Thrash
She doesn’t roll down her window.
She doesn’t unbuckle her seat belt.
All she does is look at me with a defiant set of deep-hazel eyes and spit fire.
“No. Fuck off. I’m having a good day, and I’m not in the mood for this bullshit.”
I blink. Did she really just say that?
She wants to keep this car almost as bad as I want it. But she doesn’t have my determination. This car, and what it’s carrying, is vital to what I’ve got planned. Financial freedom, setting myself up to be secure even if I live to a fucking ripe old age, and making sure my club doesn’t fall behind our enemies; those are my goals. In that order.
I’m not going to let her tantrum stop me.
“Do you not see the gun in my hand, genius?” I say, irritation rising in my voice.
She shrugs, looking more perturbed by my presence than anything else, as if I’m some solicitor asking her to sign up for some twenty-five cents a day charity pledge to save the fucking children.
Then she turns away from the window, reaches into a foil-wrapped packet sitting on her front seat, and stares at me while taking a bite of a taco.
Defiantly.
Who the fuck is this woman?
I bang on her door. Hard.
“Do you want me to use this?”
She shrugs again and takes another bite of taco. One down, two to go.
What’s wrong with her?
She fucking shrugs. Again.
Then takes another taco out of the foil package.
“I figure if you were going to shoot me, you’d have done it already. So I can wait you out — I’ve got snacks.”
“Are you really this stupid? Do you think I’m not going to use this gun? I’m taking this car. Get out. Now.”
This woman gives me a smile like I’m a three-year-old and she’s going to send me to bed without dinner. It’s a beautiful smile, otherwise. It’s a smile I’d love to see looking over at me from the other side of my bed, her body covered in sunlight and nothing else.
“Look, I was having a good day until you came along. I’d like to keep having a good day. Just put the gun away, get back on your bike, and go pedal off somewhere else,” she says.
I should hate her — I should bust through this window, drag her out by her hair, and show her exactly what happens to someone who fucks with a member of the Rebel Riders MC — but I can’t. More than anything, I’m confused by this pretty little number who looks like she’s absolutely out of any fucks to give.
She’s got balls.
Casually, she reaches down and turns up the volume of her radio. Pop music blares from her speakers.
If we were anywhere else, I’d have her sitting on my lap, taking a few shots, and then seeing how well she rides. With the body she’s got on her, and the way the seat belt rests between her full tits, she’d be a damn sweet fuck.
But right now? Her verbal attack and defiance has me on my back foot. And that makes me angry enough to get rash.
“Get out.”
I fire a few shots into the dirt. They’re enough to startle her — she jerks with each blast from my gun — but not enough to dislodge her. She regains her composure quickly, though I see her knuckles are white with how tight she’s gripping the steering wheel.
“Not a chance,” she says. “Either shoot me or get the hell out of here.”
Why is she so stubborn?
Anyone with sense would take the hint and just walk away.
This robbery is not going at all how I planned. It’s supposed to be a simple score. A chance for me to rip some product right out from under the nose of Hammer and the Reaper’s Sons. I’ve invested days scouting the routes the Reaper’s Sons use and keeping tabs on their burgeoning operation.
I need this.
I want this.
But instead of getting the score that I’d planned, I’m face to face with a defiant woman with a body meant for sin. It’s all kinds of disarming.
I shake my head clear of thoughts about how her lips would look wrapped around my dick and how those eyes would be so much prettier if they were defiantly staring up at me from between my legs.
I’m here to take that car, after all, and no set of lips, eyes, or tits is going to keep me from doing my job. I’ve put too much effort into planning, into scouting, into waiting for just this moment, to allow some woman to get in my way.
“Get out of the fucking car,” I say. “I’m not warning you again.”
“No.”
That’s it.
I’m through being polite.
It only takes one hard elbow to break her driver’s side window. And the scream she lets out when it shatters and falls to clattering pieces against the pavement is sweet as honey.
Not so defiant now.
I reach in through the busted window, yank open the door, and grab hold of her to rip her out of this seat.
“Don’t touch me!”
Grabbing her is like trying to wrangle a greased animal; she squirms and bites and kicks something fierce.
“I really don’t want to hurt you. I just want that car. You can walk away from this nice and easy just by giving me the keys.”
“You already have a fucking motorcycle, why the fuck would you want this car? Besides, it’s not even mine. It’s Hammer’s. And he is not a man you want to fuck with.”
She really doesn’t know what’s going on.
What a mess this woman’s got herself wrapped up in.
I wish I had time to sit around and untangle this for her — the look on her face as she realizes what she’s done would be delicious. The laws she’s broken, the years she’d spend in jail if she ever got caught.
“I know it’s Hammer’s car. I know what’s inside it. Now, get out and—”
I don’t get to finish.
Something that’s chunky and wet and burns like a five-alarm inferno hits me right in the eyes. My lids close involuntarily and I take a step back from the window, clutching at my face in an attempt to get whatever the hell this burning stuff is out of my eyes.
It doesn’t work.
“What the fuck did you just do? Did you fucking mace me?” I shout at her. My vision is a salsa-scented scorching-hot haze. “Why does this mace smell like cilantro?”
The car roars to life, tires squeal, and her voice comes at me in a ‘fuck you’ sing-song tone, fading as she tears into the distance.
“It’s al pastor. You’re welcome.”