Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3)

by Greg Barth

  He awoke with an erection.

  There, in his bedroom, in the dark, he rolled over on top of Heather, his firm cock pressing into the tight canyon of her round buttocks. She was sleeping the sleep of the dead, but he thrust against her, pushing her red hair away from her neck and putting his lips to the skin there, his nose pressed against her curls, breathing in the sweaty scent of her, his erection raging.

  She awoke with a gasp.

  He spread her legs, pushed her panties to the side. He could feel the slick moisture of her labia against his fingers—she needed this as much as he did—and he plunged into her from behind, his cock a raging, pulsing need that consumed them both.

  He pushed into her slick opening and pounded against her firm buttocks for what felt like a maddening eternity. He needed to get there but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get there, he couldn’t get there, he couldn’t get there. It was an infuriating build up. He couldn’t… But then it happened—an orgasm that was just short of nuclear annihilation.

  He lay atop her, his chest against her damp back, his face in her hair, his stiff erection still inside her, not fading. They caught their breaths, and he thrust against her again.

  They kept on like this until the sun was up and their bodies were welded together with a shared sheen of sweat.

  And still he thrust into her, his hands around under her, pulling against her breasts.

  It went on like this over the course of the day until Heather finally pushed him off her, telling him she couldn’t go any more.

  Late afternoon, Mozingo rolled out of bed and put on his jeans. He didn’t shower. He kept the scent of several days’ depression mixed with the smell of Heather’s sex on his body, went into the kitchen and mixed a glass of OJ with coffee and downed some amphetamines.

  He felt nauseous and leaned over the sink, stared down at the round black drain in the stainless steel basin. The front of him pressed against the counter and he stiffened against it.

  He resisted the urge to vomit. He tried to tame his erection by reminding himself that Heather was spent.

  He would have to go hunting.

  Heather’s slick, soft opening had been nice, but what he truly craved was the unrelenting friction his cellmate Deke’s ass had given him on those long nights during lockup. Deke had been a fine bitch, and Mozingo had returned the favor with generosity.

  In the end, he put on a t-shirt, layered it with a short-sleeved, collared shirt unbuttoned down the front, slipped into his cork and leather sandals, and walked over the footpath across the hill to the lake on the other side. He had a ball gag and length of clothesline in his pockets, just in case he got lucky. The bowie knife was sheathed against his leg.

  In the afternoon light, the trees cast long shadows on the dirt, root, and leaf-strewn path under his sandaled feet. He was high on amphetamines, testosterone, and lust. He staggered along the path but, at the same time he floated over it, every stub of the toe on a root or rock painless.

  The bar at the end of the path, Castaways, was part of the marina on the lake shore. The clientele was the fifteen-cent millionaires who stayed in the townhouses across the street. They owned what was little more than apartments, but they had thirty-thousand dollars’ worth of automobile invested in front and boats tied to the wharf.

  This was the watering hole for the recent college grads still living off of trust funds with no idea what the next step was, so they fell into a holding pattern as their twenties dwindled down to their thirties.

  An occasional bass fisherman pushed up his polarized glasses long enough to wander in from the dock for a drink.

  Mozingo hated the place, but as long as he was shacked up in the house on the other side of the hill, it was his place.

  Weekdays were slow. Evenings early in the week weren’t much better.

  Mozingo sat on a stool at the bar, cracking open peanuts and tossing their hulls in a galvanized can. He drank Corona from a bottle. Lime rinds lay in the peanut can from where he had taken the green wedges and crushed lime juice around the mouth of the bottle then tossed them aside.

  A preppy kid with light blonde hair and a yellow polo shirt sat two stools down, sipping some kind of frozen fruity queer drink that looked like a bleeding sunset. The guy carried himself with the drunken swagger of someone who had about twelve too many.

  Mozingo slid his amber-lensed glasses down the length of his nose and peered over the rim of them with his soft brown eyes. “The fuck they put in that? Tequila?”

  “No, man. It’s got, like, I don’t know. Hey Ronnie? What’s in this thing?” He held his glass up, spilling some of it over the rim. “Oh, shit.”

