In my observation, I realized Axton snapped the rubber band against his wrist when he was uncomfortable or troubled. Initially I was going to ask why, but later decided there was probably more value in my keeping my mouth shut and seeing if there was some type of pattern to his behavior. After watching for some time, I believed he did it even more when he was tempted to do something he felt would be better left undone.

When he came to the bar the second time, I noticed he did it when I did my innocent little naïve school girl pose. There was no other reason, no awkward discussions, and nothing I said had pissed him off. But each time I put my hands in the pockets of my shorts and swiveled my hips, he snapped his rubber band repeatedly. Probably out of nervous habit more than anything.

I attempted to do as much research on the club as I could, but found very little to read. There was a website for the Selected Sinners Motorcycle Club, listing Slice as President, Stacey as Vice President, Mike as Treasurer, Fancy as the Secretary, Hollywood as the Road Captain, and Otis as the Sergeant at Arm’s. The website listed the bylaws, and Axton wasn’t joking about the clubhouse. The rules regarding Ol’ Ladies were pretty clear in that respect. I desperately wanted to know about the club, but even more, I wanted to know as much as I could about Axton.

“I can’t believe they’ve been here all along, and we never knew,” I shouted over my shoulder as I closed the window on the computer.

“I know. God, I want another ride. Not with that weirdo Cash, but with one of ‘em. I bet that Otis dude is freaking hung,” Sloan hollered from the bathroom.

I rolled my eyes in agreement, knowing she didn’t necessarily expect a response.

“You know,” she said.

“They say you can tell about a guy’s cock from his hands, feet, and confidence. Otis’ hands are huge, and his feet are huge. But Axton? God he’s hot. And it freaking creeps me out that he’s so confident. The way he walks, he acts like he could just beat anyone’s ass that’s dumb enough to get in his way. I bet his cock’s a freaking foot long,” she yelled.

I leaned back into the stool and smiled at what she said. I felt the same way, but hadn’t expressed it. Axton’s confidence was apparent in his walk alone. The look on his face, his stride, and his demeanor screamed do not fuck with me. He looked like a wind-up toy when he walked, there was a certain rhythm to the steps he took, and the process repeated itself roughly every six or so steps. As I watched him walk I wondered if it was a conscious thing, or something that simply happened.

I decided it was just Axton. I liked thinking of him that way.

“What in the fuck is on your nose?” I asked as Sloan walked out of the bathroom.

Although she had attempted to wrap herself in a towel, it was painfully obvious there was far too much of her to try and cover with the shitty little towels we had in the apartment. With all of her ass and a good part of her pussy peeking out the bottom, her boobs were bulging out of the top. She could cover one of the areas, but definitely not both. She stopped and touched the side of her nose with the tip of her finger delicately.

“It’s freaking sore.” She winced as she pressed her fingertip into the edge of her nose.

“You pierced it?” I squealed as I bounced from the chair.

“Uh huh,” she responded.

“When? Why?” I asked as I moved my face closer to her nose.

“I went to Tracy’s.”

I leaned away from her nose and stared at her. “The jewelry shop?”

“Uh huh,” she said.

“You dumb ass. They pierced it with a gun, didn’t they?” I asked.

“Uh huh.”

“You dumb ass.”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head lightly. We had discussed getting our noses pierced when we moved to Wichita, because they had actual piercing shops which pierced with needles the proper way, and not with guns. From what we had read on the internet, and learned from asking around, having your nose pierced with a gun intended to pierce ears with was a no-no, and could possibly cause infection and trauma.

“Why didn’t you wait?” I said.

“I dunno. I wanted those guys to like me. I thought if I had it now, maybe they’d see me differently,” she whined.

I raised my clenched fist to my mouth, coughed, and rolled my eyes. “You want ‘em to like you? Seriously? Wear your new sixty dollar bra, they’ll love you. Jesus, go get dressed before something falls out of that towel.”

I watched as she stumbled to the bedroom, touching her nose with her finger the entire way. I sat down at the desk and peered through the door as she got dressed, knowing if I had her huge titties, everyone would love me.

No doubt.

God, if I just had half those tits, I’d have Axton begging me…

I stood up, walked to the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror. I turned to the side and tried to imagine myself with boobs. As I sucked in my nonexistent stomach and tried to force my flat ass to look round, she stepped into the doorway.

“What are you freaking doing?” she giggled.

I turned my head and smiled. “Trying to imagine myself with tits and a little ass.”

“Your tits are perfect, and you have a cute little ass.”

“I look like a boy,” I said.

“A hot fucking boy,” she said as she reached over my shoulder for the blow dryer.

“So I do. I look like a boy, don’t I?”

“No,” she said as she started drying her hair.

“Why’d you say it?” I asked as I stared into the mirror and twisted my body so my ass faced the mirror.

It’s helpless. I have no ass.

She shrugged and continued to dry her hair. I sighed and walked out of the bathroom and back to the desk. Frustrated, I lowered myself into the chair and stared at the black computer screen. Convinced I’d graduate from college, move to Wichita, and remain a flat assed and titless single woman for the rest of my life, I silently pouted at the thought of it all.

“What was that?” Sloan hollered over the sound of the hair dryer.

I blinked my eyes and looked around the room. “What was what?”

“Sounded like someone knocked on the door,” she shouted over the sound of the hairdryer.

“I didn’t hear anything,” I responded as I swiveled the chair toward the door.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Holy shit, someone’s here,” I said as I jumped from the chair and ran to the door.

Having someone come over probably wasn’t a big deal to the majority of the population of the free world, but to Sloan and me, it was a huge deal. In the two years we lived together, we’d had a total of two visitors that I could recall. One knocked on the wrong apartment door, and the other was pushing bibles and religion.

I bounced to the door and looked through the peephole.

Holy shit!