Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance (36 page)

He lay back with a huge sigh and a massive grin. He reached out for a joint from the ashtray and fired it up as his phone beeped.

Hacker took the call. As soon as he heard the voice at the other end, he was alert and attentive. He turned away, got up, walked to the window. And he spoke in a low voice. But Gypsy heard his side of the conversation.

“Yup... as agreed... yeah, yes... and you’ll bring the merchandise... yup... yup... Yasgar’s, right? Yup... eleven thirty. See you there. Yup... stay safe, bro.”
 

Yasgar’s. That was a disused factory on the far side of town. Miles from anywhere. Gypsy knew it from way back when she went with teenage groups for moonlight drinking and whatever.
 

Yasgar’s was a bleak skeleton of an old factory and warehouse complex, like a rectangular mansion of evil from an old black and white movie. The wide tracks around the outside and the parking lots were littered with the shells of vehicles, sheds and broken down outbuildings. Fractured and broken windows on the upper floors glinted in the moonlight. All the ground floor windows and doors were just black gaps with blackened and broken Art Deco curves.

Gypsy’s plan was to surprise Hacker. She knew that he was going to get there early for the meet, and she thought that a little al fresco bj would perk him up before showtime. Through the gaping doorway of the main building, massive rusted chains hung from the high roof and piles of old tires and boxes stood by wet pools around the decayed concrete floor. Dripping water echoed in the gloom.

As soon as she stepped inside, Gypsy heard men’s lowered voices. She froze. She crouched at the doorway, trying to hear, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. The sound was coming from behind a stack of metal shelving, and through it she was able to make out the silhouettes of at least two pairs of legs. They were no more than fifteen feet away. Their heads were hidden behind the piles of stuff on the shelves. She kept very still as she tried to hear them.

The words were just a muffled noise and she couldn’t make anything out of them. With a chill, she recognized the voices. Boxer and Shank were just on the other side of those shelves, and she hadn’t a friend for ten miles or more.

They must have second guessed Hacker and shown up early with their own surprise for him. That didn’t bode well at all. Gypsy’s first instinct was to call Hacker, but she couldn’t risk having her phone flash or make a noise before got herself a safe distance away. That thought made her wonder how much distance she would need. It was very quiet around there, they would be able to hear her for some way. It was a miracle she had got as near as she was without being detected.

She crouched and started to back very slowly out. She would keep low and as close to the wall as she could to get away. Her foot dislodged an old can and it rolled very quietly across the concrete. The sound of the voices stopped abruptly.

Gypsy looked back at the shelves. No legs were visible. She turned to run. A huge hand fell on her shoulder and gripped, hard and she heard Shank’s voice, low and hard. “Partner, I believe we got us a bonus prize.”

Gypsy’s first thought was to brazen it out. She said, “Oh, boys, you know I’m glad to have found you. Let’s finish what we started earlier,” and she began to undo the buttons of her shirt. As Boxer came at her and she saw the feral look in his eye, she realized that they didn’t want her to be compliant. They wanted it to be rough. Well, to keep them busy until Hacker arrived, she was prepared to do that, too. She would put up a struggle. Hopefully not so much that they’d end up injuring her, but she could risk some bruises.

Gypsy was beginning to realize that she might do almost anything for Hacker.

Boxer moved towards her and arched her eyebrows into a frightened look. Gypsy had never been all that much for acting, but Boxer wasn’t hard to convince. She said, “Oh, no! Please don’t tear my shirt,” and he reached out to the front of her beautiful white cotton shirt. Buttons flew as he ripped right down the front. She reached for his wrist and he slapped her hard across the face.

The side of her face stung, and the shock sent her reeling. Shank was there to catch her as she fell. She turned her head and breathed hard on the hard bulge that strained the front of his blue denims. He grabbed her chin. Gypsy slipped and was falling awkwardly. Shank caught her hair. A shock of pain hit her as the whole of her weight was suddenly hanging from her scalp. She got her knees to the floor as Shank’s cock loomed in her face.

She shied away from it, hoping that while he made her suck his dick, it would keep him occupied and prevent him doing worse violence. That still left Boxer, of course, but he was yanking her ass up, and tearing at her panties. It took him three goes to rip the gusset out. When her flesh was exposed, Boxer helped himself to a generous feel along her clit, her slit, her lips and her ass. She squirmed as he shoved his fingers up in her pussy and, treacherous female anatomy, it was soaking wet.

Treacherous or maybe just self-protective. Boxer’s attention was certainly held at that moment. He worked his fingers up her, growling, “This little cunt’s as wet as a sump,” and, “horny little whore, she’s dripping for it.” Then he jammed his thumb up her ass. All the while, Shank’s cock was ramming her throat. She made noises of protest and Shank slapped her face. When he found out how much he liked that, the sound of the slap and the whack as his hand beat her flesh on his cock, he slapped her again, harder.

He did that a couple more times as Boxer’s cock was engaging in her ass. Next time Shank smacked Gypsy’s face, she let the impact bang her teeth into his cock. Just enough for the fun to have gone down out of that game for him. Boxer’s cock was splitting her ass wide, dry without even spit for lube. She didn’t need to pretend, her ass was shaking to get him out, whether she wanted it to or not.

