Dirty Driver: Dark Crime Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One -

  Chapter Two -

  Chapter Three -

  Chapter Four -

  Chapter Five -

  Chapter Six -

  Chapter Seven -

  Chapter Eight -

  Chapter Nine -

  Chapter Ten -

  Chapter Eleven -

  Chapter Twelve -

  Chapter Thirteen -

  Chapter Fourteen -

  Chapter Fifteen -

  Chapter Sixteen -

  Chapter Seventeen -

  Chapter Eighteen -

  Chapter Nineteen -

  Chapter Twenty -

  Chapter Twenty-One -

  Chapter Twenty-Two -

  Chapter Twenty-Three -

  Chapter Twenty-Four -

  Chapter Twenty-Five -

  Chapter Twenty-Six -

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - More - thrills from Alice May Ball

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental. All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself. Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

  DIRTY DRIVER

  Alice May Ball

  Thank you

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  And of course, Lizzie Wright.

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  Copyright © 2017 Alice May Ball

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  OVER MY SHOULDER in the half-light I felt him, heard him coming closer. On my knees, trembling, I knew what would happen. Big, strong with the savage scent of a hunter, his eyes gleamed and his fingers took hold of me through my wet panties. His thumb moved, traced me, followed my folds. I knew that it would come to press on that spot. He knew me that well already. But he made me wait. My hips jerked upward.

  Making me wait. That was his thing. Looking into my eyes while he made me wait. Touching me, making me shake inside. Tightening that sarcastic grin as he moistened his lips, flicked his strong tongue across them – I knew exactly how strong, how long and mobile his tongue was – his thumb pushed, just hard enough. Hard enough to make me gush inside. And outside, too.

  As I waited for his lips, I trembled and I moaned. When he tugged the crotch of my panties aside, his hot breath made me clench my thighs and stretch my back. The hard, wet, pointed tip of his tongue flicked at the spot and I bit my forearm. The thought of him, of the gleam in his eyes as his stiff cock fattened, grew, eager and ruthless, hard and hot, the image of what was to come, of how he would part and stretch me, fill me and pound me made my stomach flip. Chemical sparks lit like rope lights, lashing through my body.

  His lips mashed my petals as his breath and his tongue invaded me. My fingers clawed and my toes curled, my buttocks clenched and my back flexed, like my body was a puppet, driven by the expert control of his mouth and his tongue. My thighs pulled and parted, tensed and shook, tensing and weakening as he drove me faster, bumped and swerved, pushed me harder. Made me need him more.

  Then he drew back and I heard his low chuckle as the rivet buttons of his denims popped, one by one. I gasped at the thickness of that beast as it sprang free.

  You want to know how I got kidnapped by the most gorgeous hunk of bad boy ever? A streak of wicked, wrapped in muscle with smoldering, hooded eyes that make your clothes want to peel right off you and fall in a heap on the floor, that's Ryan.

  ‘Lasting love,’ for Ryan that would mean a long, hard, night.

  I'll let him tell his parts, and I'll tell you mine.

  And I promise, I won't. Leave. Anything. Out.

  Chapter One

  Ryan

  THE ICY BLAST of the shower shocked some of the last night’s fog from my head. I rolled my shoulders, trying to work some of the stiffness out. Stretched my neck to one side until a rattle of clicks popped. Then the other way. It helped, but not much.

  Pulled my fingers through my hair, gripping it. Shook my head in the chilling flow. Took a breath in before sticking my chest right into the freezing stream. Man, that wakes you up fast. That and coffee, and I’m good to go. Cold water rinses a thick head clear in no time.

  What they call mixed feelings was what I had, washing away the scents of last nights girl. The memory made me smile some. Stiffened and re-awakened my cock, facing forward for the new day. Pecker, as they say, up.

  The side of my head was still sore above my ear. As I reached across my shoulder a stab of pain shot over my shoulder blade. What happened? Oh yeah, the idiot in the bar. Big guy with a razored Mohawk cut, a Marine from a nightmare, big daddy drawl, pawing that quiet girl who obviously didn’t want him around.

  “You know you want it, babydoll.” Ugh, his voice. Why do guys act like that? More to the point, though, why is it, at the first sniff of trouble, my feet are steering me right at it?

  First, I’d tried telling him nicely. “Pal, she’s just not into it. There are lots of girls. One of them will jump for your charm. Leave this one alone, okay?”

