Embarrassed, Tony did a few quick glances around the bar. “That’s outta order, mate.”
He needn’t have bothered. Nobody was watching.
“So’s not serving customers.”
“I didn’t see her.”
“She’s hard to miss. Prettiest thing in this place.”
The girl sniggered. “That’s a backhanded compliment.”
“I’m gonna jump over the bar and give Tony a fuckin’ backhand if he doesn’t get a move on.”
Tony flinched. He lowered his head, so that he didn’t have to look at Tommo, and approached the girl. “Sorry about that. What would you like, miss?”
Whilst she gave the barman her order, Tommo noticed that the regular at the other end of the bar was giving him the evil eye.
“Got summat you wanna say, Irv?”
Irv was a small scarecrow of a man in his late sixties, with raggedy grey hair and a glowing drinker’s face. If it came to a fight, Tommo would have been able to break his neck with one hand, but he knew it wouldn’t go that far – Irv didn’t have the minerals. “No, Tommo,” Irv said, shaking his head. He grabbed his fresh pint, walked away from the bar and sat down with a small group of elderly drinkers. He cast Tommo a fast glance and said something under his breath. Several of the group stared over at Tommo, but by this point he was gazing open-mouthed at the girl’s arse.
“Happy now?” Tommo said, fixing his gaze back on her face. “The name’s Tommo, by the way.” He stuck out his hand.
“Helen,” the girl said , shaking it. “And I’ve got everything I need, thanks.”
“Everything?”
She paused. “Well, not everything.”
“What else would you like, then?”
She stared at him over the top of the wine glass, making eye contact for long enough to make his cock twitch. “Depends what you got?” she said.
“A ten-inch dick.”
She didn’t bat an eyelid. “Not seen one of those in a while.”
“Well, you will tonight.”
“Promises, promises.”
“Not promising nowt, just stating cold and very hard fact.”
“Got anything else?”
“Not enough for ya’?”
She shook her head.
“’Ow about I bring one of me mates along for you to suck on while I’m pounding away?”
She pulled a face. “I was thinking more chemical.”
Tommo nodded his head. “Yeah, I get ya’. ‘Ow about enough cocoa to make Tony Montana jealous?”
The girl’s eyes glazed over. “Who’s Tony Montana?”
“Oh, just some bloke I know.”
“Can I finish my drink first?”
Tommo shook his head. “Let’s go, I’m gonna give you a night you’ll never forget.”
The girl leaned in close. “Sweetheart, after tonight, you’ll be thinking about me for the rest of your life.”
“That’s a bold statement,” Tommo said. “You better live up to it.”
“Sweetie, I intend to.”
3.
The girl was still trying to work the front door lock when she felt Tommo come in behind and lift her dress over her hips. His hands cupped her butt cheeks, pulled them apart, and rubbed his rough denim crotch against her leg. She felt his breath burning the nape of her neck.
“Hold on, sweetie, I’m still trying to get inside.”
“You and me both,” he said, breathing the words in her ear.
Tommo dribbled a line of spit on his forefinger and tugged down the back of her knickers. He used his weight to squash her against the door and pressed the spit-lubed finger against her butthole. His finger went in roughly, she winced but tried to laugh it off. “Wrong hole, sweetheart.”
“Know exactly which hole I’m looking for,” he said, inserting his finger to the knuckle. “You’ve got a lovely fuckin’ arse.”
She tried to laugh through the discomfort. “Looks like we’ve got a kinky one.” His finger was hard and rough and hurt every time he thrust it in. She tried to pull away, but Tommo pressed his body against hers, working his finger in deeper. “You have no idea,” he said.
She let out a nervous giggle. “Not sure if I should let you in now.”
Tommo leaned in and kissed the back of her neck. “Bet you love it.”
She tried to buck him off her, but he mistook her discomfort for desire and pushed the finger all the way in. “I knew you were filth the moment I laid me eyes on you.”
She gasped in pain and arched her back, but in Tommo’s head it sounded like a mini-orgasm and the cue for him to start fucking her with something bigger than his fingers. He took his finger out and pulled away slightly, moving his hand to his zipper.
