Kyle groaned.
“I need you to answer me, motherfucker. You hear me?” Biscuit growled.
His face, arms and shirt covered in blood, Kyle moaned.
“Either answer me, or I’m going to toss you on the floor and boot your ass again,” Biscuit said as he slapped him again, “Can you fuckin’ hear me?”
“Yeah,” Kyle moaned.
Biscuit held Kyle rather limp body in his hands, and pressed his face within inches of Kyle’s.
“Good. Now listen up. I’m tellin’ you once. You ever come in contact with her again, for any reason - and believe me, I don’t give a fuck what it is - I’m gonna find you. And don’t worry you little punk assed bitch, I won’t kill you, but I’ll make you one solemn promise; you’ll wish you were fucking dead when I get done with your ass. I’ll have the fellas I run with butt fuck you until you can’t hold your shit in, and then I’ll come and cut your fuckin’ hands off – both of ‘em. You fuckin’ understand me?” he growled.
Jesus.
I swallowed heavily at the thought of what Biscuit said. Something told me he was far from joking.
“Yeah,” Kyle moaned.
“Tell me what’s going to happen if you ever come in contact with her. Tell me what I said,” Biscuit hissed.
“Cut my…cut off my…my hands,” Kyle muttered.
“And?” Biscuit asked as he shook Kyle violently.
“Butt…Uhhm, butt fuck me,” he whined in response.
“That’s right,” Biscuit growled.
Biscuit shoved Kyle through the door, past me, and onto his back. I turned toward where Kyle landed and gazed down at him, pleased the ordeal was over, but worried about Kyle’s bloody body being on the landing of my third floor apartment. I glanced toward Biscuit as he walked past me, grabbed Kyle’s boots, and promptly drug him toward the steps. Somewhat confused at what was next, Biscuit didn’t keep me wondering for long. After a swift tug on Kyle’s legs, he drug him feet first down the steps, Kyle’s head thumping against each step as he did so.
The sound of it was almost grotesque.
Almost.
But I despised Kyle and his ability to call rape by another name. Men seemed to think if they ever fucked a woman or had a relationship with her, that it provided an open invitation for them to continue to fuck her. When our relationship ended, so did every feeling or desire I ever had for Kyle. And no meant no, whether I was his former girlfriend or not.
The thumping sound continued until Biscuit reached the first floor landing - and each thud of Kyle’s head against a concrete step was like music to my ears.
BISCUIT
I would rather spend the rest of my life without ever being in another fight. The odds of that happening, however, were pretty damned slim. I’d been in more fights than any other man I’d ever met, and looking back on it, most had been instigated by someone who I perceived as being disrespectful. I could stand for a lot of things, but for a man to be disrespectful to me, one of my brothers, or a woman wasn’t something I was willing to ever accept.
The world seemed to be filled with people who had very little understanding of the importance of being respectful, and although I realized it was not my responsibility to teach them to do so, my ability to convince people of my beliefs on the matter made it difficult for me not to do my best to cleanse this earth of the filth which continued to fill it. The disrespectful men on this earth seemed to swim in circles like sharks, waiting for the next weak victim to expose itself, only to be savagely devoured solely for an inability to fight back.
To think for one minute I could rid this earth of every man who resembled Kyle would be foolish on my part.
But I did my God forsaken best to make certain what little portions of this world which exposed themselves to me were free of any and all men like him.
Being raised by a father who spent all of his free time drunk and beating on my mother wasn’t easy for me. When I was young, I wasn’t big enough to whip him, and although I couldn’t convince my mother to leave, convincing myself to do so was easy. At fifteen years old, I left and never looked back, moving damned near eight hundred miles away from my hometown.
Seventeen years later, accepting that I’d walked away from my mother - leaving her at the hands of that cruel prick - was impossible. I struggled with my decision on an almost daily basis, wondering if I should have just killed my old man and took her from the abusive hell she lived in. Wondering what my mother’s life had become, and knowing men like him didn’t ever change, I was forced to either accept what I had done, or live with the guilt for doing it.
