Professor Sullivan runs her hand across an illuminated screen, pointing excitedly at a yellow highlighted passage. Her voice almost quivers as she exclaims, “And if you take into consideration that the romantic interest of Davenport is fleeing from him, not running towards him, you can see just how much the author wants to emphasize the importance of female choice.”
I can’t take it anymore. I’ve been listening to Sullivan ramble on for days about Davenport and Mary. I just can’t hold my tongue anymore. Everyone eyes me suspiciously; this isn’t the first time I’ve dared interrupt one of the Great Sullivan Lectures on female characters in modern literature. I don’t wait for her to call on me. Instead, I blurt out, “But Professor Sullivan, isn’t the author also saying that the choice to run is the wrong one? And if that’s true, there isn’t exactly a choice after all. As far as I can tell, it sounds like Mary is just being a typical, nineteenth-century woman, who needs to play mind games to get her way with men.”
Professor Sullivan looks at me for a second, her face completely blank. She walks back to her podium on the small stage of the lecture hall and wraps her wrinkled hands around the corners of wood edges. She sighs deeply, enough that the microphone picks up the inhale of her breath. “Ms. Castillo,” she says, a pointed haughtiness in her voice, “if this university—or any other—were so preternaturally interested in your interpretation of the classics, it would be you up here being paid to lecture on literature and not me.”
The class of college upperclassmen burst into laughter. I know they’re just as impatient, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. I look back down at my empty notebook, lowering my eyes from the rest of the class and sinking into my seat. Luckily, the professor dismisses everyone with a wave of her hand, and everyone but me files out of the room quickly.
I stay put. The stillness of the empty classroom gives me a moment to think and imagine. I pack up my bags and walk down towards where the professor was standing, tracing her steps on the wood floors. The heels of my shoes click as I pace back and forth. In a few short years that will be me up at the podium giving lectures to rows and rows of college students.
It was my dream to get into the English and Literature program at El Paso University, and I am not going to let one crusty old professor bring me down. “Nothing can stop a Castillo,” my old man said before he passed away. For him, it meant running one of the most successful biker clubs in the state. But for me, it meant getting into a good PhD program and rising above all the haters.
A student for the next lecture walks in, bringing me back to reality. I quickly grab my backpack and head out towards the entrance of the building. The Texas sun is somehow hotter than ever. I’ve only taken a few steps outside the door and I’m already sweating bullets. I toss off the black sweater I wore in class and stuff it in my bag. I could use a tan anyways. A little vitamin D never hurt anyone, and even though my skin is as caramel as it gets, it could always be a bit darker.
In the pocket of my denim sundress, I feel a vibration. It’s the third time it’s gone off in the last hour. Everyone on my contacts list knows that I don’t answer my phone or return calls while I’m on campus. It would be too much of a distraction to be constantly on call with my mom and her boyfriend problems, or my brothers and their constant pleas for me to go out with this guy or that.
That includes Abe, a guy from the neighborhood no one wants to mess with but every girl I know wants to bed. I mean, he’s nice enough looking. He’s got that thug thing going on with the jet-black tattoos up and down his arms and chest and the low cut hair. But he’s a motorcycle guy. And I don’t do motorcycle guys. Miguel and Angel know this, but they are still texting me his number and arranging meetups.
It buzzes again. I run my hand in my sweaty pocket and pick out the black phone. I try not to glance at the caller ID, but I can’t help it. To my surprise, it isn’t Miguel, Angel, or my mom. It’s Anthony, my roommate Carmen’s brother. He never calls unless he’s trying to get ahold of her. And usually, I have no clue where she is or what she’s up to. Even though we’ve been best friends since high school, she’s always been much different than me. She’s the life of the party, the flirt every guy wants to play with, and the drama queen.
She didn’t come back to our apartment last night though. I mean, it’s not unusual for that to happen. She’s got her boys she visits, but she usually sends me a text to let me know where she is sleeping. But last night was a complete blank. It’s now almost ten in the morning, and there’s been no word.