The girl used the sudden space to her advantage, turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. “Open sesame,” she said.
Tommo pulled the girl towards him as they moved through the doorway. His hands snaked around her back and cupped her buttocks again. He ran his tongue along her neck, tasting the saltiness of her flesh, and his fingers slithered towards her crotch. “Are those the magic words? Open sesame. You open up when blokes say that?”
“Drinks first,” she said, pushing him away.
He reached for her again. “I’ve got summat you can drink...”
She pulled back and giggled. “Prefer something alcoholic, and then some cocoa. We had a deal.”
Tommo sulked momentarily then smiled. “Cocoa before bedtime. I can dig that.”
She switched on the lights and wandered down the hallway. “Living room’s first on the left. Make yourself comfortable. Whisky?”
“Hate the stuff,” he answered, walking into the living room. “Got any vodka?”
“Yeah, couple of bottles.”
“Let’s not go overboard, like,” he said, chuckling. “Didn’t come here for some brewer’s droop. Double’s fine.”
“Neat?”
“Aye.”
Tommo fumbled around for the light and turned it on. The room was minimal going on bare, but still managed to look untidy and dirty. There was a sofa by the window with a grubby glass coffee table just in front of it, a bookshelf with very few books and a few ugly ornaments, and a flat-screen TV that looked like actual money might have been spent on it. The room was tied together by five-foot rug with a pattern that resembled a vomit splatter. The disjuncture between her beauty and the squalid environment threw him slightly; it wasn’t how he imagined a beautiful woman would live. Tommo walked over to the sofa and sat down. Almost subconsciously, he ran his hand along the arm of the chair and studied the tips of his fingers.
He dusted a large patch of table with his right shirt sleeve, pulled a baggie of coke from one of his pockets and prepared a couple of lines by obsessively chopping and shaping them with the edge of a credit card. When he was happy with his work, he sat back on the sofa and unbuckled his belt. He opened his fly, pulled out his cock and started stroking it.
The girl entered the room carrying a couple of spirit glasses. She stopped when she saw what Tommo was doing and gave him a slight smile. “You weren’t lying about your cock.”
Tommo gripped it at the base and squeezed, enhancing its size. “I never lie to get a girl into bed.”
“You could do some damage with that.”
“Hope not,” he said. “Fancy making you scream with pleasure, not pain.”
“Then I’d better get some lube,” she replied, handing him the glass. “Especially, if you’re putting it round the back.”
The girl swigged her whisky. “Drink up,” she said, putting down the empty glass. “I’ll go and grab some KY.”
She turned and left the room.
Tommo downed his double in one gulp. He grimaced, shook his head and plonked the empty down next to hers. He exhaled loudly. “Fuck me,” he shouted. “Whatchoo put in that? Vodka or fuckin’ rocket fuel?”
“Sorry,” she said, coming back into the room. “It’s that Tesco Value stuff.
”
He made another face. “Remind me not to buy any of that shite next time I’m low on funds.”
“Alright then, I will.”
Tommo looked at the tube of KY she had in her hand. “Sounds like there might be a next time?”
“Depends on how you perform.”
He waggled his cock at her. “Slap summa that on me and we’ll find out.”
She squeezed a fat dollop into her right hand. “Christ, that’s cold.”
He pulled a face. “Better warm it up but before you grab it.”
She rubbed the lube into the palm of her hand until it glistened. “How’s that?”
Tommo frowned and shook his head quickly, like he was trying to shake away tiredness. He tried to smile, but it came off wonky. “Nice. Now come on over here.”
She approached slowly, almost hesitantly.
He shook his head again and let out a huge breath. His complexion paled, showing off the broken capillaries on his face.
The girl got on her knees and pulled Tommo’s jeans off. She ran her fingers up the inside of his thigh, brushing the skin lightly. She noticed that his cock was starting to droop and frowned at him. “You okay, sweetie?”
He flopped back in the chair. “Jesus!”
