Unstoppable (15 page)

“You’re an attorney? So you put people in prison?” he asked without an ounce of expression.

“No, actually I keep them out. I am a Federal Defense Attorney. I primarily practice Federal Law. And I defend clients, I don’t prosecute them,” I raised my eyebrows and rocked my head from side to side.

In my mind, comparing a defense attorney to a prosecuting attorney was comparing black to white. To me, and I am not certain everyone shared my views, prosecuting attorneys were, more often than not, utter garbage. I sat nervously and waited for him to speak.

“So, in a nutshell, you’re overworked. You don’t get out much, and you’re interested in me because you think I’m a take charge type of individual. Oh, and listening to you talk is…” he paused, looked down at the table and narrowed his gaze.

“
Interesting
. It’s like you had the entire speech prepared and read it off of a chalkboard in your head or something. And you talk too damned fast,” he looked up and smiled.

“We have time limits on speaking. Opening. Closing. Anyway. So, your thoughts?” I took a delicate
girlish
sip of my beer.

“So far, I like you. I want to know five things,” he waved his right index finger in my direction as he spoke.

“Anything,” I responded without hesitation.

“Age, percentage of body fat, height barefoot, your go-to meat, and what you hope to get from me,” he rubbed his hands together as he finished speaking.

I looked up toward the ceiling and scanned the perimeter of the bar as I thought. He asked an interesting list of question, no doubt.  I looked down at the table as he rubbed his massive hands together.

I bet he has a big cock.

“Thirty-three on September 26
^th
. Ten percent. Five foot two, but I’ll claim three. You’ll have to expand on the meat question, I have no idea what that means. And let’s see, I’m a no nonsense lady. I have no time or patience for bullshit. I don’t play games, I don’t sleep around, and I don’t want someone to fuck me over or lead me down some strange time consuming path,” I inhaled and waited for his response.

“Meat, Vee. If you had to pick a perfect meat, what would it be? If you had to choose one?
Your go-to meat
. And you didn’t answer my question. You dodged it. What do you hope to get from me? Don’t tell me what you hope
not
to get. What do you want this meeting lead to?” he finished speaking and calmly raised his beer bottle to his lips.

“Oh, sorry. Chicken,” I laughed.

I hesitated and thought of how to respond to the last question. There was no value for either of us in wasting any time or effort if we did not have similar interests. He was an extremely attractive man and it appeared that he possessed a great personality. Additionally, something about him intrigued me. Looks and personality alone, however, wouldn’t satisfy me and I knew this. I could look at pictures on the internet, and my ex-husband was proof that a personality, in itself, wasn’t sufficient. I decided to tell him exactly what I was hoping for; I just needed to make it sound attractive to
him.

“I am a loving, caring, and fairly compassionate woman. I am a competitor. I work hard, and I make a fabulous living doing so. In a relationship, for almost everyone, it gets down to sex. A couple either has sex or they don’t. Inevitably, if there’s
no
sex, one or both parties end up straying, finding sex, and the relationship dissolves. If there
is
sex, the sex needs to be satisfying to both parties. If the sex is not satisfying, one or both parties end up straying, finding sex, and the relationship dissolves. The bottom line is this: If one or both parties in a relationship desire and enjoy sex, the sex must be satisfying to
both
parties. It must be,” I raised my beer bottle to my mouth, drank the remaining portion, and waved the bottle toward the passing waiter.

“Keep going,” he nodded and waved his finger in the air as the waiter passed.

“We can get into the details later if need be. The bottom line, as I say, is this; sexually, I am submissive. I am not a weak woman and I am not a pushover. I am not, by my own diagnosis, codependent. But sexually, I need a man to take charge, and I do mean
take charge
. I desire, and more importantly, I
need
to be put in my respective sexual place. In the absence of having a dominant male partner, I will have nothing,” I waited as the waiter slid two beers across the table, and continued.

