What the fuck was wrong with me?

I had three women circling my brain non-stop, each tempting me in their own unique and beguiling ways.

Mari, who was just supposed to be a fun romp in the hay, was making me feel things that my head and my heart had no right to feel anymore.

Aly, the girl of my dreams from my teen years, who tore my heart out damaged me for all other women.

And then the greatest surprise, Jennifer.

That punk-ass bitch who had a tongue like razor blades wanting to slice through me. I haven’t yet determined if the toughness was an act or if it was her reality, but I found myself positively intrigued by her, wanting to know her in ways that weren’t just sexual.

Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to fuck her raw, hear her throaty voice scream out my name as I pushed her over the edge. I had a need to feel the walls of her soft heat milking me dry. But beyond that, I wanted to know her. She challenged me in ways that I found oddly thrilling. I had a feeling she was interested in me as well, judging by the slight dilation in her eyes when I stepped within her personal space. Her incredible restraint just made her all the more desirable.

I bet she was a screamer. I could all but picture her tiny frame as she rode my cock, her head thrown back and her glorious tits bouncing in front of me. In my mind, I reached forward and held one in each hand, and the daydream was so realistic I would swear on my mother’s grave that I could feel her nipples pebble against my palms. Well, I’d swear on mother’s grave if she would have the common decency to die.

No such luck, but at least I hadn’t gotten another call to come help out at the home because she had a hair up her wrinkly ass.

Then again, that delicious little freak of a nursing assistant would be there, and I could try to break her down. I allowed myself a momentary fantasy of her tattooed frame wrapped around mine, our personal demons entangled until our body art became a joined design, showcasing our personal pain and struggles.

I knew instinctively that the push and pull between us would be intense, the struggle for power and dominance between us would create sex that would overwhelm both of us physically, and very possibly leave bruising on both of our bodies. I normally went for the softer and somewhat malleable chicks, but the thought of a woman who could grab ahold of my cock and be the one steering the ship was somewhat thrilling to me.

I tried to remember her nails. Were they long and sharp? Would I have fucking claw marks down my back that would sting when touched by the hot spray in my shower? Would she draw blood, forcing me to wear dark shirts and cringe in sweet agony as I removed my clothing in the evening, re-opening the wounds that she would leave on my body?

My dick surged at the thought of the pain, growing thicker as I considered ways that I would punish her for her brutality. And better yet, they ways she would enact her revenge on me for that punishment.

Fuck.

This was going to be explosive.

I absently stroked myself, just to alleviate a little bit of the tension. I would not be finishing myself off, I thought, as I gave it a quick squeeze, groaning in the pleasure of it. I wasn’t a fucking fourteen-year-old popping wood over the sight of a set of double D’s in their dad’s Playboy, I was not going to pull one off over the mental image of a freshly waxed pussy open and waiting for me.

I gave myself one last squeeze, then pulled my hand away from my crotch and pulled my chair closer to my desk. Mental thanks to whoever talked me out of all glass walls when we moved to this office building, because right about now I could carve my name into an oak tree with my hard-on, which I’m sure would have resulted in some reports made to Human Resources. Especially considering I was the owner of the business.

I’d bought my first bike at thirteen, long before I was legally allowed to ride it. Then again, I’d never exactly given two shits about the law and what it said I could and could not do. I’d been squirrelling away money ever since family members stopped putting the effort into getting shitty gifts I didn’t care about, and spent half of it on that thing. It was damn near falling apart and rusted in about thirty places, but it was mine.

It had even been worth the beating I got for buying it. Not because mom was pissed that I got a bike. Honestly, she would have been fine with me getting into an accident and dying. No, she was pissed that I had money hidden that she didn’t know about. She’d stolen money from me before when I was little and had a bank account that she’d help me set up. I’d been so proud, putting my meager birthday money in and getting a little passbook account. Mom had to be on the account because of my age.

I remember thinking that maybe finally my mom was proud of me as she stood next to me with her arm around my shoulder. She never showed me affection, so that touch was shocking, and I almost cried like a fucking girl.

I should have known better, because as I put money in, she took it out. Basically, birthday parties became her way of pimping me out to get money to feed her various vices. Alcohol, drugs, you name it. She let me know more than once that it was my own damn fault that she didn’t want to stay sober. She used drugs and alcohol to forget that I existed.