Then a mechanical click echoed in the darkness of the decaying industrial shell and everything became still. After the click, Gypsy heard Hacker’s voice from behind her. “Boxer you can finish cumming up my personal sweetbutt’s ass, or you can get right on to explaining why I can’t see our money anywhere around here.” Then Gypsy felt a small ring of cold steel press against her temple.
 

Shank said, “Well, if she’s your
personal
sweetbutt, how are you going to feel after I blow her personal head open?”

Hacker said, “Not nearly as bad as you are, cause it aint my personal dick in her mouth. I doubt you want to blow your own dick off, Shank, but I can’t be sure. You are pretty fucking stupid.”
 

There was a silence. Hacker said, “And since she
is
my personal sweetbutt whose throat you have your dick stuck in, I wonder what she would do if I asked her nicely to chomp your dick right off.”

Gypsy bit on Shank’s cock. Not enough to draw blood, but nearly. Enough to show him that she would be happy to do it. The cocks in both ends of her were starting to wilt away.
 

The pistol barrel moved quickly away from the side of her head and upwards. Her ears hurt from the hard, loud echo that the gunshots made in the cavernous warehouse. Something burned her shoulder. Shank fell backwards. Went down like a log.

Gypsy turned, pulling her sore ass off Boxer’s cock. Shank lay flat on the ground, the gun smoking on the ground at his side. He had a startled look on his face. He also had a neat, red hole in the right of his forehead. A thick puddle of blood seeped out from the back of his head. Hacker’s gun was now up against the back of Boxer’s head.

Hacker said, “Now, Boxer. Tell me about our money.”

Boxer said, “It’s not here.”

“No, obviously it isn’t. But it will be tomorrow. You’ll bring it here and then you’ll leave it, with a twenty percent vig. And then we’ll decide whether to consider you paid in full. Otherwise, by this time tomorrow, you’ll be meeting up with your bro where you can both become useful parts of a new freeway intersection.”

Gypsy sat with Hacker on his unexpectedly neat bed.

Hacker took a long draw on the joint, held his breath in for a moment, then passed it to her. As she took a toke, he picked up a remote, pressed a button and set it down again. The stereo played Free, the
Fire and Water
album.

The grass was strong and smooth, fresh, natural Pacific Northwest produce. Straight away Gypsy was buzzing nicely. He moved to take back the joint. He was standing close. His chest was close to hers, and her breasts ached for him. She tipped her hip towards him, felt the heat of his groin next to the heat of her own. He said, “You can’t expect too much, okay?” She looked down at the big bulge in his jeans and said,

“I don’t know, Hacker, looks like you’ve got a fair sized package for me there.”

He said, “I mean after.” In his eyes, through the hard, protective shield, she thought she saw someone with a deep, dark hole inside. An unfilled need. She knew that feeling well enough to recognize it.

He leaned in towards her, “Let me look at your shoulder,” he touched it tenderly. After a gentle examination, he said, “You won’t need stitches, but I’ll put a couple of steri-strips on it.” He went to the bathroom and he returned with a medical pack. She said,

“I should take off my shirt. Right?” He almost broke into a smile and she almost caught her breath.

He watched as she shrugged out of the leather waistcoat. Since he was watching, she made a little show of undoing the shirt buttons, pulling the tails out of the leather skirt and then sliding the shirt off, one sleeve at a time. She put her elbows across her bra and looked up at him, checking that she wasn’t overdoing it. Maybe she was but he didn’t seem to mind. They both were buzzing nicely on the weed by then, so everything seemed more like fun and mischief.

He was attentive as he cleaned the wound up, although he didn’t mind looking at her breasts while he did it. He put three thin tapes across the gash, then a sticking plaster over the tapes. Then he inspected his work. Then he looked at her breasts again. Then he kissed her.

He kissed her softly at first, then deep, slow and soulful. Gypsy responded. The music carried their bodies together and she went to take off his jacket. He pushed her back firmly. The look in his eye was enough and she remembered. You don’t mess with a biker’s jacket, or with anything that has their colors on. A biker’s colors are as sacred as his bike. She said she was sorry. He said, “There are rules. You don’t want to fuck with them.” She wanted to say,
No, I want to fuck with you
, but his face didn’t look like it was ready for a jokes.

They smoked some more of the joint, passing it between them. He said, “You didn’t have a figure like that in high school.” She asked him,

“Would you have paid me more attention if I had?”

“I might have fucked you,” he said, “You were a couple of years below me, though. I wouldn’t have risked jail for it.” He pulled back and looked at her breasts again. Then his eyes slid up her neck. Then down to her legs. Slowly they traced up her thighs. After a long toke he said, “Okay. I might have.” His hand slipped around to her ass and he pulled her in for anther kiss. This time hard. Deep and wet. His tongue inside her mouth. Gypsy’s heart pounded as he pulled her hips against his groin and her breasts crushed into the muscles of his hard chest.