“Bottom line? First, you must be
that
person. You must be dominant, and be willing to take control of me. Moreover, you must desire it as much as I. I want to live under a man’s thumb that is firmly placed on top of me, smashing me into the submissive sexual being that he so desires. If you’re
potentially
that person, I want to get to know you. If you’re not that person, if you can be satisfied by mundane, ho-hum vanilla sex, we should finish our beers, shake hands and go our separate ways. Are you Dominant, Mr. Ripton?” I crossed my legs and waited anxiously for his reply.

“I
am
a dominant male, and I prefer to be in a relationship where I am a Dom to a submissive female. Actually, I require it,” he said flatly, his beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers as he spoke.

Thank. Fucking. God.

“So,” he rubbed his fingers across the scruff of hair on his chin, “you don’t fuck around sexually? You’re not sexually promiscuous?”

I shook my head, “No, not at all.”

“And you’re not after a quick fuck?”

“No. If that’s what I thought you wanted, I’d leave now.”

“You think you’re submissive?” he tipped his beer bottle to his lips and held it as he waited for my response.

“I
know
I am,” I smiled.

“Let’s jump ahead and say that everything between us works out, Vee. For the sake of this conversation, make that assumption,” he slid his beer bottle to the side and leaned forward to the center of the booth, resting his forearms on the edge of the table.

Naturally, I leaned forward and waited for him to speak. I felt his warm breath on my face as he studied my eyes. Nervously, I crossed my legs again. Something about this man made me nervous;
the good nervous
. I wanted him to touch me, desperately. He moved his hands to his chin and inhaled a slow breath through his nose as his eyes scanned every inch of me that was above the surface of the table. His gaze met mine and stopped as he softly exhaled.

“Listen carefully, alright Vee?” he breathed.

All I could do was nod my head and stare as I waited for him to speak. I crossed my legs.

Again
.

He curled his index finger toward his palm, motioning for me to come closer. He was, without a doubt, toying with me. I was so close I could already feel his breath against my lips. I moved two inches closer, leaving no more than a few inches between our lips. As soon as I settled into place, I attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. As if he knew it would make me uneasy, he began to whisper.

I love it when a man whispers.

“I fight bare knuckles matches in Rundberg. Yeah, in Rundberg.
Those
fights. I box professionally, but not as frequently as I’d like. I make ten grand a year boxing if I’m lucky, and most of that comes from training other boxers. I make twenty five or thirty fighting bare knuckles. I’ve never been to prison, but I should have a few dozen times. I’m of the opinion, short of maybe one person on this earth, that there isn’t a man alive that can whip my ass. Not a god damned one. I’ve been stabbed, beaten with a club, shot at, and just two or three nights ago, knocked a man out that tried to rob me at gunpoint. Everyone these days thinks that they want a bad boy. Well, they don’t get any badder than this,” he raised his head and pointed his two index fingers at his chest.

“The problem, if there is one, Vee, is this. I’m one wild motherfucker. It’s extremely difficult to keep my focus on one thing, person, or event. If we reach a point that we start fucking, and I’m pretty sure we will, you better fuck me as if your life depends on it. Because, Vee, when it comes to sex, I’m not easily amused or entertained,” he reached over, placed his finger under my chin, and tilted my head back as he studied my eyes.

I squeezed my thighs together.

Squish.

“And if you don’t entertain me the first time we fuck, this will end quick,
real quick
. If you do, and if you have the ability to keep my attention sexually, I’ll fuck you in a manner and in ways that you have no ability of even comprehending. You just don’t. Because if you haven’t had my ten inches of pierced cock shoved in you and these hands all over your body, you haven’t even been
fucked
yet. You’ve just been
fucked with
,” he pulled his hand away from my face and slowly leaned back into the booth.

Did he say ten inches?

Of pierced cock?

I swallowed hard and opened my mouth, hoping I would be able to form a legible sentence. “Where do I sign up, Mr. Ripton?” I sighed.

“Call me Ripp, Vee. And I ain’t Christian Grey; I don’t have a contract for you to sign. You’re a woman of character. All I need is for you to shake on it. Make a fist,” he said as he leaned forward and held his clenched hand over the center of the table.

“A handshake? With a fist?” I scrunched my brow in confusion as I reached toward his hand.

“Make a
fist
and we’ll shake on it,” he said sternly as he shook his over the table.

