tagNon-EroticAuto Erotica Ch. 02

Auto Erotica Ch. 02

bymadam_noe©

After careful review, this chapter contains no sex, but it does, however, explain the characters and sets up the plot for the remaining chapters which should all have explicit sex in them. You can still skip this chapter if you prefer and pick up the basic plot.

Author's note; this story is fiction and you will find several things altered. The gang known as the Latin Counts originated in Chicago's Back Of The Yards neighborhood but for fictional purposes does not currently exist in Chicago.


***

I'm Aileen Reilly. I'm five feet, ten inches tall, one hundred fifty pounds, a white chick with a big chest and unusual coloring. The red hair and pale skin was owed to my Irish ancestors, the purple eyes a fluke of nature that said little about myself as a person, but they were what everyone associated me with.

I kept in shape; I ran three miles every day, lifted weights twice a week, and I didn't eat a lot of crap. I smoked too much and I drank heavily, but I was in good health. I grew up in Detroit and knew by the age of eight how to boost a car, by nine I was doing it. By ten I could take one apart by myself in an hour and put it back together in three. At age 11 I was in the can, juvy, for boosting.

I got out after three years, worked my way though high school. Since it was all above board there was no money for college and I went to work in a garage in Chicago. I tuned for enthusiasts but did after hours works for boosts. Cal Runningwolf joined the garage and then he joined the night racket.

I made enough to get my car and started racing for P's legit until they all knew me on the circuit and no one would race.

Cal had served real time as an adult and we both knew who ran what drugs in the city, and who boosted what. So we started racing gangs for P's and holding in "escrow" for 30 G's or the car. We sold those for fifteen to twenty-five under the table and within a year we started our own operation.

So now we took one to three cars a night two or three nights a week. There was always fresh blood and the cars we sold were tuned perfectly. The buyers knew we had clean VINs and made them risk nothing. We dealt with cash, gave guarantees, and our reputation was gold. Who could ask for more?

Cal had two lives, just like me, like most racers, but I knew nothing about his private face. Mine was just as secretive to him, to everyone I thought, and Patrick had shaken me that night.

Still nothing bad happened in the next month, no one came in the night, no cops banged down the door. Didn't mean I wasn't jumpy, but I was safe.

I lived on Lake Shore Drive, LSD, in a brownstone with my brother and his kids. His wife had taken off for parts unknown and Andy was stuck raising his kids alone. Katie was five and Andrew Jr. was three. Andy Sr. had a trust fund still, one I managed but never touched for myself. He had his own flat with four bedrooms, three baths, everything he needed on the second floor. On the first floor were my home office and the public rooms, as well as the servants' quarters. I employed a cook for us all, a maid for us all, and a nanny for the kids. The third floor was mine.

Weekdays I was Aileen Reilly, a woman who lived off a trust fund that had been liquidated before I learned to walk, but no one knew that. My brother and my neighbors thought I did charity work. I'd leave the house in a tasteful skirt suit with a briefcase and drive to a small safe house, one of three I kept around the city.

There I'd change into my street clothes, lose the glasses and heels, put on the boots and tie the hair back. I'd lose the SUV and take a junker to work. Every house was different, my weekday one had a 1970 Dodge Charger engine hiding in a '89 Nova, a beauty if you ask me.

I'd drive to the compound off of Wacker where Cal waited in the same condition. He always drove in a F150 with a hidden Hemi and wore rumpled clothes and coveralls that matched mine.

Weekends I lounged, played with the kids, and at night I left in sweats and headed for house two. House two was more secure. I drove the Volvo (super tuned, of course) to an underground garage. At the bottom was a door no one but I could get through and that night I parked in it next to the 'Stang. I rode a private elevator up the tower to my condo and dressed carefully from the outfits there.

Night races meant I had to dress sexy but I avoided slutty. I teased my hair, slid into my boots, did my makeup carefully, and rode back down. The 'Stang went out the other door into another underground garage that was a public lot. I had a monthly pass registered to a Nancy Reynolds and swiped on my way out.

