Page 23 of Biker's Property

Joslin gives me a disapproving look. Church girl. Hm. I pull out my e-cigarette, which I’m sure she will also disapprove of. At least she plans on eating. I eat a strip of bacon and wait for her to say something, tapping the end of the e-cig on the table with my other hand. I wish I had a little more coffee in me…

“The blond guys beheaded your friends,” she says, the tone vanishing from her voice. “I don’t know why. They didn’t say anything, they didn’t cry out. The only thing I deduced is maybe they stumbled upon something illegal.”

“We’re not always on the right side of the law,” I say, keeping my eye on her, watching her face for signs of deception and then just watching it for the sake of taking in all the strange ethnic features on this woman’s face. I still don’t entirely understand what a Filipino is, and how one of them got all the way here but… I try to understand.

Joslin eats with small, dainty bites, replying only when it’s polite to do so. Watching her mouth makes my dick ache, and definitely makes it hard to pay attention to what this woman is actually saying. I can’t help it. She’s so fucking strange and sexy. I guess I’d call it exotic.

“There are different scales to things,” Joslin says. “Just because you’re a drug dealer or whatever doesn’t mean you’re a killer. Or a Nazi.”

Guilt so strong it feels Catholic spreads through me as I keep my steady gaze on Joslin’s pretty little mouth. I don’t identify with being a Nazi, but I did what I had to in prison to make it through without having a nine inch black dick shoved up my ass. If she doesn’t approve of my language, she definitely wouldn’t approve of the white supremacist tattoo I have covered up.

I gave both sides a chance. I just don’t feel insecure enough to rely on my skin color to feel good about myself. Doesn’t stop me from feeling shame about what I did. What I said.

“Right. How did you come up with this theory?”

“I followed them,” she says. “And I didn’t kill one but… I knocked him out.”

“So they’ve seen you?”

“SLITLICKER.”

I nearly spitout my orange juice.

“What the fuckdid you just say?”

Joslin scowls.“Please don’t make me repeat it.”

“I didn’t hearwhat you said.”

She glares.

“SLITLICKER,” Joslin says, enunciating as she glares at me. I grin, but her scowl doesn’t break. Sunlight filters in through the blinds.

“Weird to hear you say that, church girl.”

“Don’t call me church girl,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It was just the name on his cut. Stitched on there with a bunch of racist patches.”

This woman doesn’t look like she killed a man and I don’t believe she knocked someone out. I doubt she could knock out a toddler. No offense to her, but she’s petite.

“How did you knock him out?”

“By accident.”

That makes more sense than brute strength.

“Shit,” I whisper. This part of her confession might have been useful earlier, but she might not have been in her right mind to tell me. I don’t like the idea that I left any witnesses out there. A witness might have seen my face. Or hers.

“The others assumed he disappeared to drink,” Joslin explains. “I hid until they left.”

She chews for a bit and I watch her lips until she speaks again. “By the time they left, I was too dehydrated to move and… I thought I was… gonna die.”

“Then, I saved your life,” I finish the story. “Gave you water. Brought you back to civilization.”

“That’s enough, white savior.”

“Okay, church girl.”

She drinks her orange juice to avoid looking at me. I stare at her neck and fight off the urge to yank that cup away from her and drag her to the bed. If I don’t give in to this urge, I’ll have to keep fighting it. I pull out my flask and take a drink instead.

---