Page 99 of Outlaws of Tulsa

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re old lady material.”

“Is that so?”

“Carrying my kid. Damn straight.”

“You’d get married again one day?”

“It’s not a question, PG. You’re mine. As soon as you’re well enough, it’ll be official.”

A silly smile stretches across my face. “Can I still call you Daddy?”

“I’m getting to dick you on the regular now. You can call me whatever the fuck you want, baby girl.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

We both laugh.

God, it feels good to laugh.

My laughter soon becomes moans and my man shows me what it means to be “dicked” on the regular. It feels good. Really good.

Koyn

November

“Goddamn, Nees,” I mutter when he drops another tool, making it echo loudly in the garage. “Gonna change your name to Butterfingers.”

Dragon laughs from across the garage where he’s doing pull-ups on a bar. Bare chested and barely fucking clothed. It’s November. This asshole acts like it’s August. “When he has a bitch in his arms, he’s pretty fucking solid,” Dragon tattles. “Doesn’t drop shit except cheesy ass pickup lines that somehow work.”

Katana, who’s leaning against the wall watching Dragon, nods with a smirk. “Those cheesy pickup lines drop panties,” Katana agrees.

Nees fucking preens. Prances around the garage waving his offending wrench. “Bitches like my dick. What can I say?”

“How old are you again?” Filter grunts from beside me on the sofa. “Twelve? Have your balls even dropped yet?”

Nees flips him off while Gibson strums his guitar and starts singing “Teenage Dirtbag” by Wheatus. Gibson gets the bird too.

“How about you teach me some of these lines, man,” Bizzy says grumpily. “I haven’t been laid in like a year.”

“Bitches can’t find your dick, dumbass,” Dragon grunts from the pull-up bar. “Do something about that stomach hanging over your belt.”

Bizzy rolls his eyes. “Thick is in.”

Dragon drops to his feet and shakes his head. “Thick bitches, yeah. Not pot-bellied loud mouths.”

“Bizz, bro, I got you,” Nees assures him. “Bitches like to be wooed. They don’t care if you look like a psycho runway model.” He looks pointedly at Dragon. “And they certainly don’t give a shit about Fabio.” He tosses a smirk at Filter. “Bermuda…fuck, bitches love dudes like Bermuda.”

Bermuda, with his baseball cap flipped backward, looks up from his laptop, a boyish grin on his face. “Who loves me?”

“My dick,” Dragon says, grabbing himself through his shorts.

“Bitches,” Nees grumbles, ignoring Dragon. “Bitches love that whole Oklahoma good ol’ boy vibe you have going on.”

The music stops and Gibson nods. “You’ve stolen bitches right from my arms with your stupid dimples, man. And I play guitar and can fuckin’ sing!”

Now Bermuda is fucking preening.

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