Namazu
Baron of Bad Boys
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BEHIND ENEMY LINES
Part 1 - The Whorehouse & Halls - Collab with NanLia aggravatedspacedolphins Bullyboy Squad
As the tides turned and Toni took control, subduing the rebellion, Temma knew she was witnessing the end of days. Toni and King’s second, as King’s equal would spell the worst for the community, imperfect as it already was. There was no time to dwell on this or the fact that Tig had so very blatantly brandished his gun at her and Derek. That ass had the audacity to do such a thing after she had spent years listening to him bitch and moan about who he was playing service to and how ugly they were or how shittily they spoke, or that they didn’t want to talk, just to fuck. Each and every time she had given him the opportunity to walk: If you don’t want to do this, there are other places you can work.
Bitch had had the balls to walk, just wanted someone to be fool enough to pity them. She knew now for certain that had been Weston. She hadn’t ever suspected Weston to have an interest in her boys since the only person he’d ever requested had been Val. But one night he took Tig back to his room from the bar after Tig had been all over that man, and then it had only been Tig since.
Temma didn’t have time to think further about their connection as it was announced a series of military vehicles were headed for Lincoln and Derek was shoving her out of the elite area to the hall. On any other day, she would have given the man hell for the rough-handling of her only couture dress.
“Run, get to the whorehouse and lock the doors.” It made sense and really had been the safety plan any time a riot broke out or there were signs of one. The whorehouse, a name she hated, was one of the few places that had a solid metal door that locked from the inside. She had no clue what it had been used for before it had become the whorehouse, but it was useful. When she turned to go that direction she swiftly realized she was alone. “Wait, baby?” She paused, looking back at her husband. “Let’s go.”
Derek shook his head, “Go on, get. I’ll come get you later.”
She knew the look on his face, the determination. He was going to protect King and his ideals to the end, no matter what. There wasn’t any time to argue as more people came retreating out of the pit, many of them her girls and boys, pausing to watch her for direction. “Fuck.” She hissed and waved her hands at the flock. “Get moving.” She shouted which sent her flock scurrying.
Temma jogged behind them, cursing herself for needing to wear the biggest blackest stiletto heels she could find - were they stripper-sized height? Of fucking course they were, Weston had deserved nothing best but her best. But she should have assumed that something like this would go sideways and now the knee-heigh stripper boots laced to her thighs seemed like a mistake on her part.
At the whorehouse she helped push the heavy door closed and locked it, the eerie silence filling the room along with panting breath and quiet sobbing. “Head count.” She huffed, leaning back on the door and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath and after a few seconds, one of the girls replied. “All here with a few others, but we’re missing Tig.”
There was an audible gasp and then many people speaking at once before Temma hissed, she snapped, the bracelets on her wrist jangling together. “Tig is on his own, he made that decision when the bitch pointed a gun at my ass.” More murmuring, and some wild eyes looking her way. “Listen, Tig has always done his own thing.” She huffed. “And if the bitch wasn’t to ride or die at Weston’s side, then that’s his business. But that bitch shows up at these doors asking for salvation he better be prayin’ to god almighty Jesus that I am in the mood to forgive.”
“I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. I should not be here.”
Oakley's words fell on deaf frantic ears, panicked women and men frantically filtering into the room, and everyone speaking over each other all at once until Temma shut them all into the adulterous prison.
Not once in the year that she had been here at Lincoln had she had the pleasantries of stepping into Temma’s business. Thank Daddy for that bit of protection, but even so, every part of Lincoln rubbed her the wrong way. Lincoln had been her own personal Hell from the beginning. Every type of criminal, felon, or sinner existed in this concrete jungle. Everything that she had learned was wrong, a capital offense, a death penalty inflicted punishment, was legal in some shape or form. The weak and broken weren’t even given a chance, and the people who had no value were tossed aside and left to rot, turn, and rot once more. She thought about running once or twice before, but she’d never been able to shoot a gun. Dad hadn’t been proud of his first father daughter hunting trip back in the day when she was too worried about what that little doe’s family would do without her. Not much had changed since then.
