Pleasing Dom Page 2

  And yet, even with the enormity of the heist looming before us, there were still boring, everyday tasks that required the attentions of the president of the Broken Spires: checking out club prospects. This was a duty that I used to enjoy––determining the toughest, smartest, and most loyal of new prospects. And yet, now I was bored with it. These young men seemed like wolf pups to me: savage, undisciplined, and naive. They yipped at me like I held the last piece of meat in all the world, and they’d do anything to have it.

  Still, I imagined it would probably go better than scoping out another Crooked Jaws bar. Plus, I didn’t want the likes of Fernando or Dorian picking out the new recruits. They tended to focus too much on violence, picking bullies and thugs. But if my years as president had taught me anything, it was that brains were far more important than brawn.

  And both together were deadly.

  I selected a neutral bar for our meetup. It was a tourist trap, filled with way too many out-of-towners to ever be a permanent home to any club. In many ways, this made it a good place to meet prospects. They had less of a chance for being assumed Broken Spires and killed for it.

  There was another benefit as well: dumb, blonde groupies.

  The two young men I wanted to talk to were sitting at a table with two such specimens: tall, full-lipped, wide-hipped young women with breasts the size of cantaloupes. They practically could have been twins. And though I could tell, even all the way from the entrance to the bar, that the men were trying to command their attention, both of them looked immediately at me when I walked in.

  I suppose that being the president of a major motorcycle club does give one a certain amount of glamour.

  All four of the occupants of the table immediately moved over as I approached, offering me ample seating space. I took it, then spread myself out like a cat, commanding an entire quarter of the table. I laid my boots across a chair, unzipped my leather jacket, and held a single hand in the air. A second later, a drink was in it.

  I had not yet said a word.

  The prospects and the groupies stared at me in awe. If I was the laughing type, I would have chuckled. The men gaped. One was missing a tooth, obviously punched out in some barroom brawl. The women leaned forward, pushing up their breasts with their arms, their ruby-red lips glistening like cherries as their slightly bovine mouths hung open.

  I sipped my drink and continued to look at them in silence. This was important. I was not going to offer them anything or welcome them in any way. If they wanted to be part of the Broken Spires, they would have to fight their way in, tooth and nail.

  “Uh, hello, Sir,” one said, shifting in his seat and offering me a hand to shake. “I’m George.”

  I gazed at him, as a lion gazes at approaching prey too insignificant to bother with. I did not shake his hand.

  “A biker’s hands are his most important assets,” I growled at last, enjoying the group’s increasing discomfort. “I advise you not to offer them about so freely.”

  George snatched his hand away as if it had been burned.

  “Now,” I continued, suddenly sitting up and looking serious. “The first thing you need to know is not to call me ‘Sir’ when we are not in Broken Spires territory. It is unlikely that we would end up seeing any of our enemies here, but let’s not give them the opportunity. Capisce?”

  They nodded. The one sitting next to George said, “Yes, Si....Mr. Molina.”

  “I suppose that’s better,” I remarked dismissively, resuming my nonchalant poise. I turned back to George. He, at least, had the balls to speak first. He got points for that. “So, tell me, George. What can you offer my club?”

  He blinked, seeming nervous to be put on the spot. Then, after a second collecting himself, he launched on several long-winded stories about his exploits as a young man: his drug dealings, bike races, pseudo-masculine things of that nature. Within thirty seconds I determined that he would make a fine grunt, but would never amount to anything much more than that. However, I allowed him to continue speaking, for something else had captured my attention.

  One of the women was trying quite obviously to catch my interest.

  As George talked, she leaned all the way down against the table, so that her breasts pooled against its surface, and her cleavage swelled. She bit her lip, a sexy, manipulative pose, and allowed her hair to flow down her sculpted shoulders, a lovely (if obviously fake) yellow-blonde. Even as I watched, her hand snaked its way up to the collar of her shirt and hooked a single finger around its edge. Like a woman drawing back a curtain, she slid the fabric across the smooth skin of her breast, until, for the slightest instant, her nipple peeked out.