Something in my stomach turns. Maybe I should break my no-call rule just this once. I look back down at the phone as it lights up and softly shakes against my palm. Every bit of me is telling me that this is a call I don’t exactly want to take.
“Hello?” I ask quietly, knowing who is on the other line.
“Sierra? It’s me, Anthony. Look, I need you to get down to El Paso General.” He pauses as he searches for the right words—words I don’t want to hear. “It’s Carmen. She was attacked.”
I drop the phone on the brick walkway as my hands go numb and my feet freeze to the ground. I take a deep breath before scooping it up, slinging the heavy backpack over my shoulder, and running towards my apartment building’s parking lot. Carmen needed me, and there wasn’t a moment to waste.
***
“Damn girl! Ugh!” I cock my head back, banging it on the metal bedpost as I begin to lose all sense of control. My hand drifts towards my legs and finds her head down by my knees. I push her head downwards, forcing her mouth to take in more of my cock. She obliges, looking up at me with a tired smile. I watch satisfied, as I spot a red trail of yesterday’s lipstick on the sides of my shaft.
Rachael’s mouth bobs up and down, as I wrap my hands around her short ponytail and continue to guide it to the speed I need. She follows this dance, not afraid to go further and deeper. It’s not often that I find a girl who can take in my entire girth. It’s a blessing and a curse when I’m with club girls who don’t know how big I get. But with Rachael, I know she’s good for the job.
She rocks up and down, gently sucking the skin in as she comes towards the tip and then diving back down. I wrap my hands around the metal, as I let my head drift off. It’s been a long, hard night of riding the black pavement of the I-10 with the gunners in toe. I deserve every sweet lick of her tongue and the pressure of her thick lips.
She comes up for air, kissing at my legs and the hairs surrounding my meaty cock. She may be tired, but I’m not. I grab her hair again, pulling her up towards me. Her nearly naked body glides over mine and lands on my chest. I can feel the heat between her legs, the moisture of her damp panties. This may be an obligation for her, part of the job of being a club girl, but she wants this as much as I want her to satisfy me.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her near. Her lips part for a kiss, but I turn my head to the side. She presses up against my neck as the hairs from her head tickle my chest. I unhook the pale pink bra, setting her tiny tits free. She sits up, tossing the lacey thing to the side of the bed and grasping at her pale skin.
I hate when women do that. I pull her arm away, grabbing her till she falls down back towards me. Her chest lands near my mouth, and I pull her up towards my mouth. I take in one of her pink nipples, lapping at the tip with my tongue. It spins around the center until it turns into a tiny ball. I can feel her shake a bit under me. She bites her lip and her hips begin to softly sway to the motion of my mouth.
“Fuck,” she whispers to no one in the room. Her head circles around, sending her blonde hair flying in a mess of thin curls.
I move my fingers to her other nipple, giving it the attention it needs. But instead of caressing it with my tongue, I want to remind her who is in charge, who gets the pleasure of the night. I tease at the nipple with the thumb and pointer finger, pinching gently at it. She looks down at me with a crooked smile, and I make my move. She lets out a scream as I twist the tip of the nipple clockwise and bite down hard on the other.
Her reaction is just enough momentum for me to spin her back towards the bed. She lands next to me as I take her place on top. I hate missionary, but I want to see her take me in. I want to see her face as I put every inch of my thick cock in that shaved pussy of hers. Before she can say a word, my fingers hook around her panties and yank them to her feet. They are still wrapped around her ankles, as I pull her legs straight up with her hips resting up against me.
“Tank!” She cries out my name, needing me to slow. But I don’t take orders from her or anyone. I get what I want, when I want it. And right this moment, all I want is her sopping wet slit around my throbbing cock. She has just enough time to grab hold of the black bars of the bed before I enter her forcefully.