Cal and I met up in front of a garage on 158th and Chicago, a legit operation that a friend of his ran during the day. That night Cal drove a Solstice that could blow the doors off of almost anything. He raced enthusiasts but his reputation was approaching mine and soon no one would take him in legit circles.

Cal was six one, broad shouldered, rangy, and his hair was a solid black always braided, hanging to his waist. I had no idea what a full-blooded Navajo was doing in the city but for all I knew he was on parole and couldn't leave. All I knew was he had both a Semper Fi tattoo and friends with big muscles and bigger guns who'd run bodyguard duty.

It was a simple life; the week spent tuning cars, the weekends with family and making money. And for a whole month I had worried that it was going to dry up, but nothing happened. I didn't see Patrick on the circuit but I didn't ask Cal for fear he'd know what I did.

The end of June slapped the city with muggy heat and it came alive at night. It was Friday night and I rolled up to the garage dressed in black, but I'd left the leather at home save the boots. It was all cotton and for once I regretted driving a classic car with no AC.

Cal was in his Solstice, cherry-poppin' red he called it, and looking bored. Women threw themselves at Cal and yeah, we'd gotten bored early on when we were still working for Harry in his garage. He was good in bed, if a little tame for my taste, and I too submissive for his, so we'd long ago decided friendship was best. Since then I'd seen him snap a man's neck and he'd seen me knife a woman in self defense. Friendship was safest.

"Hey."

"Hey, Cal. What's the word?"

"There's some new blood in town, smellin' on the down-low. Nobody likes them, so nobody warned them."

"What aren't you telling me, Cal?"

"Aileen, they're LC."

Shit. He'd seen me naked, he knew the small tattoo on my tailbone was LC. LC didn't run in Chicago where they'd started out, they'd spread from LA to KC to Houston and Detroit. If they were here they were looking to spread further and I didn't want that. It had been over ten years since I'd seen any, hell if any of the ones I'd run with were still alive I'd be surprised.

"Let's find them."

He shrugged but fell in behind me as we cruised. The first stop was the main circuit. It always moved but a safe bet was the huge empty lot of the old K-Mart off Western next to Vig's Garage. Vig was an old man, retired, and his shop was run by Li'l J. J was five feet eight inches tall, but his afro gave him an extra twelve inches. He was mocha skinned, gold-toothed, and a smooth talker. Nothing legit happened without his finger in it, nothing underground happened without him knowin' about it.

By the time we got there it was packed. I slid my GT into position to be admired and new faces turned, many familiar ones too. Cal slid in behind me and angled his red sex machine so all the girls at the edge would notice. Most people expected a man to be driving my car and always did a double take when I stepped out. Any men who might have tried bit their tongues when Cal came to stand menacingly by my side.

The people that knew us knew we were partners, nothing else, but he was a good deterrent. He wore a white t-shirt, deceptively simple and I knew it cost ninety bucks, his jeans just as designer but looking dark and almost cheap over his cowboy boots. They were real and old, and I knew he could sprint in them if he had to.

My boots were designer, needle thin on the heels, and I'd had to practice but I too could sprint if I had to. They were only three inches. Whereas Cal's white shirt made his bronze skin look dark my black wrap top and black miniskirt made my skin look milk pale. It was too bad the sex just hadn't clicked, we made one hell of a striking couple.

I caught myself looking for Patrick Crilly and bit my tongue. It had been just sex, it shouldn't have stuck in my mind, but maybe it did because it had been a good year or two between the last soulless fuck and Patrick.

"Do you see them?" I asked Cal.

He nodded to my right and off in the crowd I saw them. Hispanic, dressed in blue and gold, their cars matching. We had a Viper, a Saturn Sky, even an old Chevy Camaro. All American, all Detroit.

"Let's wait, and if I can I'll take on two. Sniff out the Viper, see if you can take it or the Sky, but that Camaro is mine. Got it?"

