Cause I know I’m going nowhere and anywhere’s a better place to be

You’re back in the parking lot at 1:30, the heater on your crappy Toyota grumbling, as you read through the latest Christopher Moore book on your phone. You occasionally glance up at the entrance and grin in anticipation of what’s to come (specifically you and Christine...). Moore’s work always makes you smile. His characters and the absurd situations they find themselves in are quite literally the funniest things you’ve ever seen in print (and that includes a headline proclaiming Donald Trump as leader of the free world). That thought has you recalling your dream. Huh. The Multiplier sure explains that election.

You are broken from your reverie by the last of the club’s patrons starting their engines and peeling out of the lot like getaway cars from a bank job. Time to get your game face on. You get out of your car and walk to the one you know is Christine’s from the hacked DMV records and sit casually on the hood as Kitten locks the door and shuts off the outside lights. You’re so amped up about what’s going to happen next that you almost don’t notice the roar of the motorcycle engines as two Harleys and what looks like a ‘52 Vincent Black Shadow pull into the lot and begin to circle you.

You recognize one of the bikes as belonging to Broken Nose from earlier. The other two riders look to be about the same size. This could get painful. You slip down off the hood of Christine’s ‘03 Corolla, crack your knuckles, and loosen your shoulders, dropping into a relaxed fighting stance that tries to limit the amount of target space these idiots will have, and prepare for the inevitable beating.

The morons don’t even try to flank you. Broken Nose dismounts first followed by his companions, and slowly walks toward you. “I owe you one, boy.”

Either his vision is still fucked up by the injury you gave him earlier or he’s the type of fighter who relies on brute **** rather than skill, and the wild haymaker he throws at you is easy to duck under. “Hey now... let’s talk about this guys.”

“No talk. Now you die.” The idiot actually rushes you.

Waiting til the last moment and trying to keep your awareness of the thug’s two companions, you side step just as he reaches you, grabbing hold of his leather and belt and adding to his momentum, as you propel him head first into the grill of the Corolla. You can feel his companions closing and have already accepted the fact that if you do live through tonight you’ll probably be in a hospital bed, so you decide to make sure this piece of shit is sharing your room.

You hear the crunch of gravel as you pull the stunned biker’s head back, and are surprised when the scream of pain that follows is not your own. Neither is the sound of bones breaking. Dismissing this with the single mindedness of someone who’s sure this moment is his last, you grab Broken Nose’s nominal feature and jam a finger up each of his nostrils.

His scream of pain is drowned out by what sounds like a very close shotgun blast, and as you rise to your feet, dragging his once more bleeding head up with you, you see only one thug standing in the glare of the motorcycle lights. The distinct sound of a shotgun pump comes from somewhere behind you and you take in and try to piece together the tableau. Christine stands over the biker on your left who is rolling on the ground clutching his knee, what looks like an ASP spring steel baton in her hand. To your right the third biker is rapidly moving toward that Vinny, and Kitten, somehow silently, is stepping into the glare of the headlights, an Ithaca Stakeout in his massive grip.

Broken Nose is making broken animal sounds now, and you can feel your hand becoming slick with his blood. You dig your fingers in even more. Over his moans and the squealing of the newly christened Shattered Kneecap on the ground, you can hear Kitten dialing something on his cel phone. He looks at you and gestures with his head toward Christine’s car.

You bring your off arm up and pop an elbow into Broken Nose’s temple for good measure before dropping him to the gravel lot and follow Christine into her vehicle with all due haste.

Without a word she pulls out and quickly into the Minit Mart parking lot across the street, puts the car in park, and reaches across the gear shift and parking brake to grab your lapels to pull you into a hard and hungry kiss. Her skin burns with arousal as your tongues duel for what seems like an eternity but really only lasts for seconds before she pulls back and looks at you, breathless.

“Thanks for saving my ass back there,” you say after a second to catch your breath, “I was pretty sure that that was the end.”

“It was the least I could do.” She smiles brightly and reaches out to grip your cock through your jeans, “Besides, although at this point I wouldn’t put it past you to be able to, I’m pretty sure we’ll both enjoy the rest of the night more if you’re not fucking me in your hospital bed.”

The twenty minute drive to Moose Lake up I-35 is spent mostly in silence, but not inactivity, with her kneading your steadily hardening cock through your pants, and your hand softly caressing her leg through the sweatpants she donned after work. The rapidly growing arousal in the little sedan has become an almost physical thing by the time you pull up in front of a small ranch-style house on a quiet street in the residential section of Moose Lake.