Breath on the Wind

BREATH

ON THE

WIND

The Kairos Series

Book Three

By

Catherine Johnson

FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

Breath on the Wind

Copyright 2014 Catherine Johnson

All rights reserved

Catherine Johnson has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Also by Catherine Johnson:

Powerless

What Price Freedom

The Kairos Series (MC Romance):

Blood in the Water.  Book One.

Bones by the Wood.  Book Two.

Breath on the Wind.  Book Three.

To Susan, always.

Lina.  I know how much you loved the original.  Sorry, I couldn’t work the chicken in.

Sarah.  Thank you for the… ahem… technical help.

To all the Freaks.  It’s been a helluva journey from FF to here.  There’s no one else I would rather have traveled this road with, ladies.  Thank you.

Kairos

(’kI-ros)

The perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement.

Chapter One

Ahhhhh.  Pussy.

There was nothing on earth like it.  There was no substitute for a good, tight, hot, wet pussy.

Unfortunately, the one Chiz was currently pumping his cock into barely achieved even two of those criteria.  This pussy defined the term “well-used.”  It hadn’t seen ‘tight’ for years.  It was as cold as it could be and still have a pulse, thanks to the almost complete disinterest of the body it was a part of.  It was only wet thanks to the liberally applied lube.

He’d had an urge to scratch an itch.  Normally, those urges could be taken care of at the clubhouse, but Chiz was feeling restless.  The club, his club, the Priests MC, was in a state of alert, but it hadn’t been actively engaged in months.  The tension was not good for Chiz; he needed release. 

They’d been at DEFCON One for a while, having to be vigilant for the Los Perdidos, the Mexican cartel intent on killing them and disrupting their business with the Rojas family, a Colombian cartel.  The Los Perdidos were so much dust in the wind now.  Dizzy, the previous Sergeant at Arms for the Priests, Louisiana charter, now President of the newly formed Texas charter, had seen to that, and Chiz had played hardly any part in it.  Chiz had been there when they’d cut the head off the snake, when they’d stormed the home of Juan Alberto and killed everyone in it, but he hadn’t been part of the next wave. 

Some remaining members of the cartel had kidnapped Dizzy, his woman, Thea, and her son, Josh.  They’d tortured Dizzy, and had been about to do worse to Thea and Josh before the Priests had found them.  And that was the last action that Chiz had seen in the matter.  Dizzy had embarked on a bloody retribution, nothing less than a full extermination, after that.  He and his brothers from the Texas charter had made many trips into Mexico and made sure that the Los Perdidos were as ended as was possible.  Both charters of the Priests were still outlaw, still deep in a profitable business arrangement with the Rojas family, but now they were in the more usual, general state of alert.  There would always be people looking to take a piece of the pie, but for the moment, they had no specific enemies to monitor.

The lack of focus, as well as being denied the opportunity to be a part of some serious action, was what was making Chiz twitchy.  And twitchy Chiz was not a good thing.  He felt... ‘managed’ at the clubhouse.  He had to be on his best behavior there.  If he gave into his whims to do what he wanted with the warm and willing females that populated the clubhouse to cater for the needs of the patches, then invariably it ended with a conversation with his president.  Chiz was not a fan of those conversations.  His president, Samuel, never patronized or condescended, but Chiz always felt that he’d let Samuel down.  Knowing that the man he’d gladly take a bullet for was disappointed in him brought a black cloud down on Chiz that he found hard to shift, and which usually led to him doing something else to disappoint Samuel.

In an effort to at least attempt good behavior, and to improve his mood, Chiz had taken himself to an obscure motel off I-55.  It was near a diner, not exactly a truck stop, but a place that saw enough travelers breaking their journey that there were always some girls around ready to offer comfort, or satisfaction, for a price.  It was remote enough that they weren’t too choosy about their prospects.

Chiz wasn’t exactly on first-name terms with them, but they were aware of him.  One or two of the girls made themselves scarce whenever he came by.  The newer ones were generally warned by those more experienced to expect something out of the ordinary.