  The pretty blonde bartender walked over. She smoothed the apron she wore over the front of her Castaways t-shirt. “It’s got rum in it,” she said. “Rum and grenadine and some juice. You want one, sweetie?”

  Mozingo tilted his beer bottle and looked down at it. “Why not?” he said.

  The drunk guy in the yellow shirt came over to him and extended his hand. “Name’s Bruce,” he said.

  Mozingo took his hand—warm, thick, and sticky. “John,” Mozingo said.

  “Nice to meet you, John.”

  “You too, Bruce.”

  Bruce leaned in closer, “Hey, you know who the fuck you look like, man?”

  Mozingo pushed his sunglasses back up in place. His eyes remained visible through the amber lenses. “No idea. Who?”

  “Fucking Bob Seger, man. Bob fucking Seger.” He backed away. “Hey Ronnie. Don’t he?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t John here look like fucking Bob Seger?”

  “I don’t even know who that is,” Ronnie said. She brought Mozingo his frozen drink and put it in front of him. “He live around here?”

  “You live down here, John?” Bruce said.

  Mozingo removed the paper tip from his straw. “Over the hill.” He leaned in and sipped from the straw.

  “Not him,” Ronnie said. “Bob Seger.”

  “I don’t think I look like him,” Mozingo said. He smoothed his beard with his fingers. “He’s got short, white hair, don’t he?”

  “No, man.” Bruce sat back down on his barstool. He had to grab the edge of the bar to keep from falling backward. “Not in 1978 he didn’t.”

  “I’d imagine not,” Mozingo said.

  Bruce leaned in like he had a secret to share. “You. Look. Like. The nineteen seventy-eight Bob Seger. Fucking youtube. Check it out.”

  Mozingo leaned in close to Bruce’s face. He could smell the rum and pomegranate on his breath. “I believe I will.”

  “What you got that big knife for?” Bruce said.

  “You know, you shouldn’t really have that big knife in here to begin with.” Ronnie wiped a glass with a towel on the edge of the sink.

  “Long walk back over the hill in the woods at nighttime,” Mozingo said. “Makes me feel safe.”

  “Lot of shit happens in these woods around here,” Bruce said.

  “What about you?” Mozingo said. “Why are you ripping it up in here so hard on a school night?”

  Bruce tilted his head forward and looked up at Mozingo. He drunkenly nodded. “Shh. I don’t want to say it in front of Ronnie here.”

  “I ain’t listening to you,” Ronnie said. “Say whatever you want.”

  Mozingo closed his eyes and nodded. A smile split his face. “Drink up. I’ve got you.”

  Bruce laughed and slapped the bar with the palm of his hand. “I fucking knew it.”

  Mozingo laughed and sipped from the straw.

  They sat and talked until it was full dark. The bar grew more crowded as working singles filtered in one at a time.

  “You about ready to beat it out of here for the night?” Mozingo said when his second mixed drink was empty.

  “I am,” Bruce said.

  Mozingo ordered them each an Alabama Slammer. They drank them down while he paid his tab.

  They stumbled through the wood framed screen doo
r at the side exit out onto the deck boards of the dock. Mosquitos hovered in the night air as they hatched from the lake shallows and were drawn to the lights of the bar. Mozingo stopped to adjust his sandal while Bruce unzipped and pissed into the lake from the side of the dock.

  “You play for both teams?” Mozingo said.

  “Girls are just as good as guys in my book,” Bruce said. He shook himself and zipped his fly. “Variety’s the spice of life.”

  “Okay, just checking. ’Cause I’ve got a girl back at my place. She’s alright, good in bed and all. But I’m about done with her.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Mozingo removed his glasses, folded them, and slipped them in his breast pocket. “I don’t know. Maybe we surprise her? She’s into some kinky stuff.” Mozingo pulled out the ball gag and clothesline from his pocket and held them up.

  Bruce laughed, leaned over, and slapped his knee. “Holy shit,” he said. “I love that shit.”

  “Cool. What I figure we do is, we get closer to the house, I make a loop in this rope, slip it around your wrists, and lead you in like a captive or something.”