The guilt suffocated me as if I were drowning, and my only way to obtain one more much needed breath was to fight my way to the surface of the water, eliminating every shark I encountered in the process.
“So I beat the brakes off this so-called Marine, tossed his ass on the couch, and bent down there and breathed into his ear. You punk assed little bitch, I said. And then I bit off the bottom half of his ear and spit that fucker on the floor.”
I nodded my head and reached for my bottle of beer.
Axton shook his head for a moment, eventually fixing his eyes on mine. “God damn, Biscuit. Pulled a Mike fucking Tyson on his ass, huh?”
I shrugged my shoulders, still fuming from what he had done to Kat.
“Is that it? You didn’t kill the fucker did you?” Axton shrugged.
“That ain’t all I did, but no, I didn’t kill him. I should have, but I didn’t. Put the boots to him for a bit, and told him I’d have Pete butt fuck him and cut his hands off if he ever came back. Oh, and I drug his ass down the steps, three god damned flights.” I chuckled as I lifted my bottle.
“By his fuckin’ feet. His head bounced off each god damned step, thumpity-thumping all the way down. I think he got the point,” I said.
“The girl alright?” Axton asked as he stood.
I pushed myself from table and took a drink of beer. “Yeah. He slapped her a few times and tried to make her suck his cock. She was pretty shook up. Too fucked up to fuck, that’s for sure. I stuck around for an hour or so and just held her ‘till she fell asleep. You know, the whole deal reminded me of my mother. I just wish…”
“Can’t change it Biscuit. We’ve talked about this a million times,” Axton said. “You did what you had to do. You did good by this girl. I’m pretty surprised you didn’t kill the prick, but I’m god damned pleased you aren’t in jail.”
I shrugged my shoulders, not certain of what to say. Each and every time I learned of another man abusing a woman, the sensible side of my mind went somewhere else, leaving a two hundred pound fifteen year old boy to make decisions.
“She must have been worn the fuck out,” Axton said, breaking the silence. “Going to sleep at three in the afternoon.”
“So did you take time to talk to her about her father’s little visit?” he asked.
I shook my head and stood from my seat. “No. Kind of forgot about it at first, then when she was cryin’ and fallin’ asleep, didn’t really want to upset her.”
“You know my recommendation. Get it over with as soon as you can. That’s all I’ve got for advice. You sure you’re alright, brother?” he asked as he stood.
“I’m good. Just need to drink this beer,” I said.
Axton nodded his head. “Well, I’m gonna get the fuck out of here, Avery’s off early today and we’re gonna ride out to Benton to the airport.”
I raised the bottle and grinned.
Axton said as he turned toward the door. “Lock up when you leave.”
“Always do, Boss,” I said.
He stopped at the doorway and glanced over his shoulder. “Remember what I said. I don’t want that fucking cop back over here looking for you any time soon.”
“Gotcha,” I said as I tilted my beer bottle toward him.
“And don’t toss that fucking bottle in my trash,” he grunted as he walked down the hallway.
After I heard him ride away,
I sat in the office and thought about everything that had happened. Kat was no different than any other girl I’d ever fucked, but something about her made her more attractive to me. Unable to pinpoint exactly what it was, I wondered if her father’s insistence of my leaving her was what made her more appealing.
The forbidden fruit.
After finishing my beer, I decided that wasn’t the case, as I seemed to have a fondness for her long before her father showed up at the shop. After struggling with my decision for some time, eventually I decided it was in my best interest to step aside for at least a few days, and see if she made contact with me. The time away would let me make a decision without a brain manipulated by the power of pussy.
I walked into the shop, glanced down at my swollen knuckles, and tossed the empty beer bottle in the trash. As I gazed across the shop at my bike, I decided more than anything I needed to clear my mind. The only way I had found to truly rid my mind of what was bothering me was to ride, and ride hard. After pushing the bike into the parking lot and setting the alarm, I fired the engine and let it warm to operating temperature.
