Well, let me tell you. Don’t try that at home, kids. Between the balls bouncing around in my cunt walls and my clit mashed up against Fox’s tailbone, I nearly came off about a dozen times. It was hard to keep a straight face, and I spent a good deal of the ride just leaning against Fox’s satiny back in a sort of half-conscious state, smiling lazily like a sloth.
We’d hooked up with at least six more bikes of the Friends of Distinction by the time we rumbled into town. But true to Fox’s word, he broke off from the club’s route and found a safe parking spot one street over in the lot of an old-timey casino complete with murals of the Pony Express. Between the hangover and the Ben Wa balls, I was ready for anything, and I wobbled in my new cowgirl boots when Fox gave me a hand dismounting.
He noticed. “You okay?”
I nodded fuzzily. “Let’s see the sights.”
We were immediately in the midst of a display of beautiful motorcycles, none of which I knew anything about. Fox schooled me on the difference between a touring class of bike and a builder class, and I was blinded by the amazing paint jobs on some “trikes” and sidecars. We shoved our way through crowds of bikers smelling of hot leather and pot smoke, and tons of women much better built than me in miniscule leather bras. They were brassy women, loud and inked, and I didn’t feel I was a thing like them. I was a simple girl with lank, straight hair, no ink, and barely enough to fill a regular bra. It made me feel small and insignificant.
Fox gazed fondly at a Harley Sportster with alarmingly high handlebars he said were called “ape hangers.” “I used to have an ’04 like this. One of the things I hated to leave behind in New Mexico.”
In my rattled state of mind, this must have sounded like an opening to me. “You said you were a real lawyer there. Why’d you have to leave?”
He crooked a grin at me. He put an arm around me to move me off down the street. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”
“Not really.” I persisted, like a brat. “I mean, you know my deepest, darkest secret. I trust you not to tell anyone in Pure and Easy. Or anyone, period. I know next to nothing about you, but you’ve given me the best orgasm of my life.”
“Have I?” He didn’t look at me, but I could tell pride was swelling his ego. He was really such a haughty, arrogant bastard. Why did I like him? Because he’d appeared to save me, like a knight in shining armor?
“What town did you live in?”
His ego deflated a tiny bit. “Taos,” he said sullenly.
“And where did you graduate law school?”
“Columbia.”
“Oh yeah? Did you know Andy Hacker? He was Columbia law.”
The haughty look returned. “My dear. I took my degree in ’05. I was at least five years before any of your friends.”
That was true. We had turned into a food court with trucks emanating mouth-watering, smoky scents. I was as ravenous as the next girl, but I wouldn’t let a burrito deter me. “Okay, well, Fox Isherwood is obviously not your real name.”
“No, it isn’t. Like you, I chose a literary last name when I went on the run. I take it you like Doctor Doolittle?”
It was a feeble attempt at changing the subject. “Yes. I read them all when I was like six. Now, I really insist you tell me your real name. Tit for tat.”
“Quid pro quo? Do you eat beef? These shredded beef tacos look—”
“Listen here, Esquire whatever your name is, I demand you tell me right now what your real name is! Or I’ll…I’ll…”
Fox turned to me, patiently looking at the sky. “Or you’ll what?”
I realized it was pretty foolish—and futile—to threaten a sicario. Or a lawyer. But I had to finish what I started. “Or I’ll fucking go ride off with someone else and never talk to you again.”
A storm cloud came over his face. This was a sight no one ever wanted to see. His aristocratic nostrils flared, and his pupils became pinpoints, black holes. He gripped me by the upper arms and moved me away from the line of folks waiting for tacos. “Listen. I am officially your only protection between here and that gun for hire with the holes in his jaw and his arm disintegrating.”
Maybe it was the truth of Fox’s words. Or maybe I was just being a petulant baby with Ben Wa balls rolling around inside of me. “Oh yeah? Well, see how much I care!”
And I stomped off. Yes, I stomped. I fisted my hands and stomped precariously in the brand new boots I wasn’t used to yet, sort of slipping on some waxy wrapper on the street and literally running into some guy who resembled an original Allman Brother. I couldn’t tell if Fox was following me what with all the people and yelling swirling around me. But I knew I was about to burst into babyish tears.
It had all been too much for me. Getting inappropriately swept away by a fucking hitman, of all people, a secretive guy whose real name I didn’t even know. Granted, no one knew my real name either. He must have his reasons. But his remote attitude last night, then his cavalier one today, as though he knew I’d fuck him just because he was so damned great—that, and the bottle of Blue Nun, it all got to me.