Page 29 of Nuts

He crossed his arms. “You making threats?”

I wasn’t about to get caught up in a conspiracy charge with the feds. Backing down completely wasn’t an option, either. I shook my head. “Not a threat, cop. A prediction. She’ll like the taste of my dick more than she likes yours. Now. Gimme my fucking smokes.”

He motioned toward cop number two. “Get him out of here, Clark. I’m tired of listening to his bullshit.”

I looked at the second cop. “Yeah, Clark. Gimme me my smokes, and let me outta here.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Curly said.

“Save us both some trouble, and just give me your wife’s cell phone number,” I said with a laugh.

“Fuck off, Percy,” he said through his teeth.

People’s perceptions of me differed. Their opinions were based on how well they knew me, and what portion of my true self I allowed them to see. Most would agree, regardless of their depth of knowledge about me, that I was a man of my word.

And, I promised Curly that I’d poke my cock down his wife’s throat if he called me Percy again.

I turned toward him and grinned as I tried to decide who would enjoy it the most.

Me? His wife? Or the people who drove past the billboard?

I’d find out soon enough.

Chapter Eleven

Joey

When Percy moved into the neighborhood, I was thirteen. Immediately after he unloaded the last piece of furniture into the house, I introduced myself. At the time I didn’t realize it, but I later admitted that I my admiration of him was two-fold.

The first reason was that his life mirrored the one I suspected my real father had lived. Intrigued by living next door to a real-life biker, I absorbed everything about him and his way of living, all the while imagining my deceased father had lived in the same fashion.

Secondly, I detested my stepfather, but desperately needed a male role model in my life. Fate allowed Percy to step into that role when I was a teenager. I asked him questions about life, my feelings, relationships, and motorcycles. He answered them all to the best of his ability, never denying me his time.

I was young and inexperienced at everything feminine. Subsequently, my makeup skills were nil.

One day, only a few weeks after his arrival, he laughed at my makeup. He told me a girl as pretty as me didn’t need makeup. I’ never forgot that day, and I’m sure I never will. My inability to apply makeup on that day earned me a nickname.

Smudge.

Although my makeup skills improved, the nickname stuck with me.

Grateful that I eventually became accomplished in the craft, I inspected myself in the bathroom mirror at the dealership.

My eye was still slightly swollen, but the thick application of foundation and having the blush a little higher on my cheeks hid the bruise.

Convinced I looked good enough to lie my way out of any inquiries, I washed my hands and meandered to the parts counter.

“Damn,” Blane said as soon as I walked in. “What happened to your eye?”

“Bee stung me.”

“On your eye?”

“My cheek.”

He winced. “Damn, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”