  My eyes narrowed, but that was my only response. Meanwhile, the man seated next to George, audibly gasped. The girl winked, and hid her nakedness away.

  “How about you?” I asked him, pausing so he could provide me with a name.

  “Drew!” He burst, wrenching his gaze away from the woman. I smiled. He was agitated, distracted. Making this the perfect time to put him on the spot.

  “So, Drew,” I whispered, leaning close, switching on my aggression. “You ever been inches from death? A knife? A gun? A cinderblock? Ever had someone a second away from killing your fat ass? What did you do, huh, that makes you think you’re worth the Broken Spires?”

  He blinked at me like a fish out of water, and to keep him perturbed, I immediately switched back to my lazy, careless pose, a slight smile on my face as I watched him trying to gather his thoughts like a clumsy man struggling to hold a hundred greasy ping pong balls in his arms. Finally, his mental engine wheezed and coughed and sputtered into a start, and he began to respond.

  Already bored, I shift my gaze over to the girl again.

  She turned in her seat, extending her legs outward so that they were visible beyond the table. Long, full, and deeply tanned, they tapered down to muscular calves followed by petite ankles and little white feet, tied––uncomfortably, I’m sure––in multi-strapped red stilettos. They were sexy as hell, but ridiculous to walk in. I grinned at her. I have a theory that the more uncomfortable a woman’s heels are, the more discomfort she is willing to handle in bed.

  I was sure to be testing that very shortly, I was certain.

  With a look of utter disdain, I turned back to Drew, who was just sputtering out after a clumsy story involving him and his friends getting slammed underage, then hiding from a couple of police officers with nightsticks. He was white as a ghost and seemed worried that I might, in fact, attack him, simply to see how he’d respond. I decided to let the poor guys off the hook. They were idiots anyway. I wasn’t going to get much more out of them.

  “You’ve done well, boys,” I lied, offering them the first smile that did not look like I was about to take a bite out of them. “I think I’ve learned enough to let you into the first level. We’ll see how you progress from there. In the meantime, let’s drink and get comfortable.”

  I raised my hand again, and, without even looking, gestured to the table as a whole. Within seconds the waiter appeared and supplied all five of us with shots.

  I winked at the girl. “To exciting new opportunities,” I toasted, and everyone drank.

  George and Drew immediately turned to each other, offering congratulations for making it this far and ordering yet another round of shots. Of course, they had to wait awhile to get them. I man needs presence before he can start demanding things like that. I leaned closer to the girl and whispered, “If you want a drink, you just ask me. You hear?”

  She nodded, so hard that her porn-star tits bounced everywhere, to the point where I wondered if they could hit her in the chin. She offered her hand for me to shake, and, unlike the man’s, I took it. Fake nails, long as talons, scrape against the calloused flesh of my palm. They were pink as lemonade.

  “I’m Lizzie,” she squeaked, her voice at once both rasping and babyish. “What’s your name?”

  I scowled at her, convinced at first she must be joking. But no––she
genuinely did not know who I was.

  This is going to be way too easy, I thought.

  “Dominic,” I said, releasing her hand and dropping mine to her thigh. She squeaked again but did not protest. Instead, she opened her legs wider, so I could see past her red sequined dress down the long, delicious length of her inner thigh.

  So, so easy.

  “So tell me about yourself, Lizzie,” I requested, offering her yet another drink. She giggled, and went on to tell me that she just graduated high school, and was taking a year off to putter around America before returning to college. When I asked her what major she was going for, she answered, “Oh, whatever one I think will help me get a husband!”

  I grinned at that and asked her if she was doing that tonight, and she chuckled. “No, silly!” Was her reply. “I’m just looking for a good time!”

  So, so, so, easy.

