Page 4 of O'Mega's Revenge
“I’m a realistic woman. Underwear keeps certain things from getting sticky.”
“Sticky is good. Dripping wet and slippery is even better.” She licked her lips and wiggled her hips. The movement reflected light from the mirrors and I was temporarily blinded.
“You know, I didn’t invite you.”
She laughed at me.
“I know, I invited myself. You can carry the weed.”
Great, felony transport of narcotics across state lines. I marveled at my resume some days.
“How are you going to ride your bike with those?” She “borrowed” a pair of my silver thigh-high boots that had chain fringe wrapping from top to stiletto heel. I could barely walk in them, and certainly couldn’t ride. The heel messed with shifting.
“We’re not riding. Trot’s going to drive us.” She tossed a grommet-laced corset at me. It had a flounce of black lace around the bottom which accented my curves. The last time I wore it, Wolf threatened to cut it off me if I didn’t take it off by the time he was naked. I’d managed to save the outfit and the memories. Was it hot in here? I fanned myself and tried to keep up with Missile’s flurry of conversation.
“Is she now?”
Missile nodded. Then she stopped dead in her tracks and snapped her fingers. “Almost forgot!” She texted someone and got back to the job at hand, which was dressing me like a goth hooker.
“Do you own anything a bit more revealing?”
“I’m wearing a corset.” My boobs were practically at my chin. I shoved them out at Missile to drive both points home.
“On your ass, I mean. You got a nice ass.” She bent to the side and ogled me.
Now, I love my sisters, and I put up with a lot of shit from them, especially Missile. So, I knew this was all in good fun. When shit goes down, Missile is the one right at my side, knocking down doors and kicking ass. She was Trot’s right hand, with a fist and a gun. I was a demon on a mission, and between us we put a huge black spot onto any creep’s agenda.
“I’ll wear the leather booty shorts and my pinstripe stockings, okay?”
“With these.” She pulled out the lug-soled boots I got online. They had too many buckles to be practical in shiny black patent leather and silver chrome. With my bleached hair and pale skin, I was a study in black and white.
In contrast, Missile was color and tan and curly black hair. She went heavy on the colors around her eyes and painted her lips three different neon shades. Then glued little mirrors to accent the point of her eyeliner and fake eyelashes. Then she ruined the look by strapping a large slouch back over one shoulder.
“That doesn’t match.” I pointed out.
“But I need it for condoms.”
“You need a purse, not a suitcase. How many bikers do you intend to fuck tonight?” Hopefully, no one with an old lady. I would never be able to look any of my friends there in the eye again.
Maybe I needed to put down some ground rules.
“Sprout is off limits.”
“Duh. Danielle would have my lady balls if I touched him.”
She wouldn’t do any such thing. The woman was as cute and meek as one could get. Now, Sprout’s ma was a different story. She was a real biker’s old lady. The kind that carried a truncheon and chewed bubble gum. Just in case she needed to kick ass and chew gum. Too bad her husband was dead and she had Sprout dead set on making little sprouts with Danielle. That woman would be kicking ass and out of bubble gum well into her nineties.
“And please don’t tie up Skinner.” The poor guy would have an aneurysm.
She added handcuffs to her big bag of shame.
“You going to grab the kitchen sink on the way out?”
“Yup, and Trot’s bringing a shotgun and the long rifle. Bring your .22, and I’ll get more knives.”
Probably overkill if we were going any other place. But this was a Destroyers’ party. That meant loud music, whiskey, and blood. Not generally in that order. Frankly, Missile was traveling light.
I stuffed the pistol into my little black backpack that matched the boots. Then grabbed my butterfly knife and extra ammo.