The woman he was currently fucking had been a brunette, once upon a time.  The hair between her legs, what little of it there was, confirmed as much.  But the hair on her head bore testament to many years of being bleached, and not by professionals.  She had tried to disguise the dry, straw-like state by curling it; it hadn’t worked.  Chiz felt the crunch of abused and lacquered strands as he moved his hands upwards from the misshapen, false tits.

His head was full of bees, hornets really, angry fucking hornets.  He could barely hear the theatrical pants and groans of the women underneath him past the buzzing of confused thoughts.  He was barely even aware of what his own body was doing, let alone hers.  His hips had taken on an instinctive rhythm, a tempo suited purely to his own pleasure.  He couldn’t have said whether the skin under his palms was soft, smooth, rough, mottled or wrinkled.

Something had to stop.  Something had to.  Had to make the buzzing stop.  There must be... must be something to make his head quiet.  No amount of Jack or weed would do it; he’d tried.  He needed to.... needed to...

He wasn’t aware that his palms had made their way up the whore’s throat, that his thumbs were bracketing her trachea, that they were pushing, pressing...

“Hey, what the...?!”  The body beneath him started to struggle; it was the most movement it had made in the time he’d been fucking it.

He kept pressing, kept pushing...

“It’s extra for the kinky shit. Suzie is the one... if you’d’ve said....”

He kept pushing, kept pressing...

Time had no meaning for him.

He had no idea how many minutes had passed before the nasal whine ceased, before the blood vessels in the eyes burst and the red-tinged orbs rolled back, before the pulse beating under his thumbs ceased to flutter.

Reality came back with a rush, like a bucket of water over his head.  The silence receded like the wave of an outgoing tide, replaced with the sounds of vehicles, the cough of car engines, the chug and rumble of big rigs, the blare of horns, the chatter of the humans outside.

Chiz looked down at the body beneath him.  It was still.  Very still. Too still.  But he was still hard inside it.  And it was still warm.  It would be a shame to waste the opportunity. He braced his hands on either side of the head, and stared into the blank, unseeing eyes as he grunted and thrust until the pressure in his gut gave way and his orgasm shot out into the latex he was wearing.

Only when he pulled out and stood back from the bed did Chiz realize that he had a problem on his hands.  And that Samuel was going to be disappointed in him, again.

“Fuck!”

He pulled the condom off his softening cock and tied it off.  He hitched his jeans back up and fastened them.  Save taking off his kutte, he hadn’t undressed.  He hadn’t even removed his boots.  The whore hadn’t bothered to strip, either, apart from shrugging off her plastic jacket.  She’d been naked under the dress she was wearing, a strapless thing that barely covered the bad boob job, and revealed the majority of her legs from the crease of her sagging ass downwards.  She’d pulled the top of the shiny blue dress down, and the bottom up, before they fucked.  It was still bunched about her middle, like crumpled wrapping paper.  Her feet, still in the scuffed, white stripper heels, lolled off the edge of the bed.

Chiz stuffed the condom into one pocket in his jeans, and pulled his phone out of another.  He hit one of the speed dial numbers and waited until the person he’d called answered.

“Wassup?”

“Fletch?  It’s Chiz...”

Fletch cut him off
.  “Fuck.  Callin’ at this time on Christmas Eve?  When I’ve just seen Samuel ride off after his old lady.  You’ve fuckin’ done it again you stupid cunt, haven’t you?”

Chiz knew there was no point in making excuses.  That would only make people more pissed at him.

“Yeah.  I need a hand with the clean-up.”

“Course you fuckin’ do.  Jesus Christ, boy.  If I hadn’t heard the girls here I’d think you couldn’t get tail without endin’ it.  You sure your daddy weren’t Bianchi or Buono?”

“Fletch, there’s no need to insult my pa.”

“Yeah, I know.  Poor bastard.  Where are you?”

Chiz gave him the location and the room number, and winced and took a step back as the muscles in the body on the bed relaxed and the bowels began to evacuate onto the covers.