She paced, arms rubbing at the red knit sweater, an old Christmas gift from long ago. She couldn’t allow herself to sit down, although she probably wouldn’t have anyway even if she wasn’t almost mid-panic attack. In another life, she would have saved herself for marriage to a good Christian boy who’s favorite book was the Bible, and he never would have said any sort of swear word. This was a house full of temptation but that was kind of obvious, wasn’t it? She bit at her nails, keratin already short due to her terrible habit of picking and chewing them. She paused, to listen to Temma shout about one of the boys, Tig, and then she resumed her pacing, and quietly mumbling to herself.
She shouldn’t be here not because this place was full of immorality, sin, and dildos. She shouldn’t have ran. She should have stood up and fought, but instead, Daddy told her to stay put, and she listened, amongst the screams and arguing. She stayed put…
Some fucking lawyer she would have been. Justice had not been served. What if they were all dead in the water? What if everyone killed each other, and they were forgotten in this…sex dungeon?
“This is not happening. It’s not. It is not.”
She was the cause of all her panic, and it wasn’t doing anything to soothe the rest of the room, but she couldn’t let it go.
She should not have been here.
“Motherfucker-” Weston hissed as he tugged his axe out of the back of an enforcer. It had been an inglorious and short-lived fight: the first bastard he’d run into was the unlucky dipshit on the other side of the door that Weston snuck in through. The guy - younger than him by a handful of years - had whirled around, stared at him wide-eyed like he’d just seen a ghost, and started to raise his gun. Rather than waste bullets and make noise when he didn’t have to, Weston body-checked him into a wall, knocked the pistol out of the man’s hand, threw him to the floor, and then axe’d him. Right in the back. Worked great, until he realized this damn axe had the bad habit of getting stuck in bone. Or maybe he was swinging too hard. He wasn’t sure. Being fucking livid sure helped make fighting easier, though.
Leaving a splattering of blood against the wall, Weston rounded a corner, keeping his eyes peeled for more enforcers. Or hell, more… anyone, at this rate. His loyalists were out, hopefully running towards freedom, so that meant anyone left inside was going to fall into one of two groups: trapped innocents that needed to get out of here immediately, and enemy fuckheads about to get dropped (or, alternatively, enemy fuckheads he’d leave strung up like treats for the Marines to play pinata with if he felt so inclined). There would be very little room in between.
In his low-oxygen daze, Weston had done a headcount of who wound up in the chamber with him and who didn’t. None of Temma’s people were in there with him save for Tigran, and it was doubtful any of them were truly so enamoured with King that they’d fight to the death for him, so… logic dictated they had to be stuck inside. If they were smart, they were hiding somewhere.
Weston couldn’t think of a better place for them to hide other than the whorehouse itself. One of the few rooms with a metal door - God even knows why, Weston sure didn’t - and a place that was just out of the way enough not to be a communal location full of people coming and going.
The hallway was suspiciously silent and empty, which meant whatever the hell was going on in here, it was going on elsewhere. Which was fine, for now. He had a lot of ground to cover first.
Dragging his tired body up to the whorehouse door, Weston tried the doorknob. It didn’t move. Locked. Good move, Temma. At least, he hoped it was Temma’s doing, or her people.
Two closed-fist bangs to the door announced Weston’s presence next, loud enough to be heard on the other side but not loud enough to wake the whole damn wing of the prison. Weston then leaned his shoulder against the wall next to the door, not wanting to get hit with it should someone open the door up too fast.
“Temma! You need to get out of here!” Weston called out, hoping Temma would recognize his voice without making him announce himself by name. He took this opportunity to wipe the sweat off his brow with one arm - the one that was less bloody, anyway. No doubt he looked like shit - covered and splattered with blood, beaten and bruised, slightly favoring one side as he babied his wound, eyes still red from crying. He’d been striding through the halls like a man on a mission, but now that he was standing still he felt like he was wilting from exhaustion.
“Teeeemmm-aaaa… Ghost of Christmas Future here for a fuckin’ wellness check.” Weston leaned his head against the wall briefly, waiting.
