Page 14 of It Takes a Thief

So I rode him faster. Like a dog scratching his butt on the carpet, I thrust my hips back and forth, rubbing his cockhead vigorously. I knew he couldn’t hold out. For a man, it was just like wrapping your hand around one of those fake cunts and making a hot dog out of it, jacking hard. It was a race to see who came first.

“Okay,” I panted. “We’ll go to Veracruz, to the Yucatan.”

“Sure, sure,” he groaned, an octave or so higher than his normal range.

His dick plumped in my hand. Now I was rubbing it strictly against my clit, like I was getting off against a silicone dong. In this way, I was “using” Ford like an appliance to get me off, sort of apropos for what our marriage had become. I pumped harder and faster, the inner walls of my pussy clenching on an invisible schlong. Exquisite tension flooded my pussy lips and I knew if I could just… hit… it right…

The orgasm slammed me like a fucking Mack truck! All at once I was a defenseless, jellylike life form as the orgasm clenched my belly, my uterus in a vise grip. I fell knee-first onto the windowsill, bringing Ford down on top of me like a stallion. Now I barely needed to rub that fat cockhead, the waves of ecstasy were rushing over me on their own.

“Oh, fuck!” he cried.

I thought he was crying out in his own orgasmic frenzy. How cool it was that we were coming at the same time!

But no. Ford was pulling away, leaving me high and dry, almost making me fall backward on my ass.

What in the name of Marco blessed Polo?

I turned just in time to watch his muscular ass as he bent to swipe something from the floor. His towel? Turned out, he had his ever-present phone buried somewhere in that towel—probably up his ass!—and it was giving off a peculiar kind of beep. I’d heard that beep before. It was a special emergency beep from Lytton, his Veep.

Holy shit! This was the story of my life!

I sobbed with rage and the ebbing tide of a macro orgasm. Still rubbing my clit like the helpless, abandoned woman I was, I vaguely heard him bark,

“Yeah, Lyt? Uh-huh? No shit. Tomorrow?”

He didn’t even cover that heavily sculpted ass with the towel as he strode into the hallway, utterly ignoring me. I was in the middle of coming and he couldn’t even let Lytton wait a couple minutes!

Now I sobbed in earnest. Pulling the green bear shirt down around my squishy ass, I plopped onto my desk chair. My screen read:

I should go find Galileo.

Between sobs that I managed to catch in my throat, I flipped over to my email screen.

Ogden, I wrote,

Can you give me some clues as to how to find your brother? Like, turn right at the steeple shaped like a ‘fuck you’ bird? I need to head out sooner than I imagined, and Galileo’s phone has been out of range for days.

CHAPTER SIX

FORD

We were surrounded by Cutlass patch holders in the warehouse, but no sign of Zelov or Muldoon. Noodlum, I should call him, since that’s the name under which he wreaked substantial havoc on our club.

It was irreverent to do anything other than quietly wait. I could tell my guys were itching to get at their phones, to look at photos of baby goats in sweaters or whatever they’d been doing lately. I heard that as people aged, they began to regress back into their childhood years, and that sure seemed to be happening to my good old boys. If they regressed any farther, they’d be a wallet and a puddle of sperm on the ground. They used to be all about the business. Lately it seemed they just couldn’t wait to make it to the next world music festival.

What to do? I couldn’t force these men. They were seasoned, hardened men, accustomed to seeing it all. Maybe that was the problem. They’d seen it all and it no longer affected them. Or they wanted the baby goats to help them forget what they’d seen. I told Fox to hang back behind a pallet of video games—it was our warehouse, of course, the Cutlasses probably only owning some shack full of paperclips—so he could give me an assessment of Noodlum without Noodlum perhaps recognizing him and going postal from some ancient, imaginary grudge.

Would I have to rely on green men like Wolf Glaser, Knoxie, Roman, and Sock Monkey? As talented as these guys were, each in their own way, they didn’t exactly create the backbone of a club. I’d thought about using the younger men for raids, heists, you know, the stuff requiring muscle. Leaving the geezers at home having their ugly sweater parties. But I knew that to show a united front, and to scare the holy hell out of people, I’d need the stalwarts, the scarfaces, the dudes not afraid to get their hands messy. So they came, reluctantly, although Gollywow grumbled about having to work in his community garden.

It was quite a fucking while until Zelov and Noodlum made their grand entrance. I was sure it was planned that way. I shared side-eye with Lytton. We were the only ones who had taken chairs, forcing the rest of our brothers to stand behind us, hands folded over their crotches, staring steely-eyed into the eyes of the traitorous Cutlasses.

I had wanted to push back on them with no warning. Just hit them, hard. That was my way. Lytton’s way was to appear pragmatic, to talk some sense into me. That’s how we balanced each other out. He talked me out of slitting some backstabber’s throat, and I agreed to, I don’t know, deprive him of sleep for seventy hours by playing the Monkees “Cuddly Toy” nonstop.

At last, Zelov and Noodlum made their entrance. We stood, but did not give them the half-hug back pat so necessary to anyone who even vaguely knew each other these days. It looked like maybe Zelov was going to start doing that, but when he saw me cringe back, so did he, as if to say, “I was never gonna do that to begin with.” We sat.

All eyes were really on Noodlum. Who the fuck was he? Aside from Fox, no one could recall knowing the guy. Where had he come from? He was a skinny wiry fuck, with the tiniest shiftiest eyes anyone had ever seen. His scraggly beard crawled over his face as though he was too young to grow a real one, and a hank of uneven hair covered one eye. It was cold in the warehouse, so his leather jacket covered most of his ostensible ink, but he displayed his knuckles so prominently we could read one declared “PAY,” the other, “ME.” One wrist had a handless, numberless watch, which indicated he had done all day and a night somewhere where time didn’t matter.

I started out. I wanted to show that I had the upper hand. “Zelov. It’s come to my attention that a man of yours named Noodlum has been planting fake news stories about us on Facebook. This has got to stop.”