She rides smooth, like a well-oiled bike. For a girl who gets around, and one that I’ve had my fair share of, her body still seems to fit nicely with mine. I ease my way into her slowly, exploring her. I want to go deeper and make her cavern feel smaller. I pull her legs together, crossing them by the ankles. Rachael screams as I begin to rock into the pain.
Her hips raise to meet my motions. I can’t hold anything back as I unleash hellfire on her body. I plow into her, enough that I can feel her juices and sweat splash up against my thighs. “Is this what you want? You want to explode all over me?” I ask her, my voice seeping out of my body.
“Yes, please. Please, Tank!” She sucks in deeply and bites down. I don’t let her finish her pleas. I pull in and out harder, faster. The entire bed rocks and sputters with me. A fire builds in me as my motions become even more fluid and frantic. I pull her legs down and drape them around my hips. She crosses her legs around my backside, and I grab hold of her hips tightly.
She can’t move as I take over. I watch as her back arches and her head moves from side to side. She’s cumming, and hard, but I don’t care. All I want is my moment, my time. I push through it despite her gasping for breath and her hands pushing her away from me.
I growl as I feel it coming like a wave washing over me in the ocean. It hits me like a ton of bricks, but I feel nothing but sweet, sweet release. I slow, almost stopping completely, as my body burns off all the heat that’s built up in me. Rachael waits patiently as I finish spilling myself into the condom, a coy, pleased grin forming around her mouth.
I ease out of her, my body tensing up almost immediately. Sex has always been this short, temporary relief. Nothing more than that. I drop down to the side of the bed about an arm’s length away from Rachael. She rolls over towards me and begins, “That was—”
I don’t give her a second to finish the thought. I hitch myself up to sitting and throw my legs over the side of the bed. I find her bra and gray tank top on the floor, and I toss it over my shoulder. My black jeans are nearby, and I don’t hesitate to roll them over my sweaty legs.
I stand, feeling the pockets for my phone. It’s almost ten in the morning; the boys will be waiting for me to call in with instructions. I turn towards Rachael and give her a look I’m sure she’s all too familiar with. She finds her denim skirt somewhere on the floor and walks out, closing the door softly behind her.
I use the sheet on the bed to wipe off my arms, chest, and head. My hands run through my brown mess of curls as I try to straighten out what needs to be said on this phone call. As the Apache Motorcycle Club President, I’m not supposed to be frazzled or out of sorts. It is my job to run this club like the lucrative business it is. And it certainly isn’t easy overseeing over one hundred twenty boys in black and gold, as they do their runs from the Mexican border up through Tucson.
I press the button, calling my second. Don’s voice answers heavily. From the way he slurs, I can tell he’s either drunk, high, or hungover—again. But still I trust him to get my word out. “It’s a slow day,” I bark. “I want prospects riding with patches. We need more shadows getting trained on the routes, especially starting on the border.”
“Yeah, boss. I got you,” Don complies. “But what you gonna do about that Aztec girl? Should I send some arms with guys in case they retaliate?”
“What?” I roar. “Retaliate? The fuck you talkin’ about? I didn’t order no fuckin’ hit, Don. Did you?” The hairs on the back of my neck almost immediately stand up. I know every single movement of the club night and day. Nothing happens without my permission—and command. If some action was going down last night, I would have been consulted. Unless...
“Abe and the Aztecs are claiming it’s your job,” comes Don’s response. “Some girl, somebody’s sister or something, was found in an alley outside El Paso U. Real beat up. Last I heard she was in a coma at El Paso General. Thought you mighta told Tango to go down there and…you know…do some dirty work. Either way, she ain’t talking to no one. You wanna send Ranger out there to get some info on what happened?”
I pause as I think it over. Sending a scout down there was just going to make the situation worse than it probably already is. If the Aztecs think that I am stooping so low as to target an insider, let alone someone’s girl, we’re in for an all-out war. This needs something more delicate. I turn my attention back to Don and say, “I’ll do it myself. What’s the girl’s name?”
“Carmen. Carmen Acosta.”