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Authors: Helen Lucas
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pool and then you get gang raped and tied to a motorcycle and run down the highway until those pretty tits of yours are a bloody mess?”
She scowled.
“No.”
“Then fucking do what I say. And fucking make me some breakfast.”
Her breasts were touching my forearm. Her nipples were tight and hard. It would have been so easy to catch one in my fingers, tease it as I pressed her down into the bed.
“It’s bad enough that I’m not fucking you, but the very least you can do, to make it seem like you’re one of us, is to make me breakfast,” I concluded.
“Fine. What do you want?” she finally muttered, not meeting my eyes.
“Go in the kitchen and figure out what I want.”
She scowled and pulled away from me, yelping as I released her hair. She dug around and put a t-shirt on that she had produced out of her bag. As she stalked out of the bedroom, I slapped her ass.
“And be fucking cheerful about it.”
“Yes, master,” she said and I could feel her eyes rolling, even though she was turned away from me.
I put on the TV and cracked open a beer, listening to the sounds of her making breakfast. The six AM news had just begun and they were leading with the story about Bolo.
“The Haitian-born gangster known only as Bolo was found dead in his cell today, an apparent suicide…” the anchor was saying as Claire came in with a steaming bowl of oatmeal.
She froze, holding both our breakfasts.
“Come on, sugar tits. Make it snappy,” I barked.
“Bolo killed himself?”
“How do you know Bolo?”
Claire looked at me hard, screwed up her face, and flung my oatmeal at me. The hot cereal seared my skin as I tried to catch it, mess going everywhere.
“Are you fucking crazy?!” I roared at her, ready to knock her across the room.
“I fucking took Bolo down!” Claire screamed, not at me, not at the TV, not at anyone, really. “I fucking arrested him. I read him his fucking rights and that son of a cocksucker went and offed himself before the trial…”
“Congratulations, you drove a man to suicide. You must be pretty fucking proud of yourself,” I scowled, wiping the dripping bits of oatmeal off of me. “And what do you mean you took Bolo down?”
Doug had been elusive about Claire’s previous accomplishments, only telling me that she had been staffed on their case dealing with Bolo’s gang and that she had distinguished herself and I had nothing to worry about regarding her capabilities. Claire glowered hard at me.
“I mean…” she said, her voice slow and deadly. “That I shot him… Put three rounds of forty-caliber Smith and Wesson in his hamstrings and one in his shoulder… And then I chased his bleeding ass through the dockyards… Cornered the son of a bitch… Threw a flash grenade… And then ran into him unloading his Desert Eagle in my general direction until I could plant my foot directly in his tight, about-to-be-prison-raped asshole, slap some handcuffs on him, and read him the fucking rights guaranteed by the Constitution. That’s what I mean.”
I still had some oatmeal left in my bowl. I looked down at it glumly.
“Could I, uh, have a spoon? Please?”
She let out a noise of general frustration and stormed out of the room. A few seconds later, a spoon came flying out of the kitchen in my direction.
I found her sitting at my tiny, rickety kitchen table, staring hard into her oatmeal.
“He killed my partner,” she said, finally. “The sting operation broke down at the last second and he killed Winston.”
I sighed and sat down across from her.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But he knew what he was getting into.”
She wasn’t crying. No, this girl was too hard to cry. She’d already lost her husband in war and now her partner in peace—how could you even make this girl cry?
Nothing I could do was ever going to break her. There was
She scowled.
“No.”
“Then fucking do what I say. And fucking make me some breakfast.”
Her breasts were touching my forearm. Her nipples were tight and hard. It would have been so easy to catch one in my fingers, tease it as I pressed her down into the bed.
“It’s bad enough that I’m not fucking you, but the very least you can do, to make it seem like you’re one of us, is to make me breakfast,” I concluded.
“Fine. What do you want?” she finally muttered, not meeting my eyes.
“Go in the kitchen and figure out what I want.”
She scowled and pulled away from me, yelping as I released her hair. She dug around and put a t-shirt on that she had produced out of her bag. As she stalked out of the bedroom, I slapped her ass.
“And be fucking cheerful about it.”
“Yes, master,” she said and I could feel her eyes rolling, even though she was turned away from me.
I put on the TV and cracked open a beer, listening to the sounds of her making breakfast. The six AM news had just begun and they were leading with the story about Bolo.
“The Haitian-born gangster known only as Bolo was found dead in his cell today, an apparent suicide…” the anchor was saying as Claire came in with a steaming bowl of oatmeal.
She froze, holding both our breakfasts.
“Come on, sugar tits. Make it snappy,” I barked.
“Bolo killed himself?”
“How do you know Bolo?”
Claire looked at me hard, screwed up her face, and flung my oatmeal at me. The hot cereal seared my skin as I tried to catch it, mess going everywhere.
“Are you fucking crazy?!” I roared at her, ready to knock her across the room.
“I fucking took Bolo down!” Claire screamed, not at me, not at the TV, not at anyone, really. “I fucking arrested him. I read him his fucking rights and that son of a cocksucker went and offed himself before the trial…”
“Congratulations, you drove a man to suicide. You must be pretty fucking proud of yourself,” I scowled, wiping the dripping bits of oatmeal off of me. “And what do you mean you took Bolo down?”
Doug had been elusive about Claire’s previous accomplishments, only telling me that she had been staffed on their case dealing with Bolo’s gang and that she had distinguished herself and I had nothing to worry about regarding her capabilities. Claire glowered hard at me.
“I mean…” she said, her voice slow and deadly. “That I shot him… Put three rounds of forty-caliber Smith and Wesson in his hamstrings and one in his shoulder… And then I chased his bleeding ass through the dockyards… Cornered the son of a bitch… Threw a flash grenade… And then ran into him unloading his Desert Eagle in my general direction until I could plant my foot directly in his tight, about-to-be-prison-raped asshole, slap some handcuffs on him, and read him the fucking rights guaranteed by the Constitution. That’s what I mean.”
I still had some oatmeal left in my bowl. I looked down at it glumly.
“Could I, uh, have a spoon? Please?”
She let out a noise of general frustration and stormed out of the room. A few seconds later, a spoon came flying out of the kitchen in my direction.
I found her sitting at my tiny, rickety kitchen table, staring hard into her oatmeal.
“He killed my partner,” she said, finally. “The sting operation broke down at the last second and he killed Winston.”
I sighed and sat down across from her.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But he knew what he was getting into.”
She wasn’t crying. No, this girl was too hard to cry. She’d already lost her husband in war and now her partner in peace—how could you even make this girl cry?
Nothing I could do was ever going to break her. There was
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