This bonus scene takes place after Roundabout, book 4 of my Creekwood series, and shows exactly how Angela got her revenge on Coty, Beckett, and Marc. Please read Roundabout first to avoid spoilers. Make sure you check out the Spotify playlist I made just for Femme Fatalloween *HERE*. It’s got songs from this scene, as well as lots more jams by powerful women that are perfect for Halloween-time. You can purchase signed copies of Roundabout in my Etsy shop *HERE*. This scene is unedited so please ignore any grammar mistakes, otherwise enjoy!
The parking lot for Pop Two is fucking jam-packed, forcing me and Marc to park our bikes across the street.
“Did you know it’d be this big?” he asks as we dismount.
We remove our helmets to survey the line of cars waiting to go through Angela’s car wash. “STUPID” by Ashnikko and Baby Tate blasts from speakers on each side of the DJ booth, eliciting cheers loud enough for us to hear through the cars’ rolled up windows.
My head shakes. I knew Angela was planning a Halloween-themed car wash for tonight but this? This is crazy.
Beck’s Suburban swerves around the growing line out on the main road and pulls into the same lot Marc and I are still standing in, absolutely dumbstruck. The second Beck’s out, he’s saying, “What the fuuuuck?” making me think he didn’t know it’d be this big either.
So much for being done with secrets.
Coming to stand next to us, we all stay on the sidewalk, taking everything in.
“Leave it to Angie to make her money back in one night.”
To-go cup in hand, Beck gestures at Pop Two. In addition to the DJ, there are two taco trucks, as well as a tent selling both kettle corn and spiced apple cider we can smell from here. There are just as many people walking around getting something to eat as there are cars in line. Actually, they’re all women, a few of them even dancing.
Marc chimes in, saying, “She just fucking might.”
“Eve’s Haunted Tunnel,” Beck muses with a long finger aimed at the temporary sign above the car wash bay that clearly reads Eve’s Hallowed Tunnel.
Marc and I exchange glances, both of us working to keep our smirks to ourselves.
“Do you know what hallowed means?”
“Yeah. Haunted.” Dude even rolls his eyes.
“Try the opposite.” Marc steps forward, checking both directions before dropping down off the curb.
Beck and I jog behind him to cross the street while I explain, “Hallowed means sacred.”
“Eve’s Sacred Tunnel…” Beck says to himself, then shrugs. “Yeah, that sounds better.”
“Probably why our wives came up with it,” I say, loving the way I get to include myself in that now. Our wives. My wife. Angela and I have only been married three days, but so far, I’m not seeing any end in sight for our honeymoon phase. I’ve had her everywhere already…including that fucking backseat in her Jeep. I’ve had a lot of making up to do and some memories to replace.
“Welcome to Femme Fatalloween,” Bentlee greets as we approach.
Marc stops in his tracks, giving me and Beck the lead while he rakes his gaze up and down his wife’s costume.
“You weren’t wearing this before,” he points out. Together, we all took the kids trick-or-treating while there was still enough daylight, but the women had to get over here before it got dark, and I guess they changed into costumes. Or at least Bentlee did since Angela and Paige are nowhere in sight.
Bentlee smiles, then spins, showing off the whole outfit. Head to toe, she’s wearing racing gear—Marc’s racing gear to be exact, even his jersey with their last name on the back. Although the boots might not be his, since I know they’re different sizes and the ones she’s got on look like a perfect fit.
“We’re leaving,” Marc announces, grabbing for his wife, but she dances out of his reach, laughing and making her husband growl. “I’m serious, Bentlee. Get your ass over to my car. Now.”
“You didn’t bring your car,” I remind him. “We both got our bikes.”
“So? It’s never stopped me before,” Marc says while eyeing his wife, causing her cheeks to turn a shade darker than her red jersey.
“That was your dirt bike.”
With a shrug, Marc says, “The Lambo needs christened, too,” in reference to his motorcycle, the Ducati Streetfighter Lamborghini he got recently.
I whistle. Damn. Angela and I fooled around on my bike once, but we didn’t have sex on it. We might need to remedy that. My bike didn’t cost seventy grand though.
Bentlee blows out a flustered breath. “Do I come to your work and seduce you?”
“Yes,” Marc answers instantly, making Beck and I chuckle.
She waves her husband off, saying, “Whatever, tonight’s not about men and their wants. It’s about us women, hence the name—Femme Fatalloween.”