I formed my hand into a fist and held it over the center of the table.

And with that, Mike Ripton pounded his knuckles into mine, and he smiled. And at that moment, I
knew
two things without a doubt.

He was dead serious.

And I was in over my head.

Way over my head.

RIPP.
I’ve heard people say that once you’re an adult, you don’t change. I don’t believe that. I think we all have the capacity to change; we just have to want to do it. It’s developing the want that is difficult. We become so stuck in our routines, so comfortable, so unwilling to take risk - we just don’t see the value in change. Either that or we’re just plain uncomfortable with what the change might offer. Me? I get bored easy, so change for me brings new things. Some things, however, I will never change; because I’m just not willing.

Saturday chicken was one of those things.

“God damn it, Dekk, Shorty,
somebody
hand me the fuckin’ water bottle. If this shit burns, it’s ruined,” I screamed as I watched my precious chicken go up in flames.

“Where is it?” Dekk hollered from the edge of the lounge he was sitting on.

“Well, if you’d get the fuck up and look, you’d probably find it. Hurry, this shit’s on fire,” I bellowed as I closed the lid and raised it again, hoping the flames had extinguished themselves.

“I don’t understand why this motherfucker’s burning like this,” I closed the lid and looked under the grille for the spray bottle.

A light tapping on my back startled me, and I spun around quickly. Kace stood behind me, holding the spray bottle in her hand, smiling.

“Good lookin’ out, Shorty,” I said as I snatched the bottle from her grasp.

Quickly, I opened the lid to the grille and sprayed the burner area, eliminating the fire that was slowly ruining my chicken. Greasy foods will start a fire as the grease drips into the burner area, but chicken never causes a fire. After I made sure the flame was out, I closed the lid and nervously opened it again a few times to confirm the status of my chicken. Somewhat confused, I placed the bottle under the grille and reluctantly sat on the edge of my lounge.

“Where the fuck you get this chicken from, Dekk?” I asked as I grabbed my bottle of beer from the table beside the lounge.

“Up at the corner, HEB. The one by the exit,” he responded.

“Well, HEB’s chicken don’t normally go up in fuckin’ flames. Something’s wrong with this chicken,” I stared at the grille and took a drink of my beer.

“The chicken’s fine, Ripp,” Dekk shook his head as Shorty sat down beside him on the lounge.

“It ain’t fine. It was on fuckin’ fire, dude. It’s just fuckin’ weird. It takes grease to start a fire. Chicken ain’t greasy. I ain’t lookin’ to eat no weird ass chicken that’s been tampered with and infused with grease to make it taste good,” I finished drinking what was left of my beer and tossed the bottle into the trash can beside the lounge.

I stood, opened the lid of the grille, and checked the chicken. The burner below the chicken was burning steadily and at a low flame suitable for barbequing chicken. I closed the lid of the grille, grabbed a beer from the cooler, and dropped back into my lounge as I rubbed my head.

“Fuck I’m hungry. What a fuckin’ week. This is the first I’ve been able to relax all God damned week,” I closed my eyes as late afternoon sun warmed my bare skin.

“Maybe it was the burgers?” Kace said softly.

I sat up in my chair and opened my eyes, “Excuse me?” I snapped.

“The burgers, Ripp. Maybe the burgers made the grease,” she smiled.

“I ain’t cookin’ burgers, Kace. There ain’t a burger in there, just chicken,” I looked across the deck at Kace, confused.

“Well, Shane and I cooked over here the other night, and we cooked burgers,” she said.

“Dekk?” I raised one eyebrow and stared at Shane as he turned his palms up in a half-assed apology.

“Dekk, you cooked burgers on my fuckin’ grille?” I asked as I stood and opened the lid to the barbeque grille.

“Kace wanted a burger, so I bought some hamburger. It was lean, like ninety percent or something. Yeah, we cooked it over here the other night, you were gone,” he admitted.

I turned toward him and shook my head. I opened the lid to the grille and silently began turning all of the pieces of chicken over with the tongs. After successfully flipping all of the pieces and verifying there was no threat of another secondary fire, I closed the lid and hung the tongs from the hook.