He was a good enough mechanic to know his car wouldn't take it. "Got it, the Yenko Camaro is yours. So where do we start?"

I looked over the cars to see if there was anything interesting. There was, a '68 350R, super-tuned. I salivated, even if my car could take it. "See the 350R?"

"What is it with you and 'Stangs?"

"Detroit thing. C'mon."

We took two steps before Suki found Cal. Suki was the child of a Japanese woman and a white-bred American man, the result was a five foot nine inch goddess, a size zero almost outweighed by her curtain of jet hair. She was a professional dominatrix, no kidding, and her kid sister raced a Honda. The second Cal saw her he was lost, and I left him there to play tonsil-hockey.

The 350 had a crowd around it, unusually mixed in gender. I nodded to a few people I knew and worked my way to the hood. The engine had been tweaked, it looked like a 428 standard racing 8 cylinder, intake super clean, and, surprise, surprise, a super-charger. If he put in a Hemi it might take mine.

The engine was sexy, the body well cared for. The paint was midnight blue with wide white stripes, the signature look of the Shelby. I wanted one.

"Like it?"

"Got room for a Hemi?" I asked the deep voice without looking up.

He chuckled and I finally turned and looked up. And up. He was six feet seven, my guess, how the hell did he even fit in the car? He looked like a Viking, all broad shoulders and blonde hair.

"Next on the menu. I'm Gunnar Oakenhorse, miss..."

"They call me Elle. I own the '67 GT500E back there." I shook his hand firmly and his eyes drifted to my car and I saw his body tense and relax in the admiration of a fellow 'Stang lover.

"What have you done to it?"

"Super-charger, upped the torque to max output, reinforced the frame, retrofit for Nitrous but never installed. Seeing yours I just might upgrade to a Hemi and tweak a little."

"Who's your garage?"

"I do my own work."

"You race?"

I smiled up at him. "You'd lose. Everyone here would lose. I'm not bragging; ask anybody."

Gunnar turned with an indulgent smile to the man across the hood from us. "I could take her, right?"

It was Bobby Lee and he laughed. "Elle? Nobody takes her, she races thugs. She takes their P's man, total shark."

Gunnar lost his smile and looked down at me. "Dangerous game for such a little woman."

I laughed; only a Viking behemoth would say I was little. I was a size eight and just shy of six feet, one inch over in my boots. "Bobby Lee don't know what he's talking about. I race whoever's willing, and who knows? Maybe someone out there can out-drive me."

Bobby shrugged and moved on. Behind him several girls were glaring at me, presumably for hogging Gunnar's attention. He wasn't gorgeous, merely pleasant looking, cute perhaps, but too big to qualify. I guess you could say the hard angles of his face were arresting and the body was promising.

Over their heads I caught a familiar figure in the distance, leaning against his blue and ghost-flamed Sky, watching me. Our eyes met and held a second too long. Shit, he was coming over, I had to escape.

"I'll race you when you get the Hemi." I brushed my hand down his arm and searched the crowd for Cal. He was over with Suki's crew so I left the 'Stang for the enclave.

"Cal, let's get going on the American cars, 'eh?"

Suki pouted. "Come on, take a night off. Jeeze, Elle you work him too hard."

"He's a grown man, he can take a night off if he wants. Cal, you want?"

Suki slipped her hand inside his pants pocket and squeezed, and I knew he was done. "Elle," at least he remembered to use the right name, "I'll catch up, okay? Take the Camaro."

Jesus, so much for friendship when pussy was involved. He must be harder up for it than I had been.

"Elle?"

I stiffened, knowing Patrick's silky voice anywhere. I'd once had a conversation with this man over the specs of the cars I needed tuned, and then last month we'd fucked something furious. How the hell was I supposed to act?

"Patrick Crilly. Roadsters are over that way; this here is rice burner territory."