  “So you two can do anything you want with me?”

  “Exactly. Then maybe we tie her up. And maybe she don’t know what she’s going to get. On account of how we’re so drunk and all.”

  “I’m getting hard just thinking about it. What do we do to her?”

  Mozingo walked up to Bruce. He put his hand on his shoulder. He leaned in and said, “Anything we fucking want. That’s what we do to her.”

  “I want to tie you up too,” Bruce said.

  “Everybody gets a turn. Come on.” Mozingo lit a cigarette and walked through the ankle-high grass. He motioned for Bruce to follow. They crossed the road to a path that led into the dark woods. “It’s kinda steep starting out.” Mozingo extended his hand. “Here.”

  He helped Bruce up the first few steps.

  “I can’t even make out the trail,” Bruce said.

  “Just take small steps. Watch out for rocks and tree roots. The moon is giving us enough light once our eyes adjust. If you trip, I’ll catch you.”

  They took careful, baby steps up the slope. They stopped to rest a couple times on the way up.

  “It’s a long way,” Bruce said.

  “Look up thataway.” Mozingo pointed. “See the sky through the trees there? That means we’re close to the top.”

  “Thank god.”

  “She’s worth it, man. This night’s going to be one to remember.”

  They continued up the slope. Mozingo pulled up short when they reached the top of the ridge. “It’s a fast walk downhill. Let’s get you ready.” He fashioned a loose slipknot on the end of the clothesline. He dangled the loop out toward Bruce. “Put your hands inside.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. I’ll keep it loose for you.”

  Bruce complied. Mozingo tightened the slipknot around Bruce’s wrists. “See? It just slips. Pull your hands apart and you can slip out. Try it.”

  Bruce practiced until he saw how the knot worked. “I think it’s better with the rope. I’m so drunk, if we got separated, I’d never find my way out of here.”

  “You wanna smoke before we put the gag on?”

  “No. I’m good. Please tell me that thing is clean, alright?”

  “I ain’t gonna tell you where it’s been, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You’re so bad. I’ve always wanted to try one of those.”

  “Just open.” Mozingo positioned the ball gag. “That’s it. Good. There we go.”

  Bruce mumbled something that was muffled by the gag.

  “Can’t hear you, man. If you need air, just let me know, and I’ll loosen it up for you.”

  Bruce nodded.

  “Okay, mister captive. Let’s go have some fun.” Mozingo gave a gentle tug on the rope, and Bruce started after him.

  It was slow going down the steep hill in the dark. They took their time. Crickets chirped and locusts clacked in the darkness. A breeze swept through the trees and cooled the sweat on their bodies.

  After they’d gone a hundred yards down the slope, Mozingo stopped. He turned back to Bruce. “You okay back there?”

  Bruce gave him a thumbs up.

  Mozingo lowered a hand and rubbed it against his crotch. “Damn, we’re gonna have us some fun tonight, old boy.”

  Bruce nodded. The best he could produce was a muffled, “Mmm hmm.”

  Mozingo wrapped the rope tight around his right hand four times.

  An owl screeched from above them. The breeze blew clouds in and the moon was obscured. The forest darkened.

  “Almost there.” Mozingo started forward again. “Be easy right up here. It’s steep and gets slick with mud. Let me go down first. The rope might tighten.”

  Bruce gave the thumbs up again.

  Mozingo stepped carefully down the steep path until he was a good ten feet away. He scuffed one sandal hard across the dirt trail and stomped his foot. He pulled the rope tight. “Shit. Shit!” he said and gave the rope a hard tug.

  Bruce fell forward down the slope and hit the trail face first. With his hands tied together, he was unable to break his fall.

  Mozingo walked up to him.

  Bruce raised his drunken head. His eyes were unfocused. A smear of blood across his forehead. The ball gag had smashed through his bottom teeth. There was a nasty split cleaving his upper lip. Bruce was trying to breathe through his nose, but his nostrils were filled with blood.

  Mozingo unsnapped the guard around the knife handle. He pulled the long blade from the sheath. “Here, man. Let me help you with that.”

