Author's Notes: I wrote this story Friday, September 14, 2001. It was indirectly inspired by a character named Boon, in the TV series Angel (Buffy the Vampire Slayer spin-off), but has nothing to do with the show.
Not long after finishing the story, I noticed that there were similarities to the immortals of The Highlander, but rest assure that, even though I did like the movies and series, I did not have them in mind when writing this.
I wrote this imagining it as the pilot episode of a TV series (at the time) on HBO.
It's one of my old works that I still really enjoy reading. I hope you enjoy it, as well.
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She was surprised to find that the front door of the bar was nothing but a pair of old, swinging saloon doors. But then again, the place was in the middle of a Nevada desert and at least 10 miles away from any other sign of human existence. Add to that the fact that the bar never technically closed, and then it didn't seem all that necessary for it to have a real door.
The place was a... well, perhaps 'dive' was being too generous. Large shack might be a better description. Still, apparently some people liked the place. It was primarily a biker bar, though not strictly by intention. It's just that bikers were the only people who had the slightest inclination to bother with it, and even then, it was only a select type of biker.
At least that was her theory. She did not know for sure, since she'd never been in this area, and generally never goes anyplace beyond 20 miles of a five-star hotel.
Someone who didn't know better would think she was out of her element. She was a creature of exceptional beauty. About 5' 7", with lean but noticed muscle tone, straight, glossy, black hair to the middle of her back, and absolutely flawless skin.
It was a common experience for her to walk into any room and be met by almost every eye, so it felt particularly odd to her when she entered the bar and no one seemed to notice her at all. Especially given that she wore her calf-high leather boots, very short leather skirt, and her high-cut leather halter top: all black.
It was a rare experience for her to not be immediately noticed, but it did not really bother her, particularly since she could see the reason straight across the room. All eyes were on a denim-clad man hassling another man at the bar.
"What makes you think you can stare at my old lady," he said, apparently half drunk and referring to the blonde, in a tied white tank and cut-off jean shorts, behind him.
The man he was talking to was sitting, trying to ignore him. He's the one she was here for. She'd never seen him in jeans and leather before, and he'd cut his hair, but she could tell it was him. Their kind could always tell.
As she made her way across the room, she heard soft mumbles as the people she passed took note of her. It brought a smile to her face.
The drunken biker... the one in question, that is, grabbed the sitting man by the shoulder of his jacket and shook him a little as he shouted, "Hey. I'm talking to you, asshole."
It really was more than pathetic, the thought to herself as she approached them both. In a continuous flow of movement, she pushed the drunk aside, sending him crashing to the floor, and then turned the sitting man to face her.
To her, his name was Stryker. She grabbed the back of his head with one hand and slid one of his legs between hers as she moved closer. He recognized her instantly, and was surprised, not only by her presence, but also by the deep kiss with which she practically attacked him. Kira slid her free hand up his other thigh to his crotch. She stroked until she felt the hard bulge rise, then she cupped it and squeezed hard.
She released the grip, but her hand remained. She found the horizontal seam of the crotch of his jeans, dug her fingernails into the fabric, and then pulled up with the incredible strength that only their kind possess.
The entire front of his jeans was instantly turned into a large flap moved to free his penis from its confines. She was pleased that he had worn no underwear, because it would have just taken up more time, which is why she had worn none, as well.
She held his length as she moved her leg over his other, sliding him into her as she sat completely on his lap. She held the back of his head with both hands, and he moved his hands across her back and waist. With his help, she moved her hips back and forth as they kissed.
All eyes were definitely on her, now. The drunk guy had finally managed to stand up again, and was now at their side, shouting.
"Hey. Who the hell do you think you are? I'm talking to you. Hey."
Did he not realize what was happening, or what, Kira wondered. Either way, the idiot was getting on her nerves. She let go of the back of Stryker's head with one hand, and then placed it around the drunk's neck. He stopped talking when she squeezed, though he was still making some noises. That would stop soon enough, though.
Stryker knew he should probably intervene at this point. He slid his fingers along her arm and stopped at her wrist where he wrapped them around and squeezed hard. She was not letting go, so he took more of his attention off of helping her thrust and focused on increasing his grip on her wrist.
He finally succeeded in forcing her to release her grasp, and the drunken man fell to the floor, unconscious, but still alive. Stryker knew she never killed humans, but she liked to taunt him. When she's around him, and the situation arises where some human is being especially annoying, she always does genuinely try to kill them, but she knows that Stryker will always stop her.
It's not something about her that he particularly enjoys, but he does understand it about her, and to be honest, in this particular instance, it did excite him a little more.
He grabbed her hips with both hands and stood up. Almost stumbling, he stepped over the body of the drunk and blindly made his way to a door that was behind him. He knew the door was closed, and he had intended to open it, but he misjudged the distance, and they hit it with an unexpected force- their momentum driving him into her hard and fast.
He knew by the sound she made that she enjoyed the sensation, as well did he. He pressed her back firmly to the door, gripped her hips, and repeatedly drove into her.
The pleasure increased enough to force her to break the kiss and gasp for air. She put her head to the door, and her hands to the doorsill, at shoulder level, and pushed hard to help him support her. She turned her head slowly from side to side, starting to make quiet whines in time with his increasing thrusts.
The bartender had thought he'd seen a lot, but even he stopped what he was doing to watch the two of them. They were actually beginning to shake the old building. Each impact shook the wall, and he could see small amounts of dust falling down from where it connected to the ceiling.
The sound of breaking glass from a fallen picture startled the patrons, and Stryker decided it would be best to move this on into the room before there was more damage. He found the doorknob, turned it, and they almost fell in, as Kira barely caught hold of him in time. He kicked the door closed behind him, and they both fell onto a bed that was in the room.
In the bar, the awe-struck audience just listened to the rhythmic screek of old bed springs, the curiously only occasional bang of metal bed posts against a wall, and the new cries of pleasure from the mysterious female, the entire duration of all of which was spotted with the sound of different objects falling to the floor at irregular intervals.
After about twenty minutes, the noise seemed to die down, and when all seemed quiet, the customers and bartender turned into one big discussion group.
Inside the room, Stryker was lying on his stomach on the old bed, Kira was laying face down across his bare back, and both of them panted heavily for some minutes without otherwise moving.
"The sad thing is," she finally said, "that you're the only one who can do me right."
"My pleasure," he replied.
"Yeah," she said through a little laugh as she lightly stroked his side, tickling him. She smiled at the muscles twitching beneath his flesh. "So, you actually own this pathetic excuse for a drinking establishment?"
"Uh huh."
"The depth of your irony never ceases to amaze me. You're an adamant non drinker whose never so much as tasted alcohol in all your years, yet you own a bar that, knowing you, probably serves a few drinks that aren't even legal in the states."
"You know me pretty good, don't you," he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
"I still don't know how old you are," she said, pointedly. "I know that Venezuela was 1867."
He knew she was referring to when they first met. "You never really ever gave the subject a chance to come up. When you weren't trying to kill me or fuck me, then..." the sentence broke with nowhere to go. "Well, that's pretty much all there was."