“What’s up?”
“Just come over all funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Rough as fuck, that’s how.”
She smiled. “The vodka wasn’t that bad, surely?”
Tommo puffed up his cheeks and turned several shades of white, green and back again. He sucked down deep breaths and sank further into the seat, his cock now completely limp, then his body spasmed and he made a loud retching sound. “Gonna be sick,” he said, jerking his head left and right, looking for something to be sick in.
The girl pulled away and found a small metal bin and brought it back. She held it beneath Tommo’s chin, mirroring his movements as he shuffled uncomfortably, but he didn’t follow through with his threat. Instead, his breathing slowed and his eyelids drooped, with only the occasional flicker of movement. A thin line of drool escaped his lips and dangled off his chin. He said nothing more, though he did manage an incoherent mumble before finally passing out.
As his body went slack, the girl’s expression changed from concern to contempt. She went back into the kitchen and came back with a cigarette in her mouth. She lit it and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.
“This is the only thing I’m putting in my mouth tonight, sweetheart,” said Evie Clarke, although Tommo didn’t hear it.
Evie stepped forward and slapped his face with a hard right. He didn’t stir. She pulled the blonde wig off her head, looked at it briefly and dropped it on the floor. Her real hair was dark and boyish; the wig had flattened it to her head like a helmet. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that her hair wasn’t right; a quick ruffle with her right hand was enough to put some life back into it. Only then did she look in the mirror.
Evie went back to the kitchen, grabbed her mobile phone and came into the living room again. She sat down on a tatty armchair across from the sofa and dialled a number, put the handset to her ear, waited.
“The fat fucker’s out… Well, if we’re gonna do this, then the time’s now… Well, he’s not getting any sleepier, put it that way… It’s not like we have any choice about this do we? You know what they said they’d do if we didn’t come through for ‘em… Just shut the fuck up and get here… Sweetie, if I was in the giving a fuck business I’d be bankrupt by now… I delivered at my end. It’s your problem now.”
4.
Mark Kandinsky was sitting quietly in the corner of the shop, eating his kebab, when Terry Albright walked in with his two heavies and blocked off the counter. All three were big men, like gorillas that had learned to shave and wear suits. They were too busy talking among themselves to notice him. He noticed words like heroin and Tommo and money and where the fuck is he in amidst the various other hisses.
“Now then, Al,” Terry said with a nod. “Gissa fuckin’ Parmo, mate.” He shuffled around edgily and tapped an insistent rhythm on the top of the counter. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that he was coked up. “Get us a couple for me lads too.”
Al approached the counter with the hesitant gait of someone who just wanted to run away and hide. He looked like a shadow of his former self, which meant he barely seemed to exist at all. The hollows beneath his cheekbones were deeper and darker and the bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than before. His hair was still shiny with oil, but now it hung limply in front of his eyes like dead grass. He looked thinner, more stressed, and his clothes enveloped him like a scarecrow’s rags.
“The usual, Terry?” he asked, nervously.
Terry stopped tapping on the counter and fixed Al with a cold gaze, but his voice was hot and angry. “Whaddayou think? Three fuckin’ Hotshots, pronto.”
Al displayed his prominent yellow teeth and nodded. “No probs, mate.”
“Where’s Tommo tonight?”
Al shrugged. “Dunno. Was supposed to be in but didn’t show. Not even a phone call. Didn’t even bother to answer my calls. Lovely, that is.”
Terry stiffened and his right hand made a claw. “You wanna cut the lad some slack.”
“Not when it’s his shift, I don’t.”
Now the claw became a fist. “You telling me I’m wrong, like?”
Al stopped moving as he realised his mistake. He let out a long slow breath, closed his eyes, and waited.
Terry looked like he was moments from making a dive over the counter. The heavies grabbed an arm each and shook their heads when he looked at them. Some of the fire left his eyes, his body relaxed, and he even managed a smile. He huffed loudly. “You wanna watch that big fuckin’ mouth of yours in future. That’s my fuckin’ sister’s lad, that. That’s my kin you’re talking about.”
