CHEAP SMUT: Four Erotic Romance Novels (Boxed Set) (24 page)

I paused and stared down at my feet for a minute.

“
Kopic
. That’s it,” I said as I glanced upward and toward the officer.

“Oh shit, that’s
your
last name. Any relation?” I asked as I widened my eyes in false surprise.

As officer bad cop began to yank on my arm and threaten me with bodily harm, officer good cop attempted to settle him down.

I just grinned, feeling completely satisfied I’d got under his skin.

It seemed most people were afraid to be true to who they truly were, always cautious of what others might think.

Me?

I’m Dalton Biskette, known as
Biscuit
to my friends and brothers, and I never change.

Never have.

Never will.

BISCUIT

After Otis brought the bail money, we got my bagger out of impound and headed to the bar. Luckily, there were no scratches or scuffs on the bike, and I was able to ride away without having to beat someone’s ass for scratching my Harley. In much need of a drink, but in more need of a little pussy, I fixed my focus on the waitress at the shitty little bar Otis picked for our afternoon drink.

“So if it ain’t purple, what the fuck do you call it?” I asked as I stared at her purple fingernails.

“It’s gray,” she said as she spread her fingers apart and pressed them onto the table.

“Looks purple to me,” I said. “I fuckin’ like it. It makes your eyes look deep blue. Well, almost deep blue. God damn, I like lookin’ at you.”

“Thank you,” she said with a grin.

“Hell, thank
you
. I just got out of jail, and seein’ you is the best thing to happen to me today, so far that is. That fine fingernail polish just adds to it,” I said with a nod as I raised my glass of vodka.

“Oh my god. Jail? What for?” she asked.

“Ridin’ my bike about a hundred and fifty miles an hour down Kellogg, beatin’ the fuck out of a couple dozen cops, and kickin’ the shit out of a skinhead gang while they had me locked up. Huge misunderstanding if you ask me. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I said as I reached up and pulled against my beard.

“So you’re a bad boy. We get a lot of bikers in here, and most of them are just phonies. You’re the real deal, huh?” she asked as she twisted her hips back and forth.

I took a swallow of vodka, chased it with a drink of Red Bull, and grinned as I lowered the can onto the table.

“As real as it gets,” I said.

She glanced toward Otis, and then shifted her eyes to meet mine. After a short pause, she smiled. “I like your beard.”

“Appreciate it,” I said as I glanced toward Otis and winked.

The beard was a love or hate thing for women. There didn’t seem to be much in between. Since I let it grow out ten years prior, it had become my trademark. Now full, well-trimmed, and long, it was a magnet for some, and a means of repulsion for others. The ones who liked it
loved
it, and the ones who didn’t seemed to simply
hate
it. As the waitress stood and stared, I ran my fingers through the bottom of it, doing my best to fluff it up.

“Lemme guess,” I said as I twisted myself in the booth, turning my body to face her directly.

Now facing her, I gazed up and down her frame as if I was trying to memorize every inch of what I was seeing. Probably in her early twenties, she was every bit of ten years younger than me. Roughly five foot six with brown hair and an average build, her face made up for what her body lacked. She was cute as hell, and had an extremely long torso in comparison to her rather short legs, another huge plus in my book. After watching her nervously paying attention to my expressed interest, I fixed my eyes on hers and reached for my glass of vodka.

“Guys take advantage of you. They never really care what you
want
, or try to listen to what you even
think
. All they want you for is arm candy, or eye candy, and maybe to - excuse my French - but to fuck. And you like fuckin’, but you want more. You want someone who
understands
you and
appreciates
you,” I said flatly as I raised my glass.

“Oh my god, this is insane. It’s like your psychic,” she squealed.

“My boyfriend, well, he’s not
really
my boyfriend, we just hang out sometimes.” She paused and stared down at the floor for a moment.

She glanced upward with an almost expressionless face.

“All he cares about is, you know,” she said as she wagged her eyebrows.