The room started to settle, as settled as it could be with the day's events. Her girls and boys found their spaces, a sign they were seeking comfort where they could; she was glad they would have at least that. As the crowd dispersed from the door and further into the room it shook out there were only three individuals who had followed the gaggle of whores to the whore house, two women who were dating one of the enforcers - the same one mind you - and the daughter of one of the enforcers, gatherer, hunters. Temma didn’t know her personally, but she knew her father. The proud religious man had come seeking company more than once and more than just the female persuasion.
“Best you find yourself a place to sit, honey,” Temma called to Oakley, the only one still standing. “We may be here for a spell.” And with that knowledge, she knew she would need to make people at least feel a little safer. She strode to one of the seating areas and scooted a girl up from a massive wing backed leather chair and then dragged it, noisily across the painted concrete floors to wiggle it into position in from of the massive metal door.
She stepped around from behind and dropped into the seat, adjusting her dress as she crossed her long legs. “Crissy,” She called and a young blond things head popped up from the lap of someone else on the couch. “The paddle.” Without any further instructions, Crissy leapt from the couch and ducked behind a screen, only to emerge a few seconds later with a large wooden paddle, adorned with matte metal spikes. She delivered it to Temma, who rested it across her lap, hand clasping the pommel. It had never been used since the day Dutchess had delivered it to the whorehouse. The biker woman had stumbled across a sex shop and, while bringing in plenty of useful items, had seen it, thought it was ridiculous and knew Temma would love it.
Temma had only ever busted it out when one or two guests became unruly, threatening to use it on them if the behaviour continued. She supposed now, it would be a decent weapon to use against an intruder, provided they didn’t have a gun…
Temma screamed, along with a few others, and jumped clear out of her chair at the door rattling behind her. She spun to face the door, paddle raised like a baseball bat, ready for whoever would try and breakthrough, though when she heard the familiar voice on the other side she relaxed, slightly.
“Weston!” She hissed, hip-checking the chair aside and out of her way, she reached for the handle but paused. “You come to finish the job Tig started? Have I been that bad to you and him? Eh? I’ll tell you something, Weston Samuel Jones Junior, you can take your shit-eating whore with you and fuck right off. You try and get in here and I will crack your skull like an egg!”
It was maybe a good thing Temma didn’t see Weston’s expression on his side of the door. It was a resounding what the actual fuck with a heavy dose of I’m too tired for this shit on the side.
“Goddamn, girl, you are real lucky that I am damn tired of losing friends today.” Weston rubbed his forehead, drawl sounding exhausted on his side of the door. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. Tig ain’t with me right now, but he’s helping get people out of here. Which you should be doing too. The fucking Marines are coming. Mil-a-tar-ee, Temma.” He stretched that word out real nice and long to drive home the point.
“I ain’t here to finish any of you off, I want to make sure you get out safe before the military comes. And, for Christsakes, if you can spare me even a single drink of water, I’d appreciate it, even if you just roll the bottle out the door or something.” There wasn’t any sarcasm or bluster in that last request, just the sound of a man too tired to preserve his pride. Weston sighed, pressing a palm to the door.
“Please? If you can’t do that, at least tell me whoever’s in there is okay, and that you are too. If someone’s not, I’ll bring you back something to help.”
If guilt was like a battery, Oakley would be the damn Energizer Bunny. She bit into a nail, and immediately winced, pulling back to see the small tinge of blood forming under the nail. Temma was nodding over for her to find a seat, and she glanced around the room. All the others were relaxing, some even finding solace in their regular activities. Oakley turned away, and moved to one of the only open seats. The girl next to her smiled,
“You sure you want to sit there, honey? That’s the virgin’s seat. Lots of cherries popped right in that spot. Gets a little…messy.”
Oakley paled, and instead found a nice bit of comfy wall that had wallpaper that hadn’t started to peel away. She first began at a lean, which turned into a swat, and then ended up quickly with her pulling her knees against her chest, sitting on the ground, and pressing her forehead into her knees, and saying a silent prayer. Her head twisted to look briefly at what one of the girls brought Temma, and her eyes only widened, wondering just in what fresh hell was that supposed to bring pleasure to someone if it was also intended to be a weapon? What on God’s green earth? She twisted her head back into her knees and said the prayer a little faster, double speed. Lord help her in this time of crisis and sin and everything unholy.
