Page 9 of Outlaw

We round the corner to the back parking lot and head toward a Harley parked on the far right.

I forgot about the bike.

My heart picks up. I’ve never ridden before. And while I realize robbing banks should be scarier than getting on a motorcycle, I’m frozen in fear.

“Climb on behind and hold on. You’ll be fine. We aren’t going far.” His tone is low and demanding, but for some reason, it further adds to my comfort. All decisions have been stripped from my brain. Whatever he tells me to do, I’ll do… blindly. And for some reason, I kind of believe he has my best interest at heart.

Maybe I’m terribly naïve. He did mention how much my payout was… like forty times.

He climbs onto the bike, and I follow behind, clinging to his back, dragging in the scent of leather and exhaust. I can’t remember the last time I had a hug. This feels good. Really, really good. The bike rumbles between my legs and vibrates against my already soaked pussy. And though I have no right to enjoy this ride, I have a feeling I just might.

Chapter Four

Outlaw

Faith’s arms wrap around my waist and cling tight. Her hands are small, and her frame is too. The warmth of her breath tickles the back of my neck as I ride, and I struggle to keep the bike on the road.

I don’t know what the hell is happening to me. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t let my feelings get wrapped up in my work. I find my targets and I take them in. I don’t waver, I don’t second guess, and I certainly don’t give criminals second chances.

Cold wind slaps me in the face as we climb the mountain toward the cabin at the edge of the falls. After a long stressful day, this place is heaven to come home to. A long dirt road and the water crashing and splashing in the distance. It’s incredible and some days it’s hard to believe it’s all mine.

“Holy shit! This is your house?” The enthusiasm in her tone excites me but I need to block this out. I can’t spend months turning into a soft, bitch boy because some woman with thick hips, big tits, and a sad story rolls in.

I kill the engine on the bike and climb off, ignoring her. She can climb off on her own. For some reason, I’m pissed off at myself now. She shouldn’t have had to climb off without help.

“Wow!” Her eyes are darting everywhere, and though it’s dark, she’s noticing every detail. “So… did you build this?”

I unlock the front door. “Yes.” My answers from now on will be yes or no. It’s the easiest way to stay detached emotionally.

Her tone lifts as we step inside and she says, “This is incredible! Like you built it with your own two hands? Everything? Even this countertop?” She pushes her soft hand across the butcher block and stares up at me in awe.

“Yes.” I’ve never had anyone appreciate the craftsmanship of my work before. It feels good.

“Wow. I always wanted to build something useful, you know? One time I thought I’d build these benches, and I got wood and screws and all the things, and they like… wiggled apart. So, I smartened up and got brackets and then… they wiggled apart again. It did take longer for them to wiggle apart the second time.”

I try not to smile or tell her what could have been the problem or offer a suggestion for future bench building. Instead, I nod and reach for a beer.

“How long did this take?” she asks, still wandering.

Fuck. I can’t answer this with a yes or no. So, I switch to single word answers.

“Two years.” Fuck! That was two words.

“That’s not that bad. Not with all the detail you put into everything.” She walks around the space, running her hand across the wood on the shelves, the molding, and the cabinetry. “I’ve never had anything this nice in my life. We live in this little trailer, and it floods all the time. We’ve had to evacuate for every hurricane, and each time we come back the place is swamped, but we can’t afford anything else. Last year we finally replaced the flooring from hurricane Isaac because my mom’s asthma was getting so bad from the mold and stuff.” She holds up her hands. “Not to sound ungrateful, because I am. There’s a lot of people without roofs over their head at all. I just… this is gorgeous. You did a really nice job.”

“Thank you.” I want to say more. I want to know about her, about her life, about her passions, her goals. I want to know when her birthday is, what makes her smile, what kinds of jokes she finds funny, what she does when she’s not robbing banks, how she smells in the morning, what she sounds like when she comes, what her face looks like when she’s…

Jesus fucking hell!

“What do you do for fun?” She sits on the sofa with a broad grin like she’s not living second to second. “I mean, when you’re not being a big, tough, criminal catcher.”

“Fishing.” Apparently, I’m back to one-word answers.

“I bet you can catch lots of stuff in that river. Do you have family around here or—”

“No.” I sip my beer and contemplate how much longer I can take this. Her soft lips were on my cock an hour ago. I want them back again. I want to abuse all this power I’ve just found and order her on her knees to suck me dry. Then I want to pick her up, carry her into my bed, and make her tell me every detail about herself until we both fall asleep and wake up in the morning without this bounty hanging over our heads.

This was a mistake. I’m never going to make it eight weeks.

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