bmblbee (bmblbee) wrote in bloodclaim,
bmblbee
bmblbee
bloodclaim

Broken Circle

TITLE: Broken Circle
28/42
AUTHOR: BmblBee
PARING: S/X
RATING: Adult for language and content
DISCLAIMER: The Bee has no rights or claim on any
of the characters or products named in this story and makes
no profit from them.
SUMMARY: This is the third story in the Rosebud/verse.
Tara has been abducted and the police rush to find her.
The other members of the Circle decide that they can do
a better job and begin their own investigation.
Who will find her first and will it be in time?




Huge thanks to Purpledodah for the amazing banner.


Rug settled back in his chair and pulled a half smoked
joint from it resting place behind his ear. He then started
searching himself for that red Bic lighter that he had swiped
from the last gas station they stopped at earlier in the evening.

It also gave his customer time to digest Rug's little threat.
Not that he really believed this cowboy was a cop, it was
just a good idea to establish yourself. To remind people who
the top dog in this junk yard was.

Finally locating the familiar tube-like shape in one of his front
pants pockets, Rug squirmed around in his chair till his huge
frame was tilted at an angle that allowed his meaty fist to
squiggle the small plastic item out and he settled back
in happily.

Lindsey continued to watch the posturing show with an air
of amusement.
He had been on this case for months. He had bought pot from the
lowest street vendor, pills from a kid in the projects and worked his
way up to a couple crack rocks from a used car salesman in one
of the better parts of town.

He had also, all along the way, dropped more than one hint that
he wanted to start his own branch of the pharmaceutical business
back in Houston and needed a connection here in L.A. to partner
up with.
He knew early on that Rug Barnhart was that man.

Each step of the way, Lindsey would casually name drop some
of the most influential rich people he knew in Texas that would
happily become new customers with very deep pockets.

He knew if anyone even remotely suspected him of being a narc,
he wouldn't be sitting here right now, he would be laying, face
down in a shallow grave, fertilizing the grapes somewhere in
Napa Valley.

They always buried you face down so the world could kiss your ass.

Finally, Lindsey removed his cowboy hat and, with a slow. lazy smile
on his lips, dropped it on the table between them.
"So, you about done fuckin' around so's we can get down to business?"

Rug gave every indication that he hadn't heard a word. He acted
neither offended nor amused. He took his time to carefully light the
crinkled joint and sucked on it deeply. Then, holding the smoke in
his lungs, he tilted his head and handed it over.

Without hesitation, Lindsey took the offered stump and hit it.
After a few seconds, he blew it out, hit it once more, then passed it
back. Rug relaxed. Lindsey had passed the first test.

"Well, all right then. I hear you wantin' to be a self employed small
business man back there in Tex-ass. Ain't that the place that got
all them steers and queers? So, how bout it, Hoot, which one
you ridin'? Steers or queers?"

Rug chuckled and waited to see how well Lindsey could take a joke.
Lindsey calmly scratched his armpit where the tip of the taped
wire was rubbing an irritating blister, and reached for the last quarter
inch of the joint.
"Recon that depends on how drunk I am."

Rug slapped the table top and roared, causing the other bikers
to look their way. It was Lindsey's instant ticket to acceptance by
the group. Anyone who could make Rug laugh like that had to be an
o.k. guy.

Immediately the early evening tension of the room melted away
and frivolity reigned.

The games in progress at the two pool tables quickly went from
quiet conversation to challenging bull shit sessions. The biker's
lounging at the bar started shouting good naturedly at each other
maligning mother's sizes and sister's virtues.

Someone dropped a slug into the corner juke box and Hank
Williams Jr. loudly wailed the woes of too much booze, no job,
a dead dog, and a cheatin' wife.
The heavily tattooed biker who made the musical selection, sang along.

The few girls who dared to hang with this bunch started sashaying
their hips and working the room. Although the strict property of one
biker, they were free to roam around, flirt, get groped, and if the price
was right, offer a blow job in the bathroom or a quick bend over in the
back alley.
All proceeds, of course, went to the biker who owned the pussy
in question.

All in all, Whitey's was well on it's way to a happily rowdy evening
and Lindsey was about to make the biggest bust of his career.
Nothing could spoil all his hard work.


Angel tugged up his dingy grey sweat pants, took a deep breath
and marched in the front door as if he owned the place.
Stopping to look around, he jumped like he was shot when the
front door swung shut behind him, smacking him soundly in
the ass.

The bar was dim and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust.
It took only seconds for his nose to. The stench of sweat, vomit,
booze and piss were intermingled with the sickening sweet scent
of marijuana.

Immediately, his first thought was 'Oh my God, someone in here
is smoking a doobie!' quickly followed by 'Chill out you idiot
or you will stand out like a sore thumb.'

The last thought was what got him back in control of himself and
he again pimp sauntered over to where the bartender was watching
him with comically bugged eyes.

Slapping his hand down, Angel slid onto the only available stool and
ordered.
"Gimme a white wine!"

Immediately, the bartender leaned over.
"Geesh! Shut the fuck up! Look, we ain't got no fucking white wine.
This is a biker bar. You order beer or whisky or, in your case, you
run for the fucking door and hope nobody has noticed you."

Angel looked around and scowled.
"Hey, I gotta right to be here. O.k., gimme a beer. In a clean
glass, please."

The bartender shook his head. This was just what he didn't need.
The regulars were in a rowdy, fired up mood and he knew it wouldn't
take much to start an all out riot. Now you toss a geek into the mix
and it was like pouring gasoline on a fire.

Quickly, he shoved a bottle of Pabst across the bar and whispered.
"Please, just drink it and go. I don't want no trouble."

Angel accepted the beer and took a big swallow, wrinkling his nose
in disgust.
"I'm not here for trouble....."
He then swiveled around on his stool to face the room and very
loudly announced,
".........I'm just her to buy some WEED!"

The bartender smacked his forehead down on the sticky wood and
groaned.

Dead silence fell over the room like a shroud. Men, bent over pool
tables, asses in the air, froze in mid shot. Hands gripping mugs
of beer stopped just inches from their intended targets and every
head snapped.
For the next few seconds it looked like a tennis match.

All faces turned to the nerd at the bar who had just made the
statement of the century and then to Rug Barnhart for his
response.
Then back.
Nerd. Rug. Nerd. Rug.

Rug slammed his beer down on the table and narrowed his eyes
to squinty slits. Suddenly, an idea came to him and he glanced
subtly to the man across from him.

' This cowboy has passed every test,' he thought. 'shouldn't mind
just one more. A narc makin' a buy is one thing but can't no cop
sell drugs. That is a line they won't cross.'

Lindsey's brain, too, was working overtime.
'Oh, hell no! A fuckin' cop!'
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic
  • 11 comments