  Grinning, I offered to show her my bike, parked in a private alley behind the bar, where only the owners of the place and I could access it. I had this arrangement with most of the bars I frequented. Not only did it keep my bike safe from Crooked Jaw vandalism, but it made for an awfully convenient place to take slutty groupies like this one. Instantly she agreed, so I took her by the hand, led her out the door and to the back of the bar. I held onto her the whole time not out of romance, but because she was so drunk that she kept on weaving around and bouncing off the walls.

  There’s only so much cushioning tits like that can provide.

  Eventually, we made our way back to my bike, which elicited an immediate gasp of delight from Lizzie as she rushed over to it to stroke its gleaming, freshly polished handlebars.

  “Oh, Dom, it’s incredible!” She spouted, watching her breath fan out upon it. She rubbed her hand against the leather seat, and hoisted her high-heeled shoe onto the foot peg.

  “Stop that!” I said suddenly, the words out of my mouth before I’d even realized I’d said them. I rushed over and peeled her fingers off the handlebars, then rubbed away the prints they left behind.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, confused and slightly hurt. I didn’t blame her. I was confused, too. Usually, getting a girl with her legs spread on either side of my bike was part of my end game.

  “No, no, I’m sorry,” I quickly apologized. “It’s just that I just polished it.”

  “Oh, well, then,” she cooed, the smile returning to her face. “I guess we’d better keep it protected then, huh?”

  And she lifted her dress up and over her shoulders and swept it, like a tablecloth, over the gleaming chrome of my motorcycle.

  I stared at her, naked in the moonlight. Her waist was cinched and elegant. Her breasts and hips ripe. And yet, as I gazed at her, I felt not the slightest stirring of desire.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I need to be somewhere. Now you’ve seen the bike...can you get off it so I can get to where I’m going?”

  She recoiled as if I’d slapped her, and an angry, ugly look contorted her features.

  “What,” she spat, “you worried you won’t be able to get it up?”

  The sneer in her eyes filled me with rage, and I wanted to swoop down on her, seize that stupid, bovine jaw, and growl that I’d never failed that for anyone.

  But I didn’t. I didn’t do those sorts of things anymore. Instead, I shrugged. “Whatever, babe. Now get off my bike.”

  She snorted at me, looking uglier by the second, but she still complied. Wresting her outfit from the handlebars, she straightened herself up and stomped back into the bar.

  I let my breath out in a long, confused whistle. In my thirty-two years, I have experienced a lot of things, but never anything like that.

  “What the hell is going on, Dom?” I asked myself, lighting a cigarette and leaning on my bike. I knew I’d have to leave soon, to save Lizzie’s face as well as my own, but I’d learned long ago that a moment to think goes a long way.

  Why hadn’t I been aroused? She was cheap, of course, and classless, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t sexy. Far from it. To prove this, I pictured her as she was moments before, spread out naked along the length of my bike.

  Erica?

  I shook my head. The woman I’d imagined was Erica, that goody-two-shoes I’d hooked up with over a week ago. I’ve hooked up with so many women over the years, I guessed they blurred together.

  I tried again. Now Erica was facing forward on the bike, spread like a platter before me as I gripped her tits and rammed my cock inside her.

  Goddammit.

  I shook my head again, puffing at my cigarette and trying to clear my thoughts. I gave up trying to picture Lizzie. I felt as if I had already forgotten what she looked like.

  Disturbed, I got on my bike and began my journey home.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I told myself. “You’re far too old and experienced to get hung up on a one night stand. Especially with a woman interested in nothing more than checking ‘fucked a biker’ off her list. You’re still just recovering from your injury, yet another near death experience.”

  These words were comforting, and helped to lesson my lurking sense of unease. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, I could not dispel the question: “Why, then, did I turn down the groupie?”