  That was the bit I did wrong: telling him what to do. He hadn’t made up his mind until then. But I knew it; I got it wrong on purpose. I knew he’d take a swing.

  He was built like a double-trunked Redwood. Why the fuck would I start a fight with a guy like that? If that first punch had landed, I’d have been out for the count.

  I stepped out of the way of his Flintstone-club fist. Spun with my forearm hard into his stupid face. Hooked my ankle behind his. Slammed my left hand into his nose.

  He hit the tiled floor with a crack.

  There was a murmur around the bar. A bar fight in Bernie’s isn’t exactly headline news. But the crowd was on my side. That always helps. He moved to get up. I stood over him, ready to put my foot on his chest. Could have slid it up to his chin. And he could see how easily I could do it.

  A sound rolled around the bar like a bowling ball. I definitely had the crowd. The guy got up to leave.

  He was headed for the door. I turned back to the bar to see that the girl was okay. No making a move, just wanted to make sure she was all right. Okay, I’d watched her slink in and she was hot. Off the scale. So I wanted to make sure she was taken care of, and maybe I was thinking the best way to take care of her might be if we spent a little quality time.

  That way I could make sure she was under something secure and protective. Like me. No way did I feel entitled to a prize, but I thought it only fair to give her the chance to offer.

  That was when I felt the steel legs of the chair hit hard along my shoulder blade and across the side of my skull.

  I lurched forward and went down. My arm waved and I took a table full of glasses with me as I stumbled. Beer and broken glass everywhere. I turned and scrambled up fast. Grabbed the center leg of the small round table in both hands. Jabbed the wooden top straight at his face.

  It connected, but without much force. He was still standing. I threw the table at his body and as he fended it off I hit him
hard in the throat. He staggered backwards. Reaching. Stumbling. His arms flailed. I shot my fist to knock upward into his jaw. As he crumpled, I reached for a pool cue.

  Standing over him, I held the point of the cue against his eye. Quietly, I asked him, “Are we done here yet?”

  The murmur around the room gave me a satisfying glow.

  He nodded as he scrambled backwards on his heels and elbows. This time I watched him, held the pool cue by its end, and kept it pointed at his eye. Watched him scuttle all the way out of there.

  That all accounted for the throb on my shoulder and the pain on the side of my head. It wasn’t what gave me the headache.

  When she looked up from the bar—stopped hiding her face and her fabulous body in the protective hunch of her elbows and her rounded shoulders—as she unwound her back, straightened up and turned toward me—she looked like a model. It was like the lights went on. Boy, I do remember now. She was really grateful.

  She bought a bottle of tequila and said we should take it to her place. Who was I to refuse? And I’m still long, fat, aching, and twitching, all along the part of me where she showed her appreciation the most.

  Now those are some happy shower thoughts, right there. Mm, I could still hear her quivering moans. Feel her clawing my chest as she woke the whole street to tell them my name.

  The water bounced and cascaded over me and I shook my head in the flow. No time to think about any of that now. There was a car to be stolen, and if I was late, my life might be on the line.

  ~<>~

  It was still early when I parked up by the apartment building where Tynie lived. His rented apartment was on the fourth floor of a gray, concrete slab in a mess of gray, concrete slabs. The elevator was not reliable, and it always had an acrid, lingering smell of some kind, so I used the stairs.

  The balconies on each floor that connected the apartments had most likely been open when the blocks were built, but now they had hard curtains of smeary plastic. The owners of the block most likely put it up to stop people throwing each other off and into the street, or maybe it was to stop themselves.

  The plexiglass must have been transparent when it first went up. Scratches on the inside and out, discoloration from the weather, and age had all blurred the view of the outside world. The gaps around the edges created stomach-level slices of cold air.

  I banged hard on Tynie’s door and waited a moment. Then I banged again, harder. I shouted Tynie’s name. After a few moments I hit it again, five or six times.

  “Tynie! Tynie, come on, will you?”

  After a few seconds, Tynie’s voice came from the back of the apartment.

  “Ryan! Is that you?”

  I banged on the door again. “Tynie, you know it’s me. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  After I hung around a little longer, I beat on his door again ten or a dozen times in a row.

  “Give it a fucking rest, will you?!” A voice from the apartment next door.