She screamed just as loud as Temma screamed, as suddenly there was a banging and rattling, begging to come into the whorehouse, but not for pleasure. Her arms wrapped around her knees a little tighter, and she twisted her head up to the ceiling.
“Oh please, please, please do not let me die here.”
The voice on the other side was gruff, angry, and pained. He was hurting…
Weston
He was alive. He was tired. He had survived, but did he just say the military? The Marines? But, the United States wasn’t even a thing anymore? Was it? It was No Man’s Land, everyone for themselves. That’s what she told herself when she awkwardly stared at law books. Everything was solved with a pistol, it just depended on who was holding it. So, what…what kind of fever dream was he currently having? It had to be a private army, or something…not…the actual military? What reason did Weston have to lie though and he surely would have thought of better lies if he really wanted to get in here to kill any one of them? Really? The mythical United States Marines? Come on, Weston. That’s on par with Santa and the Tooth Fairy at this point.
His plea was getting desperate though, and Oakley’s heart of gold couldn’t take it anymore.
“Temma.”
Her voice was shaky, timid, quiet as the mouse she so pleaded to be. Palms of her hands released their grip from her knee caps and pushed her off the ground, and towards the much taller, fierce woman, ready to knock Weston right off his ass if he got through the door.
“You have to let him in. If…If he dies out there, then we have a bigger problem on our hand than just beating the crap out of him. And I don’t…I don’t think he’s lying. He’s served his sentence. He got what was coming, and…even if you don’t think that he did, wouldn’t you love to kick his butt inside rather than let someone else put a bullet in his head? We…”
Oakley looked behind her,
“Besides, the military? Who lies about that? Think about it.”
Temma glared at the door like she could glare at the man on the other side as he cussed her out for not immediately opening it for him. Like she were his underling, his subordinate and she should be jumping for joy that he was here and addressing her. However, his tone shifted. He sounded defeated despite the fact that he had very clearly defied death today. She rolled her eyes as he went on to tell her what she was already aware of, the military vehicles were rolling in, did he think they were hiding in here because of the rebels? “Derek’s got the enforcers together, he’s going to stop them from getting in.” She didn’t dare add we’ll be fine to the end of her sentence and test their luck further today.
The timid voice from behind her was a surprise, not many would attempt to tell her what to do. She turned to look at the girl, at least that’s what Temma felt she was; considering just how she was acting throughout all of this. “Plenty of people would lie about plenty of things, Oakley.” She huffed, turning to lean back against the door and cross her arms, letting the paddle swing beside her. “Of all people here, you should know. How many men have propositioned you here? Hm? Told you sweet lies to get into those panties?”
“You best not try and tell me to think on anything I don’t want to.” She continued, narrowing her eyes at the girl. “You go on and get, back to your corner and let the adults talk this out.”
Temma didn’t wait for her to leave, even if she didn’t before she turned back to the door and spoke loud enough for Weston to hear her. “No one in here is hurt, just a little shaken up, no thanks to your boyfriend.” She would not let him live it down. “I will open this door, and you will put down any weapons you’re carrying with you before you come in here. I swear to Christ al’mightly, I will pop you, Weston. Friend or not.”
The news that people were already aware and, worse, that Derek was planning a defensive stance made Weston raise his head and look both ways down the hallway again. Great - that meant enforcers were on edge even more than they already were, and nobody was standing down yet.
“Christfuck.” Weston hissed under his breath, probably still loud enough for most people on the other side of the door to hear. He wasn’t sure how big of a force was coming, but he was under no impression it was something they could just dismiss. The chances of this being one more lone truck full of a handful of marines that got unlucky enough to be blown up in the front yard were low.
Temma’s jab about ’his boyfriend’ made him scowl and pushed a raw button that didn’t need to be pushed, and he tried to swallow down a retort but it didn’t succeed. “Boyfriend? Single as fuck right now, Temma, in case you’re inquiring. Had our differences along the way. Call it a mix of ideology for some and a direction that we needed to run for others.”