  Chapter Three

  Erica

  A week or so had passed since Mr. Blade had tried to rape me. Since then, I was proud to say, I had been to work, and stonily acted as if nothing had happened. He, too, seemed to take my lead, and did not approach me or talk to me in any way that did not seem professional. He even dropped his slimy term of affection for me, Erica my sweet. I was not stupid enough to think it was over. I did know, however, that he was changing his tactics.

  I think he could sense that something had changed inside me. Ever since that night and the following dream. It was as if the dream had shown me another option for life. All I had to do was choose it.

  Of course, that did not stop me from making sure that I did not work late, alone. Every day that week, even when I had work remaining, I went home, right on time.

  Which I guess is what surprised Brian, when I found him opening the door to my house with his spare key.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, trying to quiet the sudden thundering of my heart. He was as handsome as ever, with his tall, tapering waistline and TV-star’s face.

  He had the decency to look abashed. “I was trying to get my things while you were at work,” he explained. “I figured you’d be working later.”

  Of course he would have. My tendency to work late was probably what enabled him to have his stupid affair. I scowled.

  “You should have called,” I said, and charged right past him, ramming my key in the door. He waited for me to unlock it, then slipped in behind me without waiting for an invitation.

  “You’re right, Erica, I should have,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He sounded apologetic, but his tone was slippery in a way that made me think of an eel.

  “Yeah, well, you should be,” I snapped, annoyed at my lack of cleverness. I was feeling distinctly off-balance. I had not seen Brian since our break-up. And now, just when I was feeling so confident after work, running into him in my home felt like a sucker punch. I decided to handle it like I had been handling Mr. Blade: cold and professional.

  Stomping, still in my shoes, I went to the bedroom to dig his suitcase out of the closet. Then, like a robot, I went to the dresser and started removing all over his clothing and folding it neatly into the suitcase. I did not do this to be nice, of course. I wanted to make sure that everything fit in there in one trip. After that day, I never wanted to see Brian again.

  Speaking of which.

  “Hey, Erica-Bella,” he interrupted sweetly, using his pet name for me. I turned and stared at him like one would stare at a preferred drink presented by an enemy and most likely filled with poison.

  He took a step closer.

  “Erica, I’m really, really sorry,” he whispered. “Please. I know you’re a good person. Take me ba
ck.”

  I blinked. How dare he ask me to take him back? How dare he think I would?

  “Please,” he repeated, now close enough to touch me. He reached out, and stroked a strand of hair behind my ear. My skin tingled even after his fingertips went away. “You’ve always been so good, so kind, so...forgiving. I know you’ll find it in your heart to take me back.”

  His hand again brushed gently at my hair. I scowled at him.

  “What, so you can cheat on me again?” I snapped. To my surprise, he winced at the harshness of my voice.

  “I was stupid!” He exclaimed. “Stupid and selfish! I ...I just had to get it out of my system, you know? Before we got married. One last hurrah.”

  “Hurrah fucking hurrah,” I mocked, pushing him away. I had seen tears in his eyes, and they had not evoked pity.

  They disgusted me.

  “Come on,” he insisted, grabbing me again. “Haven’t you ever made any mistakes? Done anything stupid? I can think of a few times.”

  Suddenly, at these words, a realization struck me. I could hear his every attempt at manipulation, as if someone had slowed them down, deepening each controlling word. He was making this my fault, as if I was in the wrong by pretending to be faultless. And, even worse, suggesting that taking him back would make me a good person, not weak and pathetic and timid.

  Our whole relationship––everything, from the day we met, to his proposal, until that night I’d found him balls deep in that stupid fucking secretary— snapped into a new focus. I saw who he really was: a sniveling, muttering coward pulling the strings on his puppet, because he was too weak to face things head on.

  Pulling the strings on me.

  Like a cat, I bared my teeth at him and flexed, hurling him away from me. In his eyes, I could see that he was startled, but it was more than that: he looked stricken, as if I had done not only him, but his motherfucking manly pride, wrong.

  That tear-stained grief and false remorse turned to anger. I guess, when you kick even the weakest of dogs, it growls.