Page 16 of The B!tch is Bad

As he said the word “busy,” I remembered leaving the Wine on Main report on Creed’s prep counter. Grasping Santiago’s bicep in my fingertips, I leaned into him. “It’s a deal. I have to go.”

He set his square jaw. “Yes. Me also. Duji! Tuzigoot!” He called out to a couple of senior Bare Bones bikers, looking out of place in their leather cuts heavy with worn patches. People assumed they were major hoodlums, but I swear, I’ve seen cops commit more crimes than the bikers. Those motherfucking pigs mistreated me the few times I tried to complain about Paul Fingerhut. The Bare Boners were just a drop in the bucket, crime-wise. They brightened up at the sight of Santiago, and I was off to grab my report.

Not many clients were familiar with me yet, so I slid through the crowd of dancers and flailers with ease. The horde was so oiled, I expected someone to crowd surf any second. I had to duck from a lashing arm, and I flung myself onto Creed’s prep counter.

The report was gone.

Almost in a panic, I felt around in the chopped peppers and onions, as though they’d be covering the report. “Mother fuck. Ah!”

Someone was plastered up against my butt. I whipped my spine upright and twirled around, my hands in the air like a monte dealer. Covered in chunks of red peppers as they were, some sprayed onto Creed’s white shirtfront.

The lazy grin on his sculpted face oozed relaxation, as though hundreds of folks as drunk as lords weren’t flinging their bodies this way and that. He seemed used to operating in crowds, installing a wall between his brain and the outer world. I knew the feeling, except the outer world sent me into a frenzy.

“I got the report.” His teeth were so dazzling white. Santiago was right—Creed possessed a shrewd, wild cunning. He deserved to be so successful. He’d earned every penny of it.

“Oh? I didn’t get a chance to look at it when Oliver handed it to me.”

My businesslike words belied the intense excitement and ardor rushing up and down my spine at that man’s intimacy. I mean, our mouths were a foot apart. His lush bowed lips were dying to be kissed, but not by me! What about the dozens of women who watched Creed like he was a quarterback? In the ocean of heads, that bleached woman stood out like a Viking at a luau.

Still, my pussy expanded and bloomed, as though welcoming, encouraging the giant cock pressed up against it. Creed could have moved away. But he didn’t. My pubic bone was mashed to his. I felt his heat, the pulsing of his dick.

I was strong enough to endure anything, even the defilement of that shitstain, Paul Fingerhut. No longer was I a rock tossed into a rippling pool, vanishing into nothingness. I was tied fast to Creed Trucks, a part of a whole. Only one rippling ring encircled me, and its name was Creedence.

I didn’t hear what he said next. I tried to distract myself by picking little peppers off his shirtfront. It was something about Ghost Riders wine.