Jesus he looked good. Black t-shirt, black jeans, black boots. He looked like the devil, except I knew my bible and Lucifer was most definitely a blonde. Perhaps Patrick was the head demon just below who ran the dark prince's operations on Earth. I'd believe it.

"And where do I find American Muscle Cars?"

"Try the new '68 350, it's supercharged and I think that's an honest-to-God Viking running it."

His mouth quirked and his eyes flicked to the kids around Oren's car, then Suki's hand in Cal's pants. "Can I speak to you, alone?"

Cal moaned softly and Oren and I both flinched in mutual disgust. Suki's sister wanted to bear witness to the mating as much as I did. "All right. I'll walk you back to your car."

His lips quirked again, the most animation I'd ever seen out of him. "How novel."

His boots added two inches, mine added three, so now he was only five inches taller instead of six. As we walked our bodies fell into perfect rhythm together and evoked memories I didn't want except in the dark of night.

"So what do you want?"

"You're very curt, aren't you?" he asked softly.

"I don't like to waste time."

"I noticed." He lapsed back into thoughtful silence as we made our slow way through the thick crowd. Someone had hooked up loudspeakers to their stereo and TLC's "If I Was Your Girlfriend" pumped out with its weird, funky beat.

His Sky had its hood up and when we reached the car I gave it a thorough once-over. "Nice. Real nice. What's the torque?"

"Three hundred and climbing."

"Hell." I was surprised. "What have you done to the frame?"

"Steel reinforced, all after market."

"Why go to the trouble on a Sky?"

He shrugged. "I only race the Sky, it's not my favorite car."

I looked back at mine. If I was going to have sex with a car, it'd definitely be mine, but I wisely kept the comment to myself. "So how do you know my name?"

"Joe Cready."

"Joe?" I was surprised. We'd worked together at Harry's, but he'd left before Cal came on board. "How is Joe?"

"He's a great mechanic. I think he has a crush on you, but he knew you before you became Elle."

"That's what people call me. I just don't correct them."

He smiled at me and more than one woman sighed. His teeth were even and straight, no jail-house dentistry to match the tattoos. Joe Budden's "Pump It Up" came on and the crowd cheered. Everyone who'd gotten into the scene after watching "2 Fast 2 Furious" started dancing.

"I wanted to warn you away from these new people." He nodded at the LCs, my target.

"Don't worry, I can take the Camaro."

He put his hand on my back and pulled me towards him until we were pressed close. Shock held me pliant and I looked up into his eyes, and it felt very intimate. "I know that. Do you really think this will keep them honest and let you take the P?" He stepped back and I saw my Beretta was in his hand.

I stepped back and made a decision. I wanted to scare him off. I turned around and grabbed the hem of my shirt in one hand, the top of my skirt in the other. "No, but this will." I turned around and pulled them back so he could see the unmistakable gang tattoo on my skin with my initials.

I turned back and he looked surprised, but cool. Patrick didn't fight when I took my gun back, and I slipped it into my waistband.

"How?" He asked and I knew what he meant. You couldn't find a more Caucasian woman than me and the LC was the Latin Counts; no one but Mexicans and Puerto Ricans need apply.

"Long story, and it's all in the past."

He looked at the cars and back at me. I turned to leave but the bastard was quick for such a big guy and he caught my wrist in his grip, holding tight. "Is it?"

"What the hell do you want? You know I roll with Cal. I take these fools and I get the P on a Yenko, and they won't set foot in this city. Don't mess with it, Crilly."

"So what? You're a crime fighter now? You sell stolen goods at underground auctions. Look up criminal mastermind in the dictionary and there's a picture of you next to it."

I smiled, somehow pleased with that. "My parole officer would love that," I said before I thought. When I realized I kept the smile on my face. "If you don't let me go I promise you, you'll regret it."

He thought about it for a moment, and had we not been surrounded by people he might have pushed it, but at long last he dropped my arm and I went to run my game. The way the night was going, I would love a good down and dirty fight.

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