Marc smirks. “You know damn well I’m only about you and your wants.”
The married couple remains in a heated stare off.
“I’d offer you guys the Suburban for your quickie, but I didn’t get a chance to take the car seats out yet.”
“I wouldn’t be quick,” Marc mumbles before adding louder, “Tonight,” to Bentlee. “Before we get home, too. You’re fucking mine. All mine.”
After an eye roll we all see right through, Bentlee glances at Beck, those blue-green eyes widening at his t-shirt. “Holy inappropriateness. How did I not notice that earlier? Please tell me you weren’t wearing that when we went trick-or-treating.”
He looks down at the lettering on his chest, looking disappointed it didn’t get the laughter he was obviously expecting. Instead of his usual biker innuendo shirt, he’s wearing a Halloween innuendo shirt. It says Just The Tip. I Promise. with a picture of a butcher knife behind it.
Standing to his full height, Beck just says, “How do you think the kids got here?”
He’s so full of shit. He wasn’t wearing that shirt earlier. While Marc and I got all the kids settled with Karina, Beck must’ve thrown that tee over the long sleeve he already had on. And went to get coffee. Why the fuck did he get coffee this late?
And from where? Latte Da closed hours ago and it’s the only coffee place Angela approves of us giving our business to.
“With more than just the tip, I’ll tell ya that,” Beck’s wife answers him suddenly, coming around the corner of one of the taco trucks carrying a baseball bag with a baseball bat sticking out of it in one hand and a shovel in the other.
Beck does a double take, his jaw dropping. “Dream?” falls from his open mouth, the lower portion of his jaw hanging in the wind.
Paige has on a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit, which is not what Beck wears to work every day even though he’s clearly the inspiration. The top few buttons are undone, showing off a white shirt underneath. Neither woman is showing any skin whatsoever, yet both my boys are practically salivating.
If Bentlee’s dressed like Marc, and Paige is dressed like Beck—minus the shovel—what’s Angela’s costume?
Ignoring my drooly friend, Beck’s wife asks, “What do you have for me?” before switching the cup he’s holding with the shovel. “A chai latte?”
Brandishing the shovel like it’s a trident and he’s Poseidon or some shit, Beck tells her, “A dirty chai for my dirty girl.”
“A dirty chai? Beckett, that has espresso in it.”
“Did you miss me the part where I called you a dirty girl? I need you to keep your energy up tonight.”
Beck throws his free hand up. “For dirty things. Lots and lots of dirty things.”
Paige and Bentlee exchange matching irritated glances. “They think they’re here to get lucky.”
“Why are we here?” I ask. “We were invited—”
“Invited? More like summoned. Paige told me I had to be here or else…”
Marc nods. “Bentlee made it sound like I didn’t have a choice either.”
I eye them both, then our surroundings. We’re the only men here. We aren’t trying to crash their event; we’re just doing what they told us. They’ve banned us from other girls’ nights before, so why didn’t they this time?
A cover of “We Will Rock You” by an all-female ensemble is playing now, making the crowd grow even louder, like this is an actual concert.
Marc, Beck, and I crack smiles at all the air guitars and head banging going on around us. This is more than a Halloween-themed car wash. This is a sanctuary for women to completely let loose without worrying about anybody harassing them.
“Why’d you three insist on having us come then?” I ask when the song starts to die down, transitioning into another, calmer one.
Just as the new beat starts to build though, Paige nods at the wash side. “She’ll tell you.”
Angela strolls out from the bay, and the timing matching the foreboding lyrics of “Double Bubble Trouble” by M.I.A. have me full-on smiling, ear to fucking ear.
“We’re about to get it,” I murmur to my friends.
“Get what?” they both ask, but I don’t answer because I don’t know either, just that we’re in for it.
With one hand in her pocket, my wife lifts an eyebrow a few feet away from us, and greets, “Boys.”
She’s in a tailored black three-piece suit with a bright white shirt underneath and a skinny black tie disappearing below the vest. Her sleeves are pushed up to her elbows and her hair’s secured in a messy bun, keeping her from looking too polished. Oh, and instead of actual dress shoes, she’s rocking all-white Adidas Originals. Professional attire’s never been my thing.
Even though I already know the answer, I gesture at the costume I’m really hoping she didn’t rent ’cause I want her wearing it again and again and again, and ask, “Who are you supposed to be?”
“The boss,” is all she says, earning soft laughter from her friends.