Al remained tense, but started moving again. “Soz, Terry,” he said, putting three chicken escalopes in the deep fat fryer. He grabbed three portions of grated cheese, a carton of béchamel sauce and two handfuls of pepperoni and jalapenos, which he spread across a work surface.
Terry nudged one of the heavies and jerked his head in Al’s direction. It was obvious that they were sharing a private joke, because the heavy pursed his lips and suppressed a smile by covering it with his hand. Terry sniggered like a schoolboy and tapped the counter a few times. “How’s Danny, these days?” he asked in a tone that bordered on innocent.
Al looked up from the frying meat and stopped what he was doing. Staring into the distance for a few seconds, his eyes glistened and tears formed at the rims. He turned his head, so they couldn’t see, and wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his smock. When he turned back, his face was tight and white. “He’s fine,” he said without emotion.
“How’s his hand?”
Al shrugged. “Okay, I suppose,” he replied, taking the meat out of the fryer so that it could drain.
Terry tensed up again. “You suppose? What kinda answer is that? Suppose? I’m asking a question, Al. You know? As an interested party, and all that? Least you could do is give us some kinda fuckin’ answer.”
Al tried to smile again. His mouth pulled apart in a leer, but his wide eyes betrayed him and gave his fear away. He cast a quick glance at Mark for support, but the man was too busy stuffing a huge pitta in his mouth, slopping chilli and garlic sauce over the table as he took a bite.
Terry didn’t follow Al’s gaze. Instead, he pointed at the shopkeeper’s mouth. “Looka the size of Al’s teeth, Joe.”
Joe, the heavy to Terry’s left, dipped his huge head in agreement and said: “They are big as fuck, like.”
“Big?” Terry replied with a snort. “Cunt looks like he stole ‘em off a fuckin’ donkey.”
Al stopped smiling, raised his hand to his mouth self-consciously, and mumbled through pursed lips: “You want extra cheese with that?”
“Got any more stupid questions? Course I do. Smother more
of that white shite on it too. You fuckin’ skimped on the other day, Al. Fuckin’ proper spoiled my night, that did.”
Al shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, mate.”
“I’m not your fuckin’ mate,” Terry said. His body stiffened and his hands drew into fists. His heavies backed away, ready to let him go to work on the shopkeeper.
Mark coughed and spluttered on his kebab, spat a half-masticated chunk down on the table, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
Terry turned around and looked over his shoulder. His glare quickly softened and turned into a smile. He cocked a thumb over his shoulder and said: “Ow, Mikey. Look who it is.”
The heavy turned around and chuckled. It was a low rumbling sound that resembled an earthquake – an impression that his swaying body did nothing to dispel. “Fuck me!”
“It’s fuckin’ Beardy-Weirdy,” Terry said, sounding almost excited. “You’re becoming a bit of regular in here, mate. If I was a more suspicious sort, I might think you fancied us, like. Like a nice bit of arse, do ya’?”
Mark looked up, shook his head and sneered. “Not my type.”
“That’s three times I’ve seen you in here, now,” Terry said, nodding towards the food. “Any more of those an’ you’ll end up a right fat cunt.”
“End of my shift,” Mark said, taking another bite. “Too tired to cook. Al’s kofte hits the spot.”
“Hits your fuckin’ G-spot, more like,” Terry said, giving a knowing wink. “I bet youse are right pair of fuckin’ bum-boys when Al pulls down the shutters. Hey, Al, you like a nice bit of arse don’t ya’, babe?”
Al said nothing. He added the meat to a tray and poured sauce and cheese over it. There was the barest hint of red on his cheeks, but otherwise he was expressionless. If he’d heard the comment, he did a good job of keeping it to himself. He threw the pepperoni and jalapenos down on top of the mess on the baking tray.
“I was talking to you, Al. Ow, I was…”
It was at that moment that a man walked into the shop. He was around five-ten, well built, and looked like he needed a shave. He wore black leather gloves, which complimented his black leather jacket and black hair nicely.
Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller) Page 2