Sugar (The Henchmen MC 12)

It was easy to think she was out for the attention, to judge her craziness as some front she put on. But it wasn't the case. She just... lived fully. She wanted pizza at three in the morning? She got out of bed and made it. She wanted to paint her living room wall neon green while listening to Loggins and Messina? She did that too. She wanted to spend three hours getting into some pin-up outfit only to sit in the living room and watch Carnivale reruns? Yep, her ass was on the couch with heels and victory rolls.

You never knew what you might walk into when you went to her place, what she was in the mood to do, what she would want from you.

It was interesting.

She was interesting.

And the more time I spent with her, the more I knew it.

She knew it too, even if she was still too chickenshit to really admit it.

This was going somewhere.

This was something special.

I'd never met a woman like her, so fearless in everything but her own emotions. But she had gotten to the point where she didn't stiffen up if I said we on occasion.

That was progress.

With her dick of a dad, I understood it was going to take her longer to be completely open with me. Which was fine. As far as I was concerned, we had nothing but time.

"Bob Ross and George Carlin in a threesome..." she was saying as she came out of the door to the gym as I stood there and waited for her. Her bright hair was pulled back as it always was when she left. Her Ramones tee was sliced off at the sleeves and tied to a small knot in the front and it in no way matched the purple leggings she had on with little kittens giving the finger - even though kittens didn't even have fingers - all over them. I didn't know where the fuck such pieces of clothing were made, but she seemed to own stock in the company from what I could tell from her wardrobe.

"I don't think I want to know," I said, shaking my head at her as she waved at whomever she had been talking to inside.

"Fantasy threesomes. Duh."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to explain that one, baby. Because, no."

"Um... have you ever watched The Joy of Painting? I bet women from coast to coast masturbate to his voice and that laid-back 'everything is okay' vibe he has."

"Little fucked still, but okay. But... George Carlin?"

"Have you ever seen his standup? That man knows a lot about pussies. It's intriguing."

Intriguing.

She could have picked that dude from that fuckin' MC TV show, or that dude with the long hair who threw axes and shit.

But no.

My girl wanted to fuck some hippie painter and some old geezer of a comedian. Both of whom were dead.

"How about some living candidates," I suggested, watching as she really gave it some thought.

"You know Oz?" she asked, knowing full-well I did because she somehow found that show 'soothing' and put it on as background noise to go to sleep at night. Soothing. Men routinely getting shivved, blinded, or crucified. But this piece of work found it soothing.

"Yeah, babe. I can practically quote that shit now."

"Well... I wouldn't mind getting between Tobias and Chris."

"Have I mentioned how fucked up you are?"

"Today? No. You're either getting used to me, or I am becoming boring."

"Don't think anyone could call you boring, Peyt," I said, throwing an arm over her shoulder.

She used to just let it happen. Maybe even stiffen up a bit.

But I noticed lately that when I did it, she curled her body in toward me slightly. Once, she even rested her head against my chest. It was a little thing, but intimacy was hard for her. It meant a lot that she'd gotten there with me.

"I'm too jazzed to go home," she told me as we started walking. "Want to walk to She's Bean Around for some coffee?" she suggested, being the kind of person who would actually wake up at two in the morning and get herself a cup of coffee before going back to sleep.

"Sure," I agreed, turning us around to head the other way.

It wasn't exactly a short walk, but I was used to walking the city, and Peyton seemed to have a story associated with every square inch of this town to keep me entertained as we made our way across the sketchy area of Navesink Bank.

We saw nothing.

We heard nothing.

But I sure as fuck felt it when a cold muzzle pressed into the back of my neck.

Don't ask me how I knew.

This was Navesink Bank.

There were criminals of every goddamn sort around.

And I was a Henchmen. Wearing his cut.

There were plenty of organizations who wanted what we had, who were willing to take us out one by one to get it.