  “All right!” I shouted back. “Come on, Tynie, the neighbors are getting mad.”

  There was some noise from the back of Tynie’s apartment. I heard him shuffle toward the door. When he dragged it open, slouched and hanging his messy head of black hair, he still pretty much filled the doorframe.

  “Ryan,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. “We don’t have to go and work for Gregor, do we? I don’t want to go work for Gregor, Ryan.”

  When we were in high school together, Tynie had been known as “difficult.“ He had rarely talked to anyone there, and when he did, it was either by shouting or throwing something. Usually furniture.

  He was a genius with computers, at math, and with engines. Anything to do with vehicles, Tynie had an uncanny talent for. He was even pretty good at driving them, so long as it didn’t involve interacting with any other drivers. Tynie was temperamentally unsuited to traffic. Never even got a license.

  He took a test in high school. When he was asked to parallel park in a somewhat restricted space, he just rammed the cars in front and behind to knock them out of the way. No more drivers’ ed for Tynie after that.

  “Today we do, Tynie. Today, we got to work for Gregor.” I didn’t like it, either. The more I knew of Gregor, the less I wanted to be around him.

  The money was good, but he wasn’t great company, and neither were the guys he worked with. And neither Tynie nor me were cut out to be career criminals. Not Gregor’s kind, at least.

  Gregor was a big-time bank robber. Very serious—big-time crime, big-time stakes. He was hard-assed, no compromises, and a violent reaction was never far below the surface.

  Tynie might’ve been reassured if I’d told him I wanted to stop working for Gregor as soon as I could. Tynie didn’t do well with uncertainties, though. Black or white, yes or no. Tynie was kind of binary. He got uncomfortable around the gray areas.

  He couldn’t hear “soon” without saying, “Now! Why not now?”

  It was never good to discuss things with Tynie that you weren’t certain about. Better to reach a conclusion first, then tell him. He could deal with that, whatever it was.

  “We’re working for Gregor today, Tynie. Ready to go?”

  Still looking at the floor, he said, “I’ll get my gamepad.”

  Tynie’s gamepad was a tablet of some kind, part Fisher-Price, part homebrew, in a multicolored rubber case with odd-shaped bulges. He either built it or had modified it from a hybrid of commercial tablets. When he wasn’t using it for work, he was hunched over it, lost in a game.

  He followed me down the stairs to the RAV4 in the parking lot.

  “It’s a BMW today, isn’t it, Ryan?” Tynie nodded as he climbed into the passenger seat and strapped himself in. Already, he was pulling something up on his gamepad.

  “Yup,” I said driving out of the lot, “Either Corporate Brad, or the Dragon Lady.”

  Tynie was already absorbed in a game. Without looking up, he said, “Corporate Brad.”

  We slid out into the angry jostle of morning traffic. “Why?”

  “He’s very neat.” He frowned in concentration at the game. “He takes better care of his car than that woman.”

  I would have preferred the Dragon Lady, mainly for the off-chance of another look at her cute slave girl. She gave me a warm feeling, way down inside. And the glow reached out, too.

  What Tynie said made sense, though. Over the past few days, I’d staked out three BMW SUVs. All of them were black, top of the range S7s and in great shape.

  Tynie’s call was good, and I liked to let him make decisions when I could, so we would hunt Corporate Brad first. Corporate Brad was what we called the anxious, skinny guy with the thin spectacles and close-cropped hair. Whatever he was, he probably wasn’t corporate in reality.

  His hours were regular, though, and that made him a prime candidate as a BMW donor. He usually had breakfast at the same time, at the same Denny’s. His BMW stuck out there among the pickups, but he always parked right by the exit farthest from the restaurant. Another point in his favor as a potential supplier.

  We would swing by there first. If his car was in the lot, then his would be the lucky getaway vehicle for Gregor’s big score.

  My thoughts went back to the slave girl, then they got all mixed up with the girl from the bar. I remembered how her stomach flexed as her hips rolled along the rail of my hard cock. The swish of her lovely, soft ass as it glided back and forth along my tensing thighs.

  Oh, the big, slow bounce of her round, caramel breasts. The brush of her waves of hair across my chest. Her nails scraping along the tatts on my hot, wet six-pack.

  Through the splash and patter of the water, my ears still echoed with the wild, wet explosions of tension and release that rose from inside her and devoured me so completely.