Wrong Place To Fall In Love

I closed my eyes and took him in. The taste of good scotch. The feeling of his body, hard and muscular, pressing against me. His arms, strong and powerful, circling around me. The intoxicating scent that was purely him, musk and spice and the smell of desert sage on his clothes.

He was forceful but gentle. His lips pressed hard against mine in a possessive way I’d never felt before. His arms gripped me to him, and I felt completely safe and surrounded as I opened my mouth to him.

His tongue found mine, and scotch and wine mixed as we kissed long and slow.

Long and slow gradually turned into feverish and intense.

His hands clutched at my lower back… then lower, cupping my ass.

On this particular occasion, I didn’t mind. At all.

I luxuriated in the feel of him. The warmth of his skin on mine… those big, strong arms… that massive chest…

…and a firm, thick pressure in his pants, pressed against my belly.

I could feel his cock beneath his jeans.

It was… big. I couldn’t tell how big, exactly, but it seemed a good bit more than I’d ever encountered before.

And it was getting larger by the second.

I ground my body against him, wanting to feel the size of it, the hardness of it.

I was rewarded.

I could feel it move with each pulse of his heartbeat, going from off to the side to fully erect, hard and thick against my body.

Jesus I wanted to feel it.

Wanted to feel it in my hand… in my mouth…

…inside me.

But a tiny, soft voice – what little logical thought still remained in my brain – called out from the depths of my consciousness.

No.

You’re not here for this.

You’re here for Ali.

I almost gave in. I even raised my mouth to his.

But the image of Ali, 26 years old and full of life, swam up in front of my eyes – and I turned away at the last minute.

“No, I can’t,” I whispered.

He didn’t listen. He pressed harder, kissing my neck, biting my ear, wrapping me hard in his arms.

I wanted him – I wanted him so bad – I wanted him to fuck me, to make me forget the pain –

But the pain was why I was here.

I struggled and pushed away. “No!”

********************************************

My name is Fiona Christensen. I’m 27 years old and a former private investigator.

I say ‘former’ because I left my job the day the Richards, California police department filed my cousin’s murder away as a cold case.

Ali was my best friend growing up. She was the wild child, the black sheep of the family. She was into drugs, wild living, and dangerous men – but I loved her no matter what. Even when she was strung out, I sent her money, mostly because I didn’t want her selling herself on the street. I worried for years that I was enabling her, that maybe I would be the cause of her death.

Instead, she died from a gunshot wound in a back alley at the age of 26.

The last thing she’d told me before she died was she had a new boyfriend. A member of a local motorcycle club called the Midnight Riders. She wouldn’t reveal his name, though – perhaps out of fear, perhaps because she knew they were into some pretty rough stuff.

I told the Richards Police Department. I begged them to follow it up, and then I ripped them a new asshole when they stonewalled me.

Turns out that the Midnight Riders basically own the town of Richards. The Police Department was either on their payroll or didn’t have the balls to take them down.

So I turned in my notice, got in my Mustang, and drove north.

I was going to avenge my cousin’s murder all on my own.

What I didn’t expect was to fall in love with a man who might have known the killer… or maybe even been the killer himself.

I’d gone to Los Angeles at 24 to be an actress, but surprisingly (note the sarcasm) I didn’t get my big break in the first six months. After my savings ran out, I started looking around for ways to pay the rent.

All my new actor friends were waiting tables or tending bar. I wanted something a little less mind-numbing, a little less cliché, a little more exciting.

I got it from an ad in the back of the LA Weekly, the local indie paper.

No, not that kind of an ad.

It was for a private detective agency.

I started working for a cranky old-timer named Sid. He looked like a cue ball with coke-bottle thick glasses, and tended to make Yogi Berra-type pronouncements.

“I’d like to give ya a raise, kid, but raises are like raisins – they don’t grow on trees.”

“I’d do somethin’ if I could do somethin’, but I can’t do nothin’, so you go an’ do it and quit botherin’ me about it.”

I mostly did surveillance on celebrity cheaters, providing photographs and videos for multimillion dollar divorces. I even got to use my acting chops a couple of times on the job, though those occasions were few and far between.

The work was usually boring. Lots of stakeouts, which might sound cool to the uninitiated, but it basically equated to hanging outside apartments in my car for twelve hours at a time, eating lots of junk food, and almost bursting from not being able to pee.

But I learned mental discipline. And I learned even more from Sid. All of that would stand me in good stead when I went to search for my cousin’s murderer.

Ali died a month after I turned 26. A year later, the detective on the case finally admitted they were filing it away.

I told Sid my plans that afternoon. He was supportive – though in a typically Sid-like fashion.

“Kid, yer dumb as rocks, but yer one up on ‘em, cuz most of them guys are dumb as shit. But they’re mean as junkyard dogs, so just make sure ya don’t get killed. If ya get yer man, come back to see me, ya always got a job here.”

For Sid, that was actually really touching.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.” He paused, then added, “‘Cept for money. A penny saved is a penny I ain’t gonna loan ya.”

I grinned. Pure Sid.

“Gotcha.”

“And take yer .38. Always keep it on ya so you always got it on ya.”

“Already ahead of you, Sid,” I said, yanking up my shirt to show it tucked in the back of my jeans.

That was the last thing I said as I left the shop.

Richards, California. Town of roughly 100,000, a couple hours north of LA.

I rolled into town around 6PM. First I stashed my stuff in a no-tell motel for the night and got a bite to eat at a chain restaurant. Then I started driving around the wrong side of the tracks, looking for motorcycles.

I found them, all right – although I didn’t hit the mother lode until after midnight.

The main attraction seemed to be a strip club called the Seven Veils. Boxy brick building all by itself on a corner in an industrial section of the city. Lots of motorcycles out front, and a good number of dudes with leather kuttes. For those of you who don’t know, a kutte is basically a ‘cut-off’ – a leather or denim jacket with the sleeves cut off.

Not all of them sported the Midnight Riders insignia – a skull with two pistols behind it, with a Bowie knife piercing the top of its head – but enough did for me to take notice.

I watched for hours until the place shut down at two in the morning. Then I followed at a safe distance as a dozen Midnight Riders made their way to a dive bar called the Roadhouse, out on a deserted stretch of highway. Two AM was supposed to be last call – but apparently this one wasn’t ‘technically’ in business after 2. Either that or they just didn’t give a shit, because the bikers whooped it up inside for a good couple of hours. They were still going hard when I finally decided to turn in. After all, I had to apply for a job the next day.