“Is that what I am?” Since we’ve been together I’ve been someone’s boss, even hers up until I left Pop The Hood.
The corners of her lips finally pull the slightest bit upward. “Not tonight.”
My cock swells instantly, to the point of fucking pain. I want her. Now. Always.
“Shiiit,” Marc says.
“Okay, Angie, enough with the drama—”
Everybody but Beck scoffs.
“—tell us what we’re doing here.”
“You know how you all accused me of—”
“Angela.” She doesn’t need to say it. We all know what happened and there’s no chance of any of us ever forgetting it. The day we accused her of cheating on me will haunt all of us…forever.
She gives me a long look before continuing. “Well, tonight you get to make it up to me.”
Angela twists at the waist, catching the eye of the DJ and giving her a nod.
Just as “Circus” by Britney Spears replaces the current song, Angela faces us again. Smirking, she says, “Shirts off, boys. You got a show to put on.”
“What does that mean?”
The wives grin at each other, but Angela’s the one to answer, telling us, “You’re on car wash duty.”
“What?” my husband chokes out, his chocolate eyes round.
“It’s cold!” Beckett protests.
“So do ten pushups or something,” Paige tells him before I can. “Then get your ass in that bay and get to work.”
“Bentlee?” Marc cocks his head at his wife, dropping his chin an inch to look at her seriously. “I’m not stripping for a bunch of women.”
The three of us already talked about this. While Bentlee’s the only one that’s been cheated on, none of us are exactly okay with other women fawning all over our husbands, especially while they’re only partially clothed, but…they still need to be taught a lesson. So we came up with a way around our discomfort.
“It’s only your shirt,” she tells him. “It’s part of your performance.”
Paige hands her drink to Bentlee, and unzips Harley’s baseball backpack already stuffed with provisions. Taking out the three LED masks, she turns each one on before distributing them to Coty, Beckett, and Marc.
“What are we supposed to do with these?”
Paige answers Coty, saying, “Wear them. Over your face.” She even demonstrates how to put the masks on properly like a flight attendant showing how to buckle the seatbelt, all exaggerated motions and overly pleasant expressions.
I have to bite my lip through the whole presentation to keep from laughing.
“Then what?” Beckett deadpans, making Paige frown disapprovingly at him like he wasn’t listening at all. To be fair, he probably wasn’t.
Stepping forward, I explain the situation as well as the rules. Eve’s Hallowed Tunnel is about fear and fun. We want those going through the car wash tonight to get scared by the three masked men spread out in the bay, yeah, but them also being shirtless adds a completely different layer to the experience, one us women don’t typically get, particularly on Halloween when females are the ones expected to dress skimpily to both provide and fulfill men’s fantasies.
“So I was right. It is Eve’s Haunted Tunnel.”
Coty and Marc chuckle at their friend.
“Really, it’s not,” Paige says mockingly. “Now strip, baby. We don’t have all night.”
“Really, we do,” Beckett snarks right back. “It’s Femme Fatalloween or didn’t you get the memo?”
“She’s right,” I say, eyeing the steady row of cars waiting to go through Eve’s Hallowed Tunnel. “The line is only getting longer.”
Through heavy sighs, the men remove their jackets and shirts, goosebumps on their skin quickly replacing the material.
“Don’t forget your props.” Paige digs into the bag again, this time pulling out a tire iron that she gives to Marc. Next, she passes Coty the bat. My husband doesn’t use a bat in his every day job but the image of him scaring off my immoral boss with one has stuck with me these past ten years and I figured this was the perfect excuse to see him wielding one again. And while he’s shirtless?
Tonight’s gonna be a good night.
“What about me? What do I get?”
Bentlee points at the shovel in Beckett’s hold, saying, “You already got it.”
“To dig your own grave. You know, for snitching,” I say with wide eyes and a finger to my throat as I pretend to slice across it.
“Fuck!” he bursts. “I already told you, it was mostly Marc.”
Marc only flips Beckett off because we all know that’s not true. Beckett took one little morsel of information and let his imagination run with it. I may have forgiven him, all of them really, but I haven’t forgotten.
Of course Beckett puts up a fight about what color he wants and forces Coty to switch so he can have blue while Coty has the purple. Since Marc has the mask with the red Xs over the eyes, he doesn’t pay them any attention, just studies his own as he turns it over in his hands.
“We do this and we’re even?” he asks, glancing up at me with those gray eyes.