“I’ll be there forty.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“I don’t want your thanks, boy.  I want you stop fuckin’ doin’ this.  You know I’m gonna havta tell the boss?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Sit tight.  I’ll be there soon.”

Fletch cut the connection before Chiz could.

Chiz was alone with the body, and the room was beginning to reek from the urine and feces soaking into the neon orange, chenille spread, but he couldn’t go outside, he couldn’t even open a window.  If he re-appeared without the whore - he hadn’t paid attention to her name - the other girls would know something was up.  He didn’t fear retribution from them.  They knew their place in the pecking order better than that.  They knew that the police wouldn’t give two shits about a dead working girl, and they knew that business would become very difficult if the Priests got word of them involving the law about a brother, or about shooting one themselves.  But if they caused a ruckus, some of the patrons of the diner might hear.  An over-enthusiastic bystander, or an irritated resident of the motel, might call the police themselves, and the involvement of the law was a complication that the Priests did not need.

Chiz retrieved his kutte from the back of the tan vinyl chair in the corner of the room and slipped it on before sitting down and resting one ankle on the knee of the other leg.  He checked the time on the display of his phone, and waited.

When he heard the growl of Harley engines, he checked his phone again.  Fletch had made good time.  Chiz heard the increasingly shrill questioning voices of the girls still loitering around the motel lot, but they silenced before the first pair of boots had finished tramping along the walkway outside.  Chiz was up and opening the door before a knock was needed.  His president was waiting on the other side.

Chiz backed up into the room without saying anything, and let Samuel enter.  He refused to look down.  He would own his actions instead of behaving like a kid caught burning ants in the sun with a magnifying glass.

“Shit, Chiz.  Again?”

“Sorry, boss.”

“Don’t be sorry, son.  Stop fuckin’ doin’ it.”

There was nothing Chiz could say to that.  Samuel was right.  He needed to develop better self-control.  Every time they had to do something like this, he put the club at needless risk.

“I’ve pulled the van up as close as I could, boss.”

The doorway was filed with the massive frame of Shark, Chiz’s friend and brother.  Where Samuel looked disappointed and resigned, Shark looked curious, and angry.  Chiz figured that he’d have been told by now that this wasn’t the first time that this had happened, that they had a well-established routine for keeping Chiz’s predilections from landing him on Death Row.  Chiz had grown up with Shark, before he’d moved away from their home state while still in his teens.  The look Shark was giving him now was one of someone who’d found out that their friend was a complete stranger to them.

Samuel turned from the body on the bed.  “Fletch takin’ care of the girls?”

Shark answered without taking his quizzical gaze from Chiz.  “Yeah, he’s payin’ ‘em off.  I think a few’ve taken off to spend their lottery win already, a couple are hangin’ around for appearance’s sake.”

“Fletch givin’ ‘em extra for that?  We don’t need anyone wonderin’ why they’ve all suddenly hit the bar.”

“Yeah, I did.”  Fletch answered from behind Shark.  Shark stepped into the room and immediately moved to the side to make way for the equally tall, but only half as wide, frame of the older man.  “Gave the guy on the desk a little extra for the linens, too.”

Fletch walked in, stroking his silver handlebar moustache with one hand, the other was occupied holding the roll of plastic sheeting he had tucked under his arm.

“Good.  Let’s get to it, then.”

Between the four of them they laid the plastic out on the carpet next to the bed, then rolled the girl and the covers from the bed onto it, leaving the mattress bare.  The new stain was one among many on the faded stripes of the ancient box spring.  Chiz handed Samuel the candy-pink plastic jacket that the whore had flung onto the set of drawers before climbing onto the bed.  Samuel undertook a brief search of the pockets and pulled out the thin roll of bills that had been the girl’s takings.  He slipped the money into his pocket and tossed the jacket down onto the body.  They rolled the body up like a burrito, tucking it and the rest of the evidence in tight.  Shark stood, hefting the bundle onto his shoulder.