As I reached for the hand controls and pulled in the clutch, the iPod switched songs, shuffling randomly to the next tune it selected from my 4,000 song playlist. Strangely, The National’s I Need My Girl blared out of the speakers and filled the parking lot with snippets of wisdom about a man in need of his girl.
For some reason, no differently than the man in the song, I felt smaller and smaller as each moment passed. After the song stopped playing, I pressed the back button and repeated it. Half way through it, I pulled the clutch lever, shifted into gear, and released the clutch. As the bike slowly rolled down the street, the song ended and Cypress Hill’s How I Could Just Kill a Man began playing.
I reached for the iPod, turned the volume to maximum, and rolled back the throttle. As the bike sped through the intersection and down the street, I tilted my head back, rested my feet on the floorboards, and grinned. The random cars parked at the side of the street rushed past me like fence posts on the highway.
That’s more like it.
I rounded the corner onto the highway 30 miles per hour faster than the speed limit - dragging the floorboards as I did so - sparks flying behind me until I straightened the bike up after the curve. There was no doubt the forty mile ride to Wichita would clear my mind. To me, riding my bike was like a shot of heroine to a junkie.
There was nothing in the world that could ever replace it.
Or make the itch go away.
Nothing at all.
KAT
I hadn’t heard from Biscuit in four days, and as much as I didn’t want to let it bother me, it did. Most would probably believe all we shared was sex, and that I was a typical clingy female for feeling the way I felt, but to me although our relationship wasn’t much more than sex, my feelings were based on how intrigued I was by him, my physical attraction to his handsome looks, and his ability to make me laugh on command. Lastly, I felt like when no one else ever attempted to or was able, Biscuit had saved me from the sickening piece of human garbage who continued to resurface in my life, Kyle.
Maybe to Biscuit I was nothing more than a piece of ass, and although that was what I agreed to be, my mind struggled with accepting him as no more than a cock. His love for music, lack of desire to have a television or computer, and passion for the open road made him a far more appealing man to me than almost anyone I could ever remember meeting. There was no doubt he was a tough and capable biker, he’d proven that – but there seemed to be so much more to him. He possessed a certain kindness even when we were having sex, never giving me more than I was able to handle, but making sure I got everything I needed and deserved. As demanding as he was sexually and as naturally dominant as he seemed to be, it didn’t overshadow his natural kindness. The nights we sat in his living room naked, listening to music for hours after we had sex left me hoping that even if it was happening slowly, he was becoming attracted to having me in his life beyond sex.
How he held me after dragging Kyle from my home wasn’t something he had to do. He did it because he wanted to. And, in the end, he didn’t even try to have sex with me. He held me until I fell asleep, tucked me into my bed, and kissed me on the forehead before he left.
I wondered if he realized I knew he kissed me.
I hoped he didn’t.
I suspected most people who didn’t actually know me would perceive me as an immature 22-year-old woman, concerned with nothing more than having a man who I could cling to, screw, and pilfer money from. Truthfully, I believed myself to be very mature, and longed for someone who was kind, funny, very masculine, simplistic in his needs, and willing as well as able to satisfy me sexually. My previous relationships, even eliminating Kyle, had been filled with sex, and excluded much reciprocating emotion. It seemed I used sex as a way to get back at my overbearing father, thinking if I fucked the men he despised; it would cause him to feel the same level of pain he imposed on me as I grew up under his oversized thumb he always pressed down upon me.
In reality, something within me directed me toward the bad boys of this earth; and a kind, calm, cute office manager with a Mercedes-Benz and an unlimited bank account wasn’t attractive to me. Right or wrong, I wanted an alpha male who wasn’t afraid to put me in my place when I needed it, but take care of me and cherish me along the way. I had always told myself if that person was ever to be found, I would cling to him like gum to a shoe.