I got wise to it and started cashing my checks when I went to the bank, rather than depositing them. There was a loose board in the floor of my room, and I kept all my money there. So, yeah, I got my shit handed to me when I came home with a motorcycle and she realized through her drunken stupor that she had been duped. I had missed a week of school waiting for the welts to go down and the bruises to fade. Anything she could hit me with she did. If we’d been in the kitchen, I had no doubt she’d have thrown knives at me.

Again.

It had been worth it. I started hanging out at a repair shop after school, pestering the owner with a million questions until he finally hired me to do grunt work. He figured he wasn’t going to get rid of me, so he might as well put me to good use. Carl could be a real dick to work for. He expected things done his way every time, and he accepted nothing but perfection every time. However, before I even realized it had been happening, he had apparently been teaching me the trade.

I swear, that man saved my life. More than once I would show up bloodied from one of mom’s episodes, and he would quietly provide me what I needed to patch myself up, not ask any questions, and throw a pillow and a blanket on the couch in the office for me.

I ended up making that clunker of a bike run, and it looked better than it probably did the day it rolled off the factory floor. It took a few years, but it was a beauty. Carl actually even taught me to ride, and took me for my permit when I was sixteen. Most people’s parents taught them how to drive a car, mom obviously couldn’t be bothered. Well, that and she’d had her license suspended so she really couldn’t.

In Massachusetts, you had to be eighteen to get a license. On my eighteenth birthday, Carl drove me to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, and paid for me to take the road test. When I passed, he paid for my license and gave me a check to cover my first year of insurance. I had to go to the bathroom because the tears that threatened to fall were overwhelming me. I’d never really learned how to deal with people being nice to me, so I just didn’t. I wasn’t about to punch a hole in the wall at a government building, so I just sat there on a toilet, staring at a temporary license, blown away by the feeling of freedom I had. This was my ticket out of my hellish life.

About a year after I got my license, someone made an offer for my bike that made my head spin. Honestly, I’d about passed out at the thought of having all that money. I did ask Carl what he thought, first, only because I didn’t think I should make a money decision without some advice, and he was the only person I trusted. We talked over what had been put into the bike, how much I had originally paid for it, and he looked up what it probably would be worth, which was a couple thousand more than the guy had offered. Carl suggested I counter offer. I thought he was nuts, but I did, and my first deal was made.

I was fucking hooked. I was nineteen at the time, helping run Carl’s shop, and now had the opportunity to deposit a check with three zeros at the end of the amount in my bank account. The one I got by myself when I was eighteen and could do it on my own.

Over time, I continued buying and selling bikes, restoring them and selling at a profit. It turned out I had a pretty good head for ‘flipping’ bikes, and did it for a few years until I got a little bored. My bank account was more than sufficient, and I’d had a little bit of success with investments, so I decided to see about buying into a partial ownership of a Harley dealership. I’d run the numbers and it seemed like a good bet. Carl decided he didn’t want me to have all the fun, so he joined me on the venture, and together we ran Carl’s Harley Davidson in Norwood.

We were up to three dealerships just last year as we were looking to expand once again, and have a separate corporate office. The day after the ink dried on the lease agreement, I got a call from a lawyer’s office. Carl had suffered a fatal heart attack and was gone.

The only father I’d ever known was gone.

The only person who had loved me for me was gone.

The only person in the fucking world who gave a shit that I was alive was gone.

I remember sitting numbly as the lawyer explained to me that because Carl had no kids, I owned everything. All of it, the dealerships, the fancy office, the money. I was thirty years old with no personal debt and more money that I would have ever dreamed a single human being could possess.

I looked out the door of my office and scanned the cubicles that housed my small staff. I had two people in accounting, an administrative assistant and a human resources person. We had openings for purchasing, because now that we had expanded to four locations, we had some buying power, so it would be beneficial to have someone who could negotiate contracts. I had an intern from a local college helping with marketing stuff. I wasn’t sure if I was going to hire her or not. She was a sweet kid, but maybe a little too soft for a Harley chain. The first time someone said ‘fuck’ on the office floor, she damn near jumped out of her seat and then did a hurried sign of the cross.

Yeah, life had turned out okay. That rust bucket old bike and my license had been my ticket out of Mattapan and the life I had the misfortune of being born into.

And yet, here I was trying to come up with a good reason to swing by a nursing home to pick up a tiny chick with an enormous attitude problem.