  Mozingo stepped forward until he stood over Bruce’s midsection. He leaned over and pulled up the man’s pant legs. Bruce wore dock shoes with no socks. Mozingo took his knife and sliced through one of Bruce’s Achilles tendons, then the other.

  Bruce screamed into the gag. He made very little sound.

  Mozingo stood up straight. Blood dripped from the edge of the knife. The clouds parted and the blade shimmered in the moonlight. “Told you, didn’t I? Told you it was going to get seriously kinky.”

  Bruce pushed himself up with his hands. He tried to crawl down the slope.

  Mozingo turned, planted his foot on the man’s ass and pushed him face first into the dirt. “You gotta hold still for me now.”

  Bruce pushed himself back up and scooted forward on his knees. His hands were still tied together. He looked like an inchworm following the dusty path.

  Mozingo walked up beside him. He kicked Bruce hard on the side. Bruce grunted, almost expelling the ball gag. Mozingo put his foot against his hip and pushed him over onto his side.

  Bruce kicked his foot out at Mozingo repeatedly. One kick made contact. The foot was floppy from the severed tendon. When the kick landed, Mozingo heard the snap of the man’s ankle.

  “Stop. Stop. Stop, now. You gotta stop,” Mozingo said. He tried to get up close.

  Bruce continued kicking.

  “I can’t get at you the way I want to with you kicking like that.”

  Bruce bent both knees, raised his feet in a ready position to kick.

  “Alright,” Mozingo said. “Go on.” He waved down the trail.

  Bruce didn’t take his eyes off the man standing over him in the shadows.

  “Go on.”

  With slow movements, Bruce rolled over onto his stomach, pushed himself up from the ground, and resumed crawling down the trail.

  Mozingo watched him go. He fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. The flame from the lighter ruined his night vision. He stood against a tree and smoked the cigarette, listened to the shuffling movements made by Bruce, now out of sight.

  Once his night vision returned he decided he should go take care of Bruce before he managed to remove the gag. Not that it would matter any.

  When Mozingo caught up with him, he found Bruce still lumbering along the path like an inchworm. He hadn�
�t attempted to untie his hands from the loose knot, nor had he removed the gag.

  “You musta took a hard lick to your head there.”

  Mozingo walked along side of Bruce. He looked down at the man. The yellow polo shirt had pulled free from Bruce’s khakis. The skin of his back was tan. The dark edge of his boxers could be seen along his waist, sticking out of his pants.

  Mozingo held the long knife up over Bruce’s back. He took care to line it up just right. He knelt to one knee and brought the knife down hard, all in one movement, plunged the blade deep into Bruce’s back right below the bottom of his shirt. The point of the knife punctured the man’s spine. The blade found its way between the vertebrae and severed the spinal cord.

  Bruce grunted and collapsed into the dirt.

  The knife was tight between the bones. Mozingo had to pull hard with both hands to get it free. He leaned over and wiped the blood from the blade with Bruce’s shirt. He stood up and sheathed the knife.

  “Let’s see you kick now, motherfucker. Them legs don’t work so good anymore, do they?”

  Mozingo unsnapped and unzipped his pants. “That girl I was telling you about? I’m kinda jealous when it comes to her.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Selena

  IT WAS LATE. The club had closed. Ragus and I sat at a table in the empty lounge. The drinkers and the dancers had all gone home. The floor had been swept, the dishes washed, the money counted.

  Ragus had some coke. We each blew a couple of rails on the tabletop. I had a bottle of Buffalo Trace open in front of me. Ragus had a bottle of Old Vine Zinfandel and a wine glass. From the DJ booth Sticky Fingers by the Stones switched from “I Got the Blues” to “Sister Morphine.”

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” Ragus said. “Being at the end of it. Isn’t it?”

  I lit a cigarette. “End of what?” I said.

  “It’s time for us to go, kid. Mozingo won this thing. Fair and square.”

  I shook my head. “How can you just walk away? How can you let him get away with this?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say I won’t get him. I will. It just won’t salvage this business. Truth is, I don’t need it. You don’t either. You should’ve already moved on out of here. Every day’s a risk for you.”