I nodded my head and turned toward Otis. If I was able to measure his level of disgust on a scale of one to ten, he’d have tipped the scale at an eleven. Otis and I were about as close as any two men could be, but he didn’t totally agree with my constant efforts to hit on every woman I encountered. As far as I was concerned, it was me just having fun and being myself.

“Oh I know,” I said as I shook my head. “Probably what, in his early twenties?”

“Yeah, twenty-two,” she said.

“Hell, that’s part of the problem. You’re fuckin’ with a boy, and you need to do yourself a favor and see how a
man
treats you. Men are more appreciative,” I said as I turned toward the booth and reached for my Red Bull.

“Oh really? So what’s the big difference?” she asked.

I glanced over my left shoulder and studied her until she seemed to become nervous. As she started to fidget, I grinned and released the can.

“The difference? The
big
difference? I tell you what; I’ll explain it to you. With a boy, you never know what you’re gonna get. It’s anybody’s fuckin’ guess – hell, half the time, he doesn’t even realize what he’s gonna do. With a man, a
good
man, you’ll know,” I said, hoping she’d ask for an explanation.

And, before I had a chance to wipe the moisture from my hand to the thigh of my jeans, she did just that.

“And how would I
know
?” she asked.

“Because a man would tell you what to expect, that’s how. You know, with me, there are four things I’ll never do. I’ll tell you two of ‘em now and the other two after you get on the back of my bike and go for a ride,” I responded.

Silence.

“One, I’ll never lie to you. And two, I won’t come in your mouth without askin’ permission,” I said as I kicked my legs over the edge of the booth and turned to face Otis.

“Oh wow, I wasn’t expecting that,” she said as she nervously glanced toward Otis.

As she shifted her eyes toward me, she continued. “Okay. I have two questions. Well, one question and I guess a statement.”

She paused and moved toward Otis’ side of the booth. Now standing on the opposite side of the booth, she rested her hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and peered up at me.

“What kind of bike is it?” she asked.

“Only kind there is as far as I’m concerned. It’s a Harley,” I responded as I reached for my vodka.

As I held the glass in my hand and waited for the
statement
, I gazed beyond her, toward Otis. Sitting in the booth with his arms crossed, he shook his head and grinned. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen me do the exact same thing I was doing now. For whatever reason, giving half the information now and the other half later seemed to work well for me; it catered to the curious side of women.

“You said you were going a hundred and fifty down Kellogg. A Harley won’t go a hundred and fifty,” she grinned.

“The fuck you say. Mine will, and it’ll do it in a damned hurry. And in the lap of luxury, I might add. It ain’t one of them uncomfortable crotch rockets,” I said as I took a sip of vodka.

“It’s nice, huh?” she asked.

I nodded my head. “It’s like ridin’ a marshmallow down the road. And not one of those little bastards you put in a cup of hot chocolate either. It’s like one of them big fuckers you toast over a campfire. Now my man Otis here and I got to discuss some business. Here’s two questions for ya. When do you get off work, and what was the statement you were gonna make?”

“I get off at three,” she said.

She leaned down and rested her elbow on the table. After looking over her shoulder, she cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. As I turned my head to the side and tilted it her direction, she responded.

“You won’t have to ask my permission. You know, for the thing you said earlier. I’d just let you,” she whispered.

I raised my hand to my mouth and responded as if telling her a secret. “You know what? That’s the funny part. I’d ask for permission anyway. It’s just how I roll.”

“See you at three,” I said as I leaned into the seat and glanced at my watch.

After what seemed like all of an eternity, but was no more than a second or so, she stood, smiled, and walked away.

“You make me sick sometimes,” Otis said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Organizing a piece of puss is natural for most men. You ought to try it sometime,” I responded.

“You and I both know all you’re going to do is fuck her. That’s it. You ask me, it’s fucking mean,” he said as he reached for his beer.

“Ain’t nothin’ mean about it. If I lied to her, it’d be different. I gotta live with myself, so lyin’ is out of the question. She’s a big girl, she’ll be fine. So anyway, where was I?” I asked as I grabbed my second glass of vodka.

“The cookie,” Otis responded.

