Boon of My Existence Ch. 01 of 03

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."

"I'm asking now."

"Who are you, and where's the real Kira," he spoke half into his pillow.

"So I'm in a mellow mood. I'm still reveling in that wall treatment. For a brief moment, I'm reconsidering killing you."

"I guess I shouldn't complain, huh?"

"Right," she replied, scraping her short nails roughly down his side, hurting him only a little.

He moaned as he rolled onto his side. She rose off of him so he could sit up. "I have an appointment," he said as he stood and took a couple of steps to the dresser. He pulled open the second drawer to retrieve an intact pair of blue jeans.

"Still in the charity game, huh," she asked.

"Yeah." He took out a pair of underwear as well. He always wore underwear when he worked.

"How long you gonna keep me waiting this time?"

"Well," he said in a brighter tone, "it should take only about half an hour, but if you want to help, it might go faster." Before she spoke, he added, "The drive out there will take an hour, though."

She thought a moment as she watched him get dressed, and then responded. "Okay. I've never seen you work. It might be interesting."

"Actually," he said again, "this one should be right up your alley." He turned and walked back to her and grabbed one of her bare breasts in one hand.

"Do tell." She smiled raising her face to meet his lips in a kiss.

He broke from her. "When we get there," he said reaching down to pick her leather top up off the floor for her. He handed it to her, she took it, and he looked at his clock on the bedside table. It read 4:56 AM. "We have to leave in just a few minutes."

"This is okay to wear," she asked, referring to her small leather outfit.

He sat on the bed and began putting his socks and boots back on. "There will be clothes waiting for us."

"Sounds exciting already," she said, putting her top back on. It was all she had taken off, so she was ready to go, instantly, but then she thought and said, "If we're taking your bike, then I'll need a jacket."

He stood and grabbed his older leather jacket off the coat rack in the corner. He handed it to her and said, "this should suffice."

She took the jacket and held it up, looking it over. It was worn but still intact. "Grow out of it?"

"Not physically," he replied, walking around the bed to the other side of the room to take a t-shirt out of the closet.

She slipped her arms into the slightly oversized coat, then held one side up to her nose and inhaled the old scent of him while he wasn't looking. She didn't want him to think she was going soft on him.

He picked his jacket up off the floor at the foot of the bed, put it on, and she crawled off the bed as he opened the door.

He let her walk out first, and all eyes were on them, again. The drunken guy was sitting in a chair holding a cold beer bottle to the back of his head. When he looked up to see them walking out, he stood and rushed over.

"I've had it with your ass," the drunk shouted. He was going to say more, but Stryker put his hand flat to the guy's chest and shoved hard. The guy rose off the floor about six inches and flew backwards, arching through the air. About eight feet later, he crashed down onto a table then slid off the other side and onto the floor.

"I'm going to work, Brody," Stryker said to the bartender.

Brody didn't say anything. He didn't even nod, not that Stryker would have seen it, since he was already going towards the door.

They approached the last table and the man sitting there looked at Stryker saying, "Are we still on next week, Mike?"

"Sure thing," Stryker replied in passing.

"Is that you're name, then," Kira asked as they pushed the doors open to leave the bar. "Mike?"

"Yep," he said, swinging his leg over the motorcycle that stood just outside the entrance. He kicked up the stand.

"I always had a feeling it wasn't really Stryker." She straddled the seat behind him and rested her hands on his hips. "So, why the alias?"

He turned the key that was already in place and thumbed some switches, saying, "Stryker was the nickname of a former friend of mine, back then. He decided to borrow a large amount of money in my name, and then decided not to ever pay it back, and then he skipped town. So, basically, I decided to adopt his name until I had left Venezuela." He began to roll the bike backward, turning the handlebars to stop parallel with the building.

"That's a mildly interesting tale, if it's true. You sure you didn't just have bad taste in names you chose for yourself. Nicknames aren't uncommon for our kind, you know, and I've heard some stupid ones."

He put his foot on the starter and paused, looking half way back to her. "You didn't seem to have any problems with it."

"No," she said. "I suppose not. There was something about it I liked, though I couldn't quite figure out what, at the time."

"What was that?"

She leaned closer, put the side of her lips to the shell of his ear and whispered, "Just think about it a while," then she sat back again.

He looked forward, slightly puzzled, and started the motorcycle, not giving the matter too much thought. As he turned the grip to accelerate, the bike took off, and he felt her hands move from his hips to the front of his stomach. After about ten minutes into the ride, she was pressed close to his back and occasionally rested her head on the back of his shoulder.

It was odd to him that he should feel so good with her. Odd enough would be that he felt this good with anyone, but it was virtually incomprehensible that he should feel like this with one of his own kind.

Though she didn't make frequent appearances, she always showed up unexpectedly, completely surprising him, and the mixed feelings that rushed through him in those first instances were of such an intensity, it was almost like a drug high that increased with every visit.

He was always filled with a combination of fear, shock, apprehension, and worry. But also there was joy, relief, excitement, and lust like he'd never experienced. He wanted to spend all his time with her, but there was always that one problem of her trying to kill him. Fortunately she had an exceptional sense of honor, when it came to him, and that, as well as what he felt was unbelievably good luck, has kept him alive to blindly pursue something resembling a resolution that didn't involve one of them dying.

He was totally lost for what to do, of course. They never seemed to spend more than a couple of days together, and there was still so much about her that he didn't know. He was not even sure if it was wise to let her know how he truly felt.