“I hate Sara because she’s a skinny beautiful bitch with a big rack. Skinny girls should have tiny racks and leave the big tits to us big girls,” she says, leaning against the doorframe. She’s donned my white tank again. Seeing her in my clothes makes my dick rise to half mast.
“Sara doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Would you have been faithful if I was gone three years?”
“Of course,” I answer immediately.
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. You screwed a dozen girls right next door to me.”
“Can’t help it my bedroom was next to yours. I wanted to sleep downstairs.”
“You would’ve been on some girl two weeks after I got sent away.”
That accusation pisses me off. “Are you fucking kidding me? Yeah, I fucked a lot of girls because I was young, stupid and led by my dick. I wanted you and I couldn’t have you so I fucked other girls. I’m sorry about being an immature asshole but I never looked at another girl once I had you, now did I?”
“No,” she says meekly after I’m done with my tirade.
My semi is now a full from talking about fucking. “Come here.” I gesture for her to step closer to the bed. “I’m hard. I want you to ride me.”
She stops when her legs touch the mattress. When I reach between her legs, her cunt is soaked. “Climb on.”
“Facing you or cowgirl style?”
I flip on the bedside lamp and move into a sitting position with my back against the black leather headboard. In another move, I have the condom on. “Cowgirl.”
She climbs on, flinging one leg over my thighs. With a hand on either side of her hips, I guide her to my cock. We release simultaneous groans as she slides down. This time it’s slow going because she’s swollen and I’m finally to the point where I’m not set off by a whiff of action. I smooth my palms over her round ass, watching as my cock disappears inside her body. I run a hand up the valley of her spine, into her hair and pull her head back for a hard kiss.
“I’d’ve waited,” I tell her as we break for air.
“I know.”
3
CHELSEA
“Some of the old ladies are going to come by the Cut-n-Curl to get some petty cash from you,” Judge says as we’re eating breakfast the next morning.
The eggs look a tad on the crispy side around the edges. I blame this on Grant. Not only had he kept me up until all hours of the night but he was grim and snotty to me when he woke up.
“You burned the bacon,” he gripes as he shoves a dark piece in his mouth. I have this overwhelming urge to shove his face into the pan of eggs.
Judge frowns. “Bacon’s fine.”
It’s not fine. Nothing is fine. Grant is simmering like a powder keg whose fuse is two inches away from igniting. I’ve held him off from going public for a week and during every furtive moment we’ve attacked each other, but Grant’s tired of hiding. He’s mad every time I creep out of his room and this morning was no different.
“Am I going to have enough in the petty cash?” I ask Judge, trying to divert his attention from Grant.
“How much you got?”
I shrug. “A bit.”
“How much is a bit? And don't pretend you don't know the exact amount down to the penny.” Judge shakes his finger at me.
Reluctantly I tell him. “$2,449.51.” It's not as if I view the money as mine. Truth is that the money belongs to the club and I sit on it because if I don't, everyone is asking for a petty cash loan. Fifty dollars here for a tailpipe or a hundred dollars for a bar tab or forty dollars for a full set of acrylics and soon there isn't anything left.
Judge nods. “The club will cover the, ah, entertainment expenses.”
He means strippers and beer.
“Then what do the old ladies need with the petty cash fund? Food? What about potluck?”
Judge shrugs. “Helen asked if there'd be money for decorations and shit. I said you'd clear it.”
Helen is one of the patch’s old ladies.
“If there's party hats, I'm shoving them up Bang Bang's pucker,” Grant says and we share a smirk. Hats? Like we’re five and Grant’s celebrating his birthday? He got out of prison for crying out loud.
“And we don't need a pin the tail on the donkey game because we got darts and Grant's ass right here,” I snark.
“I know something you can stick in my ass,” he says with a wink and I freeze at the sexual connotation. My gaze darts to Judge who has his face buried in his food again. Grant sobers up quick too but not for the same reason. He’s humorless because he views this as another example of why it's stupid to hide. We're going to screw up. What's the alternative though? Not being with each other? That'd be like cutting my arm off. I couldn't do it but I don’t want to tell Judge either.
His dad raises his head in the ensuing silence and assesses Grant's dark face and my pinched one. “Sara Ellerby stopped by the shop the other day. She brought her little Honda in saying it sounded funny. Maybe you could look at it today?” he suggests.
“Sure, Dad.” Grant stares at me knowing that I don't want him working on anything belonging to Sara, even her car.
“Bet you a five large there's not a thing wrong with her car. She's using it as an excuse to see Grant.”
“Don't know why she'd need an excuse,” Judge says, pushing away from the table. “Two of you looked pretty cozy at the granary the other night.”
My eyes grow wide and I swear my nostrils are flaring. “You what?”
“You got a problem with that,” Grant says throwing his arms out in challenge. “Sara and I go way back.”
If Grant hadn't been fucking me every breathing moment, I'd be enraged—fist forming, steel boot in the kneecap enraged. As it is I'm pissed because I can totally picture the scene at the granary. Strippers and hangers-on everywhere. Orgies on every surface and Sara Ellerby bent over the sofa in her tiny shorts, looking at Grant with fuck-me eyes. And I don't even have the right to protest because I'm the one who wants to keep my thing with Grant a secret. Biting my tongue so hard I fear I’m bleeding, I pick up the plates and start banging them together and carrying them to the sink.
&n
bsp; “Didn’t know you had a problem with Sara Ellerby,” Judge comments thoughtfully. “Didn’t the two of you go to school together? Thought you were friendly.”
I’ve never been friendly with that top-heavy Barbie doll, not because she isn’t nice—she is—but because she’s been with Grant. I’m green with jealousy, pure and simple. I shrug. “She’s not my type.”
“Didn’t know you were interested in her as your type,” Grant mocks, bringing over the rest of the breakfast dishes. I throw the water on and pretend both of them are already gone.
Judge comes over and presses a kiss in my hair. “It’s too early for us to be teasing you, isn’t it Chelsea?” I nod but don’t turn around, afraid the compassion and fatherly warmth he’s always shown will cause me to spring a leak in my eye. “You’re a good girl. Don’t know how we got along without you.” He squeezes my shoulder. “See you at the shop in a few?” he directs to Grant.
“Yup, I’ll be over in ten minutes. Got to make a call to my parole officer this morning.”
“Take your time.”
I refuse to face Grant even when he presses against me. “Who do you want to punch out more? Sara or me?” he breathes into my hair.
“Why do I have to choose? I got two fists.”
“You know I'm not cheating on you.”
“I know.” As quickly as the anger arrives, it leaves like water down the drain. Exhausted by my mini emotional breakdown and the lack of sleep, I lean into the dishpan. “I want to tell Judge, but I’m afraid. What if he stops talking to me because he's disgusted or what if your position in the club is put in jeopardy?”
“I don't care about the club,” he says, but his words lack sincerity.
He does care about the club and he should. It's been a part of his life for a long time. His mouth moves against my neck and down the side to my shoulder. Behind me I hear the unzipping of his jeans and then the cool air on my ass as he pulls down my knit pants. He kicks the side of my foot, widening my stance and then bends at the knees. His smooth cock is slid inside me in one swift movement.