“Oh yeah, the cookie. So this dumb fuck with a swastika on his forehead walks up and stops right in front of me. I got a chicken leg in my hand, and I glance up at this Jew hatin’ skinhead and cough out a laugh.
Can I help you?
I ask. He reaches over, grabs the cookie off my tray and promptly takes a fuckin’ bite. I’m sittin’ there in fuckin’ shock; my eyes as big as a couple of pie tins. Who the fuck does such shit?” I asked.

Otis raised his eyebrows, apparently wanting to hear the rest of the story. “Obviously some dumb fucking skinhead. So what happened?”

“Well, first of all, the cookie was a chocolate chip. I mean, had it been oatmeal or some nasty ass shit, maybe things would have been different, but it wasn’t, so it ain’t. So he’s holding my cookie and getting’ ready to take bite number two, and I know I gotta make a move and make it quick. And, I know from bein’ around fuckers like the Corn Dog and some of the other fellas who’ve done time in the joint not to smack this fucker with my hands. So, I stand up and head butt this prick. Busted his nose open like a ripe fuckin’ plum. After that, I commenced to whip the shit out of this stupid fucker. Hell, he didn’t know what hit him. Afterwards, I picked my cookie up off the floor and sat down like nothin’ happened. Whole thing didn’t take two minutes. I finished my half eaten chicken leg and ate what was left of my cookie with this bloody fucker lying next to me. Hell, I thought I was in the clear. Was I?
Fuck no
.” I paused and shook my head, frustrated that I got caught.

“Cameras?” Otis asked as he lifted his beer bottle.

“You been in this jail down here, have ya?” I asked.

“No, just stands to reason they’d have ‘em,” he said.

“Sure as fuck do. God damned chow hall is littered with ‘em. But at this point in time, I don’t know that. Not yet, anyway. So, they came around checkin’ everyone’s knuckles for cuts, and when they didn’t find any, they let us all go back to our cells. Then, they took that fucker to the hospital. Five minutes after I got to my cell, they came and arrested me. I said what the fuck you fellas gonna do, put me in jail
inside
the jail? They didn’t bother anwerin’. Took me and locked me in the drunk tank till the next morning.” I paused and took a drink of my vodka.

I slid the glass to the side and leaned half-way across the table. “Next morning comes, and they let me out. Maybe an hour after I got back to my cell, one of his little minions comes up and asks
you the one who beat the shit out of Zippy?
Fuck, I didn’t even answer. This brain surgeon had some shit about Hitler tattooed on his neck, it was pretty obvious who he was and why he was at my cell door. So I grabbed this walkin’ abortion by his ears and head butted his ass. About ten kicks to the gut and a head stomp later, and his ass was done. You know, finding out his partner’s name made it all worth it. Hell, had I known his name was Zippy; I’d have whipped his ass just for that alone. Anyway, this pile of shit is layin’ at my cell door, and to make sure no one else would to try and fuck with the Biscuit during my little stay, I glanced around the cell block and pulled down my little orange suit. All these fuckers are staring at me wonderin’ what I’m gonna do. You wanna guess what I did?”

I leaned back in my seat and waited wide-eyed for Otis’ response.

“You pissed on him,” Otis responded as he lifted his bottle of beer.

“See? I can’t get one by ya, Brother. You god damned right. I pissed on that motherfucker while the whole cell block watched. I hadn’t so much as stuffed my hankster back into my little suit and the goon squad came running in, tackled me, and cuffed me. Left me in the shackles and chains till I went to court,” I said as I recalled trying to walk in the shackles.

Otis gazed at me silently, waiting for the rest of the story.

I picked up my glass of vodka and stared at the half melted cubes of ice. “You know, if you try and take a normal step in them fuckers, you’ll fall flat on your nose.”

“What’s that?” Otis asked.

“Them shackles they hook to your feet. Tricky little fuckers to walk in, I’m tellin’ ya,” I responded as I lifted my glass and drained the remaining vodka.

“Fifty grand seems kind of high for speeding through town. You must have really pissed some people off,” Otis said as he slid his empty beer bottle toward the edge of the table.

“Ten more minutes,” the waitress said as she reached for Otis empty beer bottle.