Weston was already sliding the carbine off his shoulder as Temma laid out the terms of his entrance. “Scout’s honor. I got an axe, rifle, and handgun. I’ll put ‘em all down on the floor in front of the door so you can see ‘em. I’d rather not get popped - I got enough holes in me already.”
Weston put his weapons down on the floor - the axe first, falling with a clunk - followed by the two firearms which he was much more careful with. The handgun got put down last, and he let out a grunt of pain as he leaned down and stood back up again. That one was the hardest to let go, and it wasn’t just the pain of leaning down.
“If you shoot me, I’m gonna be real disappointed.”
“If nobody lied, Oak, there’d be no reason for lawyers and politicians. You better get good at it.”
Temma wanted to talk about lies, but she was preaching to the choir. Justice thrived on lies, and digging into the truth. Oakley thought she had gotten pretty at reading people. Evil intentions had been around her since stepping into this damnable hell, and she had pushed away more than her fair share of propositions for her virginity.
But…she could hear the exhaustion, the pain. He sounded so out of breath. Unless Weston had somehow decided to get an acting degree in the last few days, she believed him…and if he truly was going to burst into the room, just to give Temma a Bloody Sunday, she didn’t know that he’d have the energy.
“I know that! I’m just saying…That’s…Temma, that’s not relevant! Sex and needing possible medical attention are not the same thing. Pain and pleasure sensors might be in the same parts of the brain, but that doesn’t mean that-”
It clearly didn’t matter. Her science and psychology lesson would have to be saved for later. Temma was telling her to go back to the children’s table. Her nose wrinkled, and she itched at her neck, short stubby nails scratching fresh red scratches in her easily inflamed skin. She didn’t move though. She could feel the rest of the room watching, waiting, all eyes on the door.
Oakley stared at the paddle, little points glittering like diamonds. The definition of pain and pleasure. The definition of Temma.
“I really hope you aren’t lying, Weston.”
Temma rolled her eyes. Oakley’s science lesson was entirely unwelcome and there wasn’t a bone in her body that could prevent her from reacting in some way to the commentary. Sure, the girl was nervous and frightened but that didn’t change the fact that being talked down still irked. She bit her lip to keep herself from turning on the girl and giving her a dressing down. Did she think she was dumb? Uneducated? Or was it just an assumption because of where she was and what she looked like? Either way, Oakley was proving to be as ignorant as her father, the apple sure as fuck didn’t fall far from the tree.
She focused, instead on Weston speaking on the other side of the day, stating his intent to agree with her demands and even going as far as to list what he had on him. An axe? Temma couldn’t quite understand that one but she glanced down to the paddle in hand and supposed it wasn’t so unusual.
Temma had no way of knowing if Weston had done as she demanded but she pulled back the lever and tugged the door towards her. The metal groaned as it released from the latch, and swung it open enough to look through and see the man standing, alone, in the quiet hall. She glanced down, seeing the weapons he said he had laid out on the floor.
She was silent for several long seconds, wide eyes taking in the sight of him. Covered in blood and gore from head to toe, the eman was barely recognizable and the only reason she knew it was him was because she’d recognized his voice. Her hand shook on the handle, fighting the urge to shove it back closed but she swallowed hard and straightened her back.
Temma pushed away the thoughts of just how many people he had to injure… or kill, to become this bloody, she surmised that none of it could have been his own with him still standing on the other side of the door.
She stepped back and pulled the door wide enough for the man to pass through. “Hurry up and get your ass in here.” She hissed, tucking the paddle beneath one arm as she leaned down to pick up the axe’s handle between her thumb and forefinger, lest she blood all over herself.
Temma turned back to the room of watchers, “Candy!” She shouted and a middle age woman with pink hair popped up to her feet. “Come pick up these guns, Darlene, run and fetch the baby wipes…” She glanced back at the blood sodden man. “Some towels too, I think and water.” She dropped the axe carelessly on the floor inside the doorway, nudging it aside with her heeled boot. “Weston, darling, try not to get blood on the carpets.” She waved man inward as the others ran to do as she requested.