I nod, then wave a hand out to my side, beckoning them toward their posts inside.
After looking at each other, all three men put on their masks.
“Ride it,” one says, but with the masks I’m not sure who, just that the other two repeat it, then all three bump knuckles before moving past us.
Once they’re out of earshot, Paige murmurs, “Wait until they find out we’re making them do this all over again next year,” causing Bentlee and I to finally let out the laughs we’ve been holding in.
“One Way Or Another” by Blondie starts up.
“Definitely,” I agree before adding, “But one of you has to get upset with them next time.”
“Me!” Paige shouts with her hand up in the air and everything. “Make-up sex is the best.”
“I don’t know who’s worse…you or him?”
Paige says, “Him,” at the same time Bentlee says, “Her.”
We share another laugh, the smell of the sweet, almost burnt, kettle corn thick in the brisk air as we glance around us, savoring the moment. The moon hangs heavily overhead, closer to the earth than usual, like it wants to join in on the fun, too. Sorry, tonight’s ours.
With “Bad Girl” by Night Club pumping, Bentlee and I go our separate ways while leaving Paige in the lot to oversee the vendors and direct traffic. Bentlee heads to the payment kiosks out back to help anyone that might need it. It’s all pretty self-explanatory though, so she’ll mostly be reminding drivers what station to turn their radios to so they can listen to the same music the DJ is playing.
I quickly float between all aspects, making sure everything’s ready, then I open the auto-roll door and let the first car into the bay and on to the conveyor belt. One of my hourly associates, Synth, is stationed at the entrance, already armed with a spray gun, so I go over and take the gun on the other side, and we immediately get to work, hosing down the car just like we would any other time, soaking it from front fender to rear end.
Once we’re finished, Synth looks at me.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I nod and tell her, “Send ’em.”
She pushes the button that activates the conveyor belt, and the car full of squealing women starts rolling forward.
As soon as the side washers kick on, spinning against the vehicle’s exterior, the sound coming from the interior increases significantly, and I can’t help but grin imagining when the hotties carrying weapons will pop out and really affect the car’s occupants. I know what each of those men look like shirtless, so this should be good. Hopefully not too good.
Maybe we should’ve had an ambulance on-site…just in case.
“Carousel” by Melanie Martinez echoes through the tunnel from the other end, filling the humid bay with a nearly palpable suspended anticipation.
The screams spike, then wane before spiking all over again, this time with a tinge of excitement mixed in with the fear.
My lips spread and I uncross my arms. Good boys.
We keep the cars coming, sending each one through at a pace the “performers” can keep up with. The screams never get old and neither does the music.
Before I know it, two hours have passed. The bottoms of my pants, the front of my shirt, and the roots of my hair all damp, I break away, passing a stool with my suit jacket strewn over it haphazardly.
Marc backs up from his spot behind the foam jets and almost collides with me. He gives me the same headshake I’ve seen him give his kids when they mess up, except I can’t see his face to know for sure, so I ask him, “What?”
He just points up, I’m assuming at the song currently playing—“WAP” by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion.
“It’s a car wash,” I protest, laughing…not as hard as I laughed when I added the song to tonight’s playlist. It is fitting. And judging by the honks, claps, and whoops of praise, I’m not the only one who thinks so.
The fruity scent of the foam clings to my back as I move on, venturing deeper into the occupied bay. Beckett’s on the other side of a car on the belt, taking his role seriously as he shifts his shovel between hands while peering through the passenger windows. Even though I know and love Beckett, seeing him do his routine gives me the creeps. Both of them actually. With or without their shirts, they’re still creepy enough to get your heart racing. At least mine is.
The tip of a bat suddenly freezing midair in front of my face has me stopping in my tracks to regard the man—the shirtless man—holding it. Drops of water cling to his exposed pecs and abs, making me so thirsty I could lick each one clean here and now.
“Can I help you?” I ask instead.
“Who’s in charge around here?”
I arch an eyebrow at my husband, reminding him, “You’re looking at her.”
“Do I get a break? I’m hungry.”
“Maybe I can get you something. What are you craving?”
Unable to see his eyes, or any part of his face for that matter, it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but then he cocks his head, giving me a pretty good idea.
Stretching his arm out, he hooks the bat around the back of my neck and uses it to drag me forward, closing the distance between our bodies.
“Same thing I’m always craving…”
I open my mouth to guess something ridiculous like plain oatmeal, the kind he thinks is disgusting, but he cuts me off, saying, “You.”
