Chaos: Contemporary Biker Romance

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1 - SAME SHIT, DIFFERENT LAY

"Ant'ya gonna take off ya clothes?" she asked him, looking up at the man in the twilight of the room. A dirty window stood on the right wall next to Boston Eager, facing the downtown harbor, and a neon light's bubble gum pink and green light bled into the room, casting an eerie hue over the opposite walls of the hotel room. Barbie shifted her eyes away when Boston didn't answer. "You ain't gonna hurt me are ya?"

Boston didn't even know her name. Kleiser just handed her off, tossing her like a rag doll onto Boston's shoulder. The girl laughed and giggled as Boston carried her like a caveman up the stairs, stomping his steel-toe boots on each step with a heavy thud. He guessed she liked being dominated, and if so, she was in for a real treat. She would not find someone any less dominant than him. Boston wondered whether the girl comprehended whose hands Kleiser had placed her in, as he tossed her Barbie-like figure on the bed, bouncing her up and down. He was Boston Eager, the vilest and most hated gangster on the east coast, wanted by every cop north of the Mason-Dixon line. But he knew, just like everyone knew, the cops would never touch him. He was too dangerous, too nasty in his ways of getting revenge on anyone who slighted him.

"Take off your clothes," he said, standing like a stone pillar on the edge of the bed, his massive, tattooed arms crossed over his chiseled chest. Barbie Doll laughed for a second, half-drunk, her mascara running down her face, bleary-eyed from the concoctions at the bar where she met Kleiser. She folded up her thin legs to unsnap her stiletto.

Boston held back a smile.

"OK good, cuz I ain't got time for that shit," Barbie said.

"What shit?"

"Gettin' hurt," she said, undressing.

She ran her eyes up and down Boston's body, even though he still had his clothes on. His large frame went up and up, like a human skyscraper, and his face featured wide cheekbones that looked both primitive and beautiful. These were strange qualities for a man of such violence and brutality. Boston comprehended she didn't know who he was. She was probably too drunk, and the room lit their faces in half-shadow. His body turned her on, though, and he tossed his shirt on the chair next her. He was a big boy, his burning cobalt eyes emitting their own hue from the corner of the room. His chest muscles lacked a little definition, but they hung like giant steaks off his upper torso. All parts of his body, his bones and meat, his ass and thighs, his skull and shoulders, fused together on his body like a stone statue. Boston was a tank, full of momentum and hate and the desire to breed.

By the time Barbie was naked on the bed, she tried unbuckling his pants, but he slapped her hand away. He always took control over his daily lays, and this girl was no different. He picked her up by the feet and curled her feet over his shoulders. Barbie grunted, knowing he would soon run himself inside her, a wet hot blade of flesh, straight through her most vulnerable areas. She couldn't wait for him to use her.

He unbuckled his pants, not even bothering to step out of his jeans, and pumped himself away, gliding and shifting through Barbie like she was the primary vessel for his enjoyment, giving nothing in return. He squeezed his ass and heaved on her, as Barbie moaned and ran her tiny hands along the contours of his arms. He curled his hands into fists, propping himself up on the bed like a furious gorilla, continuing to pump himself harder and deeper inside the strange woman.

This was his daily ritual before his nightly romp: first, get up at four in the morning, run twelve miles around the University of Pennsylvania track, his hooded figure no small warning to ward off anyone who might be interested in striking up a conversation. His next stop was The Sunflower, the bar his father passed down to him to ensure financial security. He made a habit of running his fingers under the bar line for any drugs or bugs planted by undercover cops. He counted the cash from last night and checked the restrooms for drunks. After making sure his waiters placed things where they should be, he went back to his office. There, in the corner of the tiny room sat an ammunition cabinet full of his weapons. Smith & Wessons, Remingtons, Parabellas, Lugers. He had everything. And he had more in the hangar size shed behind his bar the Sunflower. You could never have too much ammunition, Boston knew. You never knew when you would need to defend yourself, or defend someone else. You see, Boston was a killer, in every sense of the word. The people he killed deserved to die, usually because he had insulted Boston or his family. No one insulted his family. There was no saving the world where a man could not walk down the street without someone insulting the people he loved. And that was what his killing was all about--Boston and his family deserved respect, and if the world refused to grant it, he would take it by force. That's why he joined the Roxy Boys gang when he was twelve, right around the same he lost his family and started smoking. The boys took him under their wing, protecting him and giving him all the training he needed.

The last part of his day, if he wasn't out taking revenge on anyone who dared threaten his family, meant he find an empty lay before falling asleep. And when he finally came inside Miss Barbie on the bed tonight, he sat there watching her eyes roll back in her head. He studied her, curious about the naked creature laying under him. She was the same as all of her race, according to Boston, the fair sex who enjoyed being a toy, an object for his sexual pleasure. He stood up, wiping himself off with his shirt, his chin tilted down on his chest. The woman by his knees, relaxing in bliss, dropped her head off the bed's edge, looking at his naked body upside down.

"Ain't nothing betta than bein' used…" she said, reaching out to touch his kneecaps. "…by the one and only Boston Eager." But Boston just shook his head at the mess on the bed, that sorry excuse for a person, that sack of meat. Boston walked into the cold floor file of the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Women, he thought.

2 - BOSTON GETS HIS GUN

When Kleiser told Boston what the boy did, Boston's veins swelled like a flooding river, and he damn near lost control of his anger. Boston jumped out of the shower, racing around the room to get on his clothes, without stopping to check his bed for Barbie, who left the door to his apartment open so just anyone passing by could come in. He grabbed his keys, threw on a shirt, and barreled down the stairs. He swung open the door to his building, cracking the glass when it slammed into the brick corner. Kleiser waited near the entrance.

"Where is he?" Boston asked.

"I'll show you."

Boston followed Kleiser down the cold concrete sidewalk along the city's brownstones, toward an alley in between buildings. They turned the corner, and Kleiser's brother was standing over someone at the end of the alley, looking down at him. A young man's voice shouted from the ground, and when Boston got close enough, he could see the boy pointed a small pistol at them. Kleiser and his brother Andre laughed at the ridiculous kid. "Be careful who you point that thing at, kid. You could put someone's eye out," Kleiser said. Kleiser and his brother shifted around to give Boston a view of the kid. It was Logan Farris. His face melted under the heat of his fear, but he was trying his best to keep things together.

"Back the fuck up, man," the boy said, pointing the pistol at them with trembling hands.

"If I didn't know any better," Andre said, "I'd think it was a bb gun."

"Ha, this is true. You probably don't even know how to shoot that thing, boy," Kleiser said. "If it wasn't for your little mistake, you know, I would feel sorry for you. But you took a sucker punch at my brother, and for that, you're gonna pay."

"He fucked my girlfriend!" Logan said, shifting his eyes back and forth to signs of understanding from the two men standing over him.

"I will do it again, you little punk. Nobody messes with the Roxy Brothers," Andre said. "Now put down the gun, or you're going to make this much worse."

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