Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) (70 page)

“Think you wouldn’t?” He laid his big hand on my shoulder.

“You can take a chance and find out, Colm.”

He leaned in closer, “No, Tania, the other thing that I’m wondering is why you made such a great steaming shitpile of trouble in just a couple of days.”

“Maybe I don’t have too much time.”

“Yeah, it’s the other part that I’m interested in.”

My eyes went to the door. I was weighing my options.

Colm said, “It’s always possible that if somebody heard a big ruckus in here, they might come on in to help. It’s not likely, but it’s possible.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Maybe that’s some small comfort.”

“Don’t see why. It wouldn’t be you they’d be coming in to help.” His other hand went into my cut-offs. His fingers slid inside. I was drenched.

He took his hand from my shoulder. Hauled his zipper down. Dragged out his fat cock and leaned against me. Then he put his hand back on my shoulder.

I drove my fist as fast and as hard as I could, up and into the front of his throat. He choked and staggered, his reddening face all wide-eyed astonishment. I snapped my knee up hard into his balls. As he crumpled forward I raised my foot and shoved him back.

I left him choking on the floor with his dick out. He’d survive, for sure, but his dignity would have a long recovery. And his authority in the club rested on his standing. I left the door wide open behind me.

Stoker came to the clubhouse looking for Tania and found Rap along the way. They heard Colm Booker choking in the council room and got him onto a bench in the bar. He tried to resist their help but he was pretty helpless so he couldn’t do too much about it.

Rap asked Colm what the fuck happened and when Colm said, ‘Tania,” old, gray haired Rusty gasped. He was sitting slumped across the room with a drained and haunted look on his face.

Rap asked him, “You see that woman come through here? Tall, stacked, tiny cut-offs and lots of hair?”

Rusty’s head was shaking slowly, “I saw her. That was Tania Black.”

Stoker said, “You know her?”

“Knew her. Her father John was better known around here.”

Colm looked up and his face froze. His voice rasped, hoarse, “John Black?”

Rusty nodded slowly. Stoker looked between the two men, shocked to see the cold, empty look in their eyes and the color draining from Colm’s face.

Stoker said, “What happened?”

Rusty and Colm’s eyes told a story of guilt and death. Neither man offered an explanation. Eventually, Rusty said, “John went on a run, sent on club business,” Colm’s eyes went down to the floor, “There was an ambush waiting for him. He didn’t make it back.”

Rap said, “And Tania’s his daughter?”

“That was her name. And that’s who it looked like when I saw her running through the bar.”

“Did you see where she went?”

“No, but I know where she is now.”

Colm’s scratchy voice rasped painfully, “If you know where she is, take us to her, Rusty.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Let’s go, before she moves on somewhere else again.”

“Oh, she’ll still be there. If you’re sure then follow me.”

They rode for several miles. Out of town, up into the hills, past a small village. Rusty stopped by an iron gate and led them walking through. They followed him along an overgrown path until he stopped by an old oak tree.

The town lay spread across the valley behind him, concrete and smoke, and the murky river running through the middle.

“Here she is,” Rusty said, and he pointed at a slab of stone in the shade of the tree. On the slab was a simple carving that read
Tania Black 1984-2006
.

© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2014

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.

BLAZE

Part 1

RHYTHM

by

Alice May Ball

© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2013

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.

Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

Cover photo © Katalinks at Bigstockphoto

I took a teaching post in this supposedly quiet little town of Lovage. At my interview, the principal said, “Think of it as a cross between ‘loving’ and ‘ravage.’ Dream on, principal Bones. For one thing, there isn’t any ravaging on the curriculum and it’s not a staff-room duty either. And for the other thing, this place is more like a cross between a forgotten dried herb and a clump of weeds.

Since I moved here, I found it easy to skip all of the messy fumbling and the embarrassing lies that boys put you through just to get to your soft, fleshy parts. Now I settle exclusively for the direct move on the chocolate option.

Well, I did. I did until the night Blaze came to town, but everybody’s good intentions run like yelping packs of frightened hounds when Blaze struts into view.
 

A motorcycle has a unique sound all of its own, a distinct voice, and a Harley more so than any other bike. Believe me. I'm not a girl who's mechanically-minded, I don't even know what a spark plug is, apart from what the name tells you it is. It doesn't take long being around a Harley Davidson though, you soon learn to hear its distinctive beat, the unique sound of its throat. You learn the rhythm, the pulse, the notes of the engine and the beat of the exhaust.

It's a voice, like any other, and the same way that you immediately recognize a voice across a bar or a party, you can hear a Harley that you know, even in a pack. The voice matches the owner somehow. If he's a big, heavily muscled, hard-ass guy with hot, brown-eyed good looks, an explosive temper and a short fuse, just for instance, then that's how his bike is going to sound.

Or, I don't know, perhaps you tune in with a finer sensitivity after the owner has tried to kill you.

I knew that Blaze was trouble, everybody knew that. He was famous for it and, the second he looked in my eye I saw it in the flesh. I can’t deny that was a big part of it. A few of us teachers, all of us good girls, well, reasonably good girls, were celebrating the start of the summer vacation. We were free for a few weeks, and we were owed some Friday night fun.

The school year, we all agreed, had not been as advertised when we all applied from far away for our posts in this Jekyll and Hyde town. All of our so-called teaching jobs actually involved about four percent teaching, eighty percent crowd control and the rest was mostly police work. Oh, apart from dealing with the parents who were, as often as not, more dangerous than the kids.
 

Now that the year was finally done with, tail feathers were due for a shaking. Perky little Naomi, fit and feisty Amy, the hardbodied phys ed teacher, chatty and outrageous Chrissie and Jayd, a couple of others, and luscious, cake-loving me. I was the youngest, and I was the one who always had to push those barriers just a little harder, test the boundaries, take a few extra risks. Always been that way. My daddy told me it would get me into trouble. But I remember he had on a sly grin when he said it.