My pulse hitches as my chest rises and falls, brushing Coty’s with each labored inhale.
“Is that so?” I side-eye the car rolling by that he should be scaring right now before remembering the security cameras above us. We’re frickin’ surrounded.
Coty shoves his free hand down my waistband, right past the vest and shirt tucked in there, and pushes inside my panties, fingering my already aching clit.
“Coty,” I scold weakly. We may be surrounded, but it’s dark, and Coty’s angled us out of the car’s view just enough for them not to see his hand down my pants.
He shushes me, whispering, “Just a taste.”
Moving lower, he rubs his fingertips along my slit, finding me wet and ready.
His fingers disappear far too soon, then he’s bringing them up to his mouth, licking each one.
“Thanks for the treat,” he says after he’s done, and I scoff. If he wants a treat…
I reach out below, stroking Coty’s rock-hard cock through his jeans. He groans, thrusting into my hand, but I pull away just as quickly, spinning out of the cage his bat and arm were providing.
Heading toward the door that leads inside, I say, “My office. Now,” without looking back.
He better listen.
My body buzzes the entire way to my office, and just when I’m unlocking the door, the hallway light goes out, making my heart thunder inside my chest.
For a split second I wonder if someone else is in here, but then a tingle runs up my spine, and I smile to myself as I push the door open, leaving it ajar after I step through.
Quickly slipping off my shoes, I undo my pants, and push them and my panties down my jittery legs, leaving a trail of discarded clothing on the floor in my wake, then I prop my bare ass on my desk. Within seconds, a dark form fills the doorway.
I lean back, holding myself up with both hands behind me.
“How’d you know it was me?” Coty asks as he surges forward, kicking the door shut with a booted foot. His chin drops as he takes in my position, then he tosses his mask aside. Even in the dark, it’s hard to make out his expression, but I’d know those mocha-swirl eyes anywhere.
“I told you, I can feel your eyes on me.”
Soft thumping from the speakers outside fill the silence between us.
“You got me here. Now what do you want me to do?” he asks, his voice a raspy plea. He’s dying for me to give him instructions.
I spread my legs as wide as they’ll go, and give the only command I need to: “Eat.”
The song’s beat picks up rapidly and Coty releases the bat, shooting across the room in a blur of shadow and desire before it even hits the floor.
Dropping to his knees in front of me, his tongue touches my pussy the same time the bat’s metallic tings ring out, then he’s eating, full-on eating. Licking and sucking and kissing, Coty uses all of his mouth to eat all of my pussy. Needing more pressure, I bend my knees, my heels digging into his flexed back below me. One of my hands tangles with his hair, and I hold him to me while I thrust up off the desk’s edge. Coty sticks his tongue straight out and lets me fuck myself with it, his groans spurring me on as much as his hands under my thighs helping deepen my drives into his face.
“Coty,” I pant, scared he can’t breathe, but his nails bite into my skin, keeping me in place. “Coty,” I warn more in my throat than out, and the growl he gives in response, pushes me over the edge, my orgasm rocking through my entire body as I ride the shuddering wave in a moment that somehow feels suspended in time.
Oh my God.
My knees fall out to the sides, and just as my ass touches the desk again, my body transforming into molten jelly, I’m hefted up, held tightly to a firm, sweaty body.
“I think your break’s almost over,” I try telling him, but Coty doesn’t laugh, just presses my back into the wall. With quick jerky movements, he loosens his jeans enough to free himself.
“And I think my wife wants my cock.” Said cock gets two long pumps, Coty’s knuckles grazing my pussy lips as he glides his fist from base to tip expertly.
Through a hiss, I make myself ask, “Is that so?”
After a brief pause, he says, “You tell me. You’re the boss.”
Lowering myself until the tip of his cock nudges my sensitive opening, I tell him, “Your wife wants your cock. Fuck me with it.”
Gently, he pushes inside, every inch of him sliding in, then back out again.
Gripping his damp chin, I meet his eyes. “Your wife only wants your cock. Fuck. Me. With. It.”
Through the dark, I still manage to make out my husband’s eyes darkening a second before he slams into me, eliciting a moan I feel reverberate down to my toes.
Coty fucks me against the wall, hard, fast, and loud, and when we both come equally hard, fast, and loud, there’s only one thing left to say.
“Happy Femme Fatalloween.”
Until next year.
©A. Marie 2022