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Chapter Twenty-One

Sometimes Ink Fades

F itz was the kind of guy who could sense things. That was always a strength of his. Sensing which way the winds of change would blow long before they did. It did not take some fancy pants brainiac to see that SOFRAW had been chipping away at itself for a while now. It only made sense to Fitz that to save himself and to save something that resembled the club, he had to take it over.

Ideally he could have just murdered Cyrus.

The war that would have caused though…

There were many avenues toward a goal. And sometimes along the way some avenues closed up. And sometimes others opened right back up.

Fitz’s eyes refused to fully shut and committing to sleep felt too much like a chore. The tent he slept in smelled moldy and had the hint of dried piss. He ended up at a homeless encampment just west of Cielo.

It was on preserved land and the police didn’t give a flying fuck about it, just as long as things kept quiet. For a minute or so, Fitz pictured himself gathering up all these lost, confused souls and starting a crew with them. Promising them food for their bellies and yellow bunny for their veins. And all they had to do was run havoc in town.

Fitz pictured them like broken tooth zombies, bloodshot eyes, beat up meth faces, chasing people around, screaming and grabbing for them. Stealing purses and wallets. Stealing jewelry. Just taking over the town like an infestation.

Of course this was a terrible idea. Fitz was just fucking around, killing time, waiting to…

He sucked in a breath and swallowed hard. His felt his cock finally throb and he let himself go. As he came, he looked forward at the woman riding his cock.

She faced forward. He looked at her ass, pumping and flexing, taking his cum. She had a faded tattoo on her lower back. It looked like a rose or some flower. Fitz grabbed the woman’s hips and began to lift and lower her.

“Ride it, slut,” he growled.

The woman leaned forward and began to pump her hips, stroking Fitz’s cock with her cunt.

He finally moved his hands to her ass and pushed her away. She tumbled forward, giggling. She turned around on her knees and ran a hand through her hair that looked as though it hadn’t been washed in six months. Her body shook without her telling it to do so. Her tits were nice, compared to the rest of her drugged up and beat-up body.

She licked her lips. She smiled. She had no teeth in her mouth.

“On your back, slut,” Fitz ordered the woman.

She toppled down and rolled to her back. Fitz placed his head to her chest, rubbing his face against her warm, full tits.

“You like them?”

Her voice sounded froggy and half dead.

“Don’t ever talk to me again, slut,” Fitz said. “You want to eat, then you shut the fuck up and don’t move.”

Fitz just wanted to cuddle her tits for a few minutes. He missed the warmth and comfort of a woman. Christ, he missed his wife.

“Mara,” he whispered.

Did he love his wife? Fuck no. What the fuck was love? Love felt like nothing but a problem. He only missed his wife because he missed someone to fuck. An easy fuck. That domestic kind of fuck.

But now… thinking about her…

“Mara,” he whispered again.

Fitz sat up. He reached for his jeans and took out a crisp one hundred dollar bill.

“Take this money and get out of my fucking tent, slut,” he said to the woman.

The woman almost started crying when she saw the money. She gathered up her clothes and exited the tent, not even bothering to get dressed. Fitz knew he needed to leave as soon as possible.

As soon as that toothless slut started showing off her crisp hundred dollar bill, there would be a hoard of them coming to find Fitz. All wanting to suck his cock or fuck him, men included. Anything for money to feed their veins.

He climbed out of the tent and walked into the night, but not without hope. His wife’s name kept running through his head. She could be the key. The pawn. The purpose.

Fitz wished he would have had the time to grab her before he left. He would have had someone to fuck. Someone to use. And then the leverage part… if possible…

Then again, maybe leaving Mara alone would work in his favor. Fitz broke into a car and hot-wired it up. On the dashboard tucked near the windshield was a black baseball cap.

“Perfect,” he said to himself.

He put the baseball cap on and started to drive. Keeping himself low key, not wanting to deal with the police. When he saw the obnoxious glowing lights of the strip club, he caught himself smiling. He made sure to drive around back of the building.

It was a weird feeling though. Not showing up on his motorcycle with his leather cut. Not walking into the place like he owned it. Feeling untouchable.

Fitz checked himself in the mirror. He was as hidden as he could be. He climbed out of the car and went to the back door.

Patience paid off in seconds as one of the dancers opened the door and hurried out. She was on her phone, calling someone a fucking asshole. Fitz slipped right into the back of the strip club. He knew where to go. He’d been in here several times. He knew where all the dancers liked to hang out. Specifically… one dancer…

Fitz walked to her little stripper station and sat down in her chair. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit, but that was expected. As he rubbed his stubbly chin, he smiled. There was a plan now. At least a plan forming. Answers were waiting. They were close.

Fitz took out his gun. A moment later he heard the sound of voices. One voice much louder and more controlling than the other. Fitz smiled.

He waited just a few seconds before a familiar face appeared. Wearing a thin robe, not tied, mostly open, her beautifully large tits showing.

“You’re as hot as ever, Honeysuckle,” Fitz said.

She looked at Fitz and gasped. And her eyes went wide.

“Sorry, should I just call you Macy instead?” Fitz asked.

He stood up, gun in hand, and smiled.

“You and I are going to have a nice, long private session together.”