Page 38 of Size Queen

14

Damon

Iwake up the next day, still hard as hell from Noelle. Her text and picture messages would keep me fueled for months on end… she is simply stunning. After pleasuring myself to her again, I take a quick shower and get dressed with the intent of doing nothing.

I’m not expecting any visitors, so I’m put on edge when I hear a knock at my door before noon. I look out the window to the street and see it: a police cruiser with flashing lights on. They’re here.

I decide to go without a fight or a fuss. I’m being brought in for questioning without being told specifically why. I put on the right amount of coy with bemused irritation. Unlike a lot of fellow bikers, I don’t immediately overreact when cops get involved in my business. I find that it gets things done much quicker and easier, and before you know it you’re back on the road.

They escort me to a small, cramped dark interrogation room toward the back of the police station. They’re trying to intimidate me, but their little manipulation schemes aren’t working on me. A clear conscience floats on air, and that’s what I’ve got. I’m grinning and chilling the whole time.

They keep me waiting in the room alone for twenty minutes. I wonder who all is watching me from behind the door or behind the glass. I play out all the questions they’re going to ask me in my head, so I don’t mind that they’re taking their time. They’re not scaring me; I’m scaring them.

Two police detectives finally walk in, both sour-faced and determined to scoop the answers out from my head. They sit down across from me, staring at me with unblinking, squinted stares.

“Morning, Mr. Abrams,” says the cop on the right. “My name is Detective Fox, and this is Detective Raver.”

“Howdy,” I say.

“We just have a few questions we need to ask you,” says Raver. “I hope you don’t mind and can afford to take the time.”

“No trouble at all,” I say. “Ask me anything.”

My invitation is taken with great aplomb. They not only ask me every question they can think of regarding me and past cases they know little about, but they keep interjecting with:

“Who started that fire?” “You know who burned down Tom Wright’s place?” “We hear guns were going off that Sunday morning—know anything about it?” “Why would Wright andhisgang want to start a turf war with you andyourgang?” “What do you have planned for them next?” “Just tell us which of your guys started the fire and we can leave you and the Rolling Heads alone.”

It’s clear to me through all their obvious, limp-dick, ineffectual questions that they know nothing. They’re hoping I’ll say something stupid or slip up. It’s odd to me that the police haven’t even mentioned the cameras in Wright’s clubhouse yet—which makes me think… were the cameras even on? Or working?

“People saw all you guys riding off during the exact same time and day as the fire—what’s that about?” “Were you pissed that they were taking away a lot of your customers at work? Was this business?” “Kace seems like a really loyal guy… he’s a smoker, likes to light up… he like burning things?” “Where were you guys heading that morning?”

All the Rolling Heads think with a hive mind. We all have our stories straight, our alibis all in sync, and our attitudes never waver.

I don’t even need to confront the cops on it to know: there’s no evidence of me, or anyone else from the group, being at the clubhouse the morning it got burned down. My conclusion is locked, and I know the police are grasping at flimsy straws.

“We get that your loyalty is to your club,” says Raver. “We understand that you have to deny everything we’re saying.”

“I’m not denying anything. We attacked no one.”

“We understand that you feel you need to protect your little gang no matter what,” Raver presses. “But this will get back to you. Lying to officers isn’t a wise thing to do, Damon.”

“I completely agree,” I reply. “That’s why I’m not lying to you. It is strange to me how you want to protect the Hell-Snakes so badly.”

“We’re protecting the public from scum like youandthe Hell-Snakes,” snaps Fox. “Stop wasting our time, Abrams!”

I stayed onboard the denial train for a solid hour of questioning. Once the hour concludes, the detectives step out of the room and lock me alone in the room once again. I’m becoming more annoyed than anything.

They were right about one thing: I do have to protect my gang. The only thing I care about is that the Rolling Heads keep on rolling, and that the people I care about can go about living their lives without being harassed by police or criminal. And I don’t trust anyone to take care of my Hell-Snake problem besides myself. I’ve known from the beginning that I’d always have to handle all the important things myself, and I’m optimistic, because I have the best gang.

After another ten minutes goes by, I slide out from under the table and stand up on my feet, looking around, waiting for someone to come back in.

I look to the camera in the corner of the ceiling and smirk.

“You’re wasting everybody’s time,” I say into the camera. “Quit jerking off and go after the real bad guys.”

Soon after, Raver and Fox return inside to glare at me.

“What up?” I ask them. “Am I being arrested or what?”