Back when I was in school, the girls all gave me a hard time for that, as well as for my weight. Most likely it was because my tits were way bigger than theirs, at least in the beginning. My big, curvy, womanly body always made me feel desirable, powerful and beautiful, but the other girls, all into their fashion plate idols and rap-ho’s, they did everything they could to make me feel bad about myself.
 

The boys appreciated my outstanding assets, though. They reddened and their voices thickened as their pants got tight and they became a little outstanding themselves. All of them tried to come up with ways and means for their cocks to wind up between my big, soft young breasts. That was OK with me, better than OK a lot of the time, but I got such crap from the other girls that I couldn’t stand it. Somehow it didn’t seem to lead me into long-term relationships either, but I thought,
who needs it?

My body obviously gave pleasure to the boys, but not one of them ever never had the stamina or the skills to satisfy me. I can give a man the time of his life. I can do it over a few hours, or I can do it in about ten minutes. Still always leaves me wanting chocolate.

Shouting over the music in the downtown club, I said,

"Let's do shots."

Carmel said,
 

"I don't know, Luce, it's getting kind of late, don't you think?"

You could tell she would go either way. She was going to be the one who would say later on, 'well, I said we shouldn't have. Remember I said that?'

Monique, Jayd and Hayley shouted they were up for it, so shots it was.
 

I’m thinking about that song from the Clash. My daddy wasn’t a bank robber, and you couldn’t really say that he never hurt nobody, but something about the song spoke to me. It was playing in the club when the shots arrived, the same time as Blaze appeared out of nowhere.

Larger than life, the real deal, an actual rockstar. He moved, head and shoulders above the crowd, with that sinuous, cat-like prowl, his flashing eves devouring whatever they saw. Soft black leather stretched over his powerful thighs and his snaking hips.

Across the front of those hips, under the tight, shining leather, just below a huge sliver buckle, was a bulge like he had half a baseball bat down there. All of the girls sitting on barstools, as he walked by, their legs all fell wide. His eyes fell on mine and he stopped. As he looked down to the now swelling globes of my big, creamy breasts, he steered right to our table. He looked straight at me and said,

“We’ll do these. You do half and I’ll do the rest.” His watery, grey eyes on mine. He was talking about the shots. But he was saying something else at the same time. That thick, golden voice, like hot, sweet molasses. Slow and deliberate, deep and round, but whatever he was saying always sounded like a melody.
 

All the girls’ eyes and thighs just fell open at the sight of a real, live 24-carat rock megastar. His eyes were still on mine. Shivers ran down my spine and moist quivers started in my pants. He said,

“Just you and me.” Then, to the others,

“I’ll buy some more for you little girls.”

He’s good at that. He’s good at taking control as though it belonged to him. He’s good at paying for things, too. Blaze Paskall, big rock star, everybody knows who he is. Everybody wants to please him, do what he wants. He’s even bigger in the flesh than he looks on his outrageous videos.
 

He’s better looking, too. A sinuous hunk of leather, denim, tattoos and sweat with a flame-red mane. Blaze Paskall, the old-school, hard-living, hotel-trashing throwback.
 

Notorious for diabolical riffs, obscene poetry and the trail of havoc and destruction that
The Difference Engine
leave in the wake of their tours. Just like the band he got famous with,
The Organ Grind.
When he struts, everyone stands back.
 

The Organ Grind
were the hell-raising, too-hot-to-handle band, banned from hotels, airlines, even from some towns. Their songs and albums were the anthems of anger and the downloads
de riguer
that year.
 

Their incendiary songs were written and sung by Blaze himself and his duelling axe partner, Chainsaw Babbage.
Lovelace Lies Bleeding
was that summers song you heard everywhere. The chorus hook,
Get that monkey OUTA HERE!
was the reaction of every angry teen that summer in every unwelcome situation.
 

Wherever an adolescent was interfaced with authority, sooner or later you’d hear that refrain. As teachers, all of us heard it under nearly every surly breath.
 

When Blaze split to form his own band,
The Difference Engine
, everybody expected the end of both Blaze and the
Grind
, but they split like some kind of amoeba, or a zygote or something. Now it was two bands, both as big and as powerful as the first.
 

Guys cheer and nod at the sight of him, and girls juice in their jeans. I certainly did. I was, right then.

I wasn’t going to let it show, though. I said,

“Yeah?”

I put salt on my hand, watched him as I licked it off, slowly. He did the same. His huge tongue flicked out of his thick, dark lips, moistened them first, all around the inside of his grin, grazed the sharp edges of his gleaming teeth.
 

We sucked our slices of lemon, eyes bolted onto each other, and an electricity charged from my chest down to my gut, then dropped below. Four shots each, one right after the other. I wiped my mouth with my forearm and he grinned.
 

The way that his chest moved under the shirt as he spoke, a pulse of raw lust bolted through me. He took my hand, turned it over and said,

“What do we see in your future?”

My stomach felt like it dropped about three story’s. He leered as his fingers brushed gently up the inside of my forearm. My heart thumped. I pulled to take my hand back, but he held it. Showing me that he had the power, as well as the strength.
 

More shots, and the girls, the bar, the music, everything faded until it become nothing more than our backdrop. In focus when it was funny or exciting, otherwise the world was all blurry color and sound. There was only Blaze. And me.
 

A picture washed across my mind of his face between my breasts and that massive cock, nudging its way into my wet puss, probing the hot lips apart, pushing its way in through the tingling folds. He’d said something, but I had to ask him to repeat it.