In all reality, my desire was Biscuit.
But he didn’t want a conventional relationship. And I gave my word I wouldn’t press the issue, and assured him I could be satisfied with a sexual relationship.
NSA.
No. Strings. Attached.
Many people did it. I had no idea how many actually succeeded at it, but I really didn’t care. If I had to, at least for now, I’d do it unsuccessfully, hiding my true feelings until I was either able to be honest, or got disgusted with the lack of returned emotion.
I needed to step up my game. The next time I saw him, I wasn’t going to let him fuck me.
I had made up my mind.
It wasn’t going to happen.
I was going to turn the tables.
It was high time Kat step up to her A-game.
He wasn’t going to fuck me next time; I was going to fuck him.
BISCUIT
I stood back and admired the new Sandstone Beige paint. The room looked significantly larger in the light beige tone than it did in the Chelsea Red. I turned slowly and studied all of the trim along the floor, making certain there were no spots in need of touch-up before I took the drop cloths from the floor.
Everything looked perfect.
After a satisfactory nod, I reached for the can of paint, pressed the lid onto the top, and carried everything to the garage. As I placed the can on the workbench I wondered how much I’d spent on paint over the years. It really didn’t matter, a bright well-painted room was something I truly enjoyed, and if it took me three dozen attempts to get it right, I could rest easily knowing I was giving it my best effort.
As I glanced around the garage at the various half-empty cans of paint, I heard a car in the drive.
Perfect timing.
I walked to the edge of the garage, pressed the button, and opened the door. Cassie’s car was parked in the front of the drive, and she was walking up the sidewalk as the door opened.
“Just come through here,” I shouted.
“Oh, okay,” she responded.
I hadn’t seen her since the day we fucked on my back deck by the pool, but considering how long she took to prepare, and what she looked like as she stood in front of me, I wondered if I’d seen her the first time through an overly aggressive pair of beer goggles. She was far from cute, sloppily dressed, had unhealthy looking hair, and was more than likely four foot ten in height.
I glanced down. Her feet were wrapped in a pair of three inch heels. I shifted my eyes upward. The scarring on her face from
what I expected was a lifetime of acne caused her to look like someone had lit her face on fire and then put it out with a fork. I shifted my eyes downward slightly.
She had no tits.
I shrugged my shoulders and reached for the door leading into the house.
“Come on in,” I said as I opened the door.
“It’s really cool to get to see you again,” she said cheerily as she skipped toward the door.
Wish I could say the same.
“You fully understand why you’re here, right?” I asked.
“Uhhm, yeah. You wanted to see me?” she responded.
I shook my head, allowed my mouth to curl into a shitty little smirk, and chuckled. “No. I’m going to fuck you. You came here to fuck me. That’s the only reason you’re here.”
She shrugged her shoulders again and grinned. “Oh, yeah. Okay.”
She obviously lost her self-esteem at the same time she lost her face cleanser. I fought the urge to tell her to leave, and decided to do the complete opposite.
I pointed toward the wide open garage door and waved my hand her direction. “Shut the door and get undressed.”
She lowered her shoulder, dropped her purse, and reached for the door. As she pulled the door closed behind her, I stared blankly at her, hoping she’d change.
She didn’t.
She turned around and stared, seemingly confused on what get undressed meant. As she stood on one side of the island, and me on the other, I continued to glare at her in a combination of disgust and regret.
“Cassie, right?” I asked.
She smiled and bobbed her head eagerly. “Yeah, you remembered.”
“Get,” I said. “Undressed.”
She glanced around the kitchen. “Here?”
“No, in the fuckin’ street,” I responded in a sarcastic tone.
She gazed at me with deer in the headlight eyes.
I shook my head. “Yes, here. You’ll need to do it so we can fuck. Remember? We’re fuckin’, it’s why you’re here.”
“I just. I wondered if you meant here,” she said as pointed toward the floor.