t even matter if it’s only ever this one more time. This is now. Be with me. Now.”

I looked at him as I put my hands on his hips. I searched the expressions that flashed through his eyes. Held him firm as I leaned closer towards him and felt all the muscles at the tops of his thighs slowly move.
 

I said his name again, “Cox,” and I began to lower my knees. He blinked through a look like thunder as he held my shoulder and stopped me. A biker turning down a blowjob? This must be getting serious.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he really was afraid of becoming too serious with me. All that talk about ‘old ladies,’ there was always a catch in his voice when he said it. He could never even say the phrase in front of me without getting into some kind of an explanation.

Was he acting out of his concern for my feelings? The Vice President of the
Savage MC
? It seemed unlikely. But this man Cox, he was a mass of contradictions. Even if he did accept me, took me as his old lady, it would protect me from the attention of other club members, but it wouldn’t give me much in the way of rights.

He would still be free to act in whatever ways he chose. In reality, it seemed as though all that it would mean for me was a lot of obligations. But I knew that I wanted it, deep down inside. I wanted the bond. The bond with him.
 

I moved to stand a little closer. Looked up into his eyes. Wanting him. His head bent towards me and his lips came close to mine. Our mouths opened. He held the back of my head and his eyes flickered all over my face, from my eyes to my mouth, my neck, back to my eyes. Back to my mouth.

Our breath touched and, as I breathed in to taste him, his lips touched mine. Our tongues met, like little children meeting, little children kept apart, but for no reasons that they knew. The softness and moisture of our mouths spoke for us. His lips and mine locked and there was nothing childish in the ways that our bodies wrapped and meshed and entwined.
 

His low voice was firm. He said, “This is all too hot, too fast, Nikka. There’s been noise in at the club council table. People are wary about having the police chief’s daughter so close to club business.”

“But I can help the club. You’ve seen that already.”

“You helped us out of some trouble with the police, it’s true. But some say that we would never have had that trouble if you hadn’t have been here.”

I looked in his eyes as he said, “Nikka, it isn’t only about what I want.” I took his hand,

I told him, “I know.”

We Still Kill the Old Way

The night that all the damned trouble got started I was still new to the clubhouse. Not quite as green as that young tush, the redheaded girl with the big bouncing puppies fighting to get out of her tied up gingham shirt, the girl who was sliding her pert ass in those tiny denim shorts along the bench towards Snori and Trols, the two big Norwegian bikers.

Snori, like a man mountain with a red forest from under his nose and down to his chest and a pink, pointy peak on top of his head. Trols, smaller, wiry, with black hair and a mustache that both are too black to be for real and mean, narrow eyes.

The redhead shook her shoulders some, lifted her cascading curls, then she leaned over to Snori while she looked up at Trols. She grab herself a red bush of Snori’s huge beard, slid her fingers inside his plaid shirt, run them around in some chest hair.
 

She leaned her hand on Trols’ thigh, dragged her nails up the inner seam. In no time she had the fronts of those two pairs of jeans open and two fat, angry hunks of manhood rose out, long and preening proud in the club lights.

All the confidence she had in those big, sultry eyes, you knew she was going to have a couple of tricks to show off. A party piece or two. Smart money says that she can roll the muscles in her throat up and down while something keeps her windpipe open, real wide. We’d soon see.