by Evelyn Glass
I put Becky in the backseat, laying her down flat and covering her with a blanket I sometimes use when I working on the underside of the car. It’s oil-stained and reeks, but it’s all I’ve got so it’ll have to do. I cover her and go to the front seat, start the car, and cruise through Brooklyn toward a mob-owned motel that runs around the clock as a safe house for the Family. I don’t hear sirens, which is a good sign, but that don’t mean sirens won’t come screaming down when I’m out of hearing range. The girl stirs a few times in the back, mumbling and whispering in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake. The city is alive, people hanging about on the street, drinkin’ from brown paper bags and shouting and hollering.
After around twenty minutes of cruising, I reach the motel, which is a squat, ugly place with a neon sign which should spell out The Restful Inn but which spells out The Resin instead. I pull up to the toll-booth-type entrance, where a security guard sits readin’ a porno mag. A gruff man, one I vaguely recognize, a Family man with a teardrop tattoo under his eye. “Passcode?” the man says.
“Rat bait,” I mutter. “’Cause that’s all some of these bastards are. Fucks.” I recite all this careful, making sure I don’t miss a word. The gruff man nods—gruffly—and then opens the gate.
I park the car around the back, out of sight, and go and collect my key. Returning, part of me hopes that the girl would’ve woken and decided to run. It’s a fuckin’ mess. And yet, I’ve gotta admit, when I see that she’s still there, part of me is glad. It’s a confusion of purpose that doesn’t usually happen to me. I swallow, forcing down whatever it is, and carry the girl to the motel room. She wriggles in my grip, nuzzling into my chest, but she doesn’t wake up. The motel room is surprisingly okay, with heating, an en-suite shower, a flat-screen TV, but there’s only a single bed. I think about going back and askin’ for another, but that’d mean explaining about the girl, and I don’t reckon I’ve got the energy for that right now.
I drop her onto the bed and lock the door behind me. I keep expecting for sirens to surge all around the motel room, for boys in blue wearing masks and bulletproof vests to bash through the door shoving guns in my face. But it doesn’t happen. I’m just bein’ paranoid, which it’s always better to be in this life. DNA, DNA, DNA…it echoes around my goddamn head…Prints, prints, prints…Should’a worn gloves all the time, fuckin’ stupid mistake. I sit on the edge of the bed, the girl moaning and rolling over behind me, massaging my temples and tryin’ to let the events of tonight drift away. There ain’t shit I can do about it now apart from rest up and be ready for the next fight. I never usually have a problem with that. Usually, I can just distance myself from whatever shit went down and forget all about it, just like flipping a switch for lights out, but tonight it’s damn hard. I glance at the clock and see that it’s eleven o’clock. Glance again and see half an hour has gone by with me just sittin’ here thinkin’ about how fucked I might be.
I go into the shower, blast myself with water washing away the blood and the grit, and then take a T-shirt and shorts from the dresser in the corner. It’s stocked full of men’s and women’s clothes in all sizes, one of the benefits of a mob-owned safe house where the visitors’ clothes are more often than not covered in blood. By the time I’ve changed, Becky is a bit more awake, but she’s still lolling her head. She seems drunk. I reckon it’s tiredness and shock and maybe whatever drugs they gave her all rolled into one. She sure did seem fuckin’ freaked by all those dead bodies, which shocked me for a second. I’ve been lookin’ at dead bodies so long they’re just like a piece of furniture to me, but most folks ain’t like that. Most folks aren’t soulless.
“I’m dreaming,” Becky tells me, lying on her back, eyelids flitting open and closed. “All of this is a dream.”
“We need to get you cleaned up,” I say, standing over her.
I’ve been tryin’ to distract myself from the warehouse all night, but nothin’ does it like lookin’ down at this sweet piece of ass. Goddamn. Small, pert breasts, the straps of her pink bra visible where her dress is torn, long, skinny, well-defined legs, flat belly, pale skin, cute elfin face with a button nose. Goddamn, but it’s making me horny just lookin’ at her. I can see why Julian wanted her now. Who wouldn’t want this sweet piece?
I reach down and start undressing her, partly ’cause I need to since there’s blood all over her, even under her clothes where it’s seeped through, and partly ’cause I wanna see those pert tits and get a look at her cunt. She lies there, giggling, as I strip the clothes off her. “You’re a bad boy,” she whispers, but she’s not even close to be fully awake. I remove her dress, and then pull her underwear down, which is flecked with blood, and then remove her bra by flipping her over. When she’s naked, I help her to her feet and lead her into the shower. Her breasts are so sweet and fresh that they don’t sag even one bit, nipples even paler than her skin, and her cunt is shaved and cute, with the lips tucked neatly away.
“You’re covered in blood,” I tell her, gettin’ the shower running. She’s twisting here and there in my grip, but she manages to stay standing. Once the water’s heated up enough, I help her into the shower and blast her with the water.
“Ooh!” she squeals, waking up a little more, but her eyes still closed most of the time. Blood swirls down the drain, her skin washing clean, turning her back into a sweet, young girl. But girl…she was old enough to get given away to pay off some debts, and she’s sweet to look at. The kind of girl whores wish they could look like, and spend plenty of years trying to pretend they are. Lookin’ at her naked, tight body is gettin’ me damned hard anyway, so I lean forward, take the shower gel, and get my hands lathered up. “Ah, Chance…”
I rub my hands over her breasts, rubbin’ the shower gel in. Her breasts are fuckin’ fine to the touch, fleshy and juicy and pert as fuck. I keep rubbin’ ’em, watching as her mouth makes a cute O. Don’t know if she’s makin’ that face at what I’m doin’ or somethin’ she’s dreamin’ about, and truth be told, I don’t give a damn. I push her tits together, and then rub the gel over the rest of her body, paying special attention to her ass. I lean her forward a little, so her ass sticks out. It’s a fine ass, an ass made for spankin’, the sort of ass I could imagine drilling into as she moans like she’s bought and paid for. Once I’ve covered her, I turn her back around—she mumbles, but follows my movements—and then I reach down and cup her cunt. She makes another moanin’ sound at this, and even rocks in my grasp a little, pressing her clit into my hand. I rub it for a few minutes, likin’ the way it makes her arch her back and gasp, but mostly just likin’ how tight and fresh it feels, a proper tight cunt. I think what’d be like to thrust into a cunt like that.
Finally, I take my hands away and let the shower wash the lather away. When the last of the blood is gone, I help her from the shower.
“You’re naughty,” she murmurs. “That…ooh…you’re bad.”
I towel her off, makin’ her giggle some more when I rub her tits and her ass, and then take her into the bedroom. She’s conscious, but still sleepy, still lolling in my arms. I find a baggy T-shirt and some sweatpants for her, pull ’em on, and then sit her on the edge of the bed. Maybe the gentlemanly thing to do would be to give the woman the bed, but when you live the hitman’s life, you’ve always gotta be thinkin’ of the practical thing, not the gentlemanly thing. And the practical thing here is that I need the rest that comes with the bed. If someone bashes through that door, I’ve gotta be as well-rested as I can so I can defend us. If there’s killin’ to be done in the morning, I don’t wanna be all achy and shit from the floor. So I go to the drawers and pull out all the blankets, making her a pallet on the floor, and then toss a pillow from the bed down there.
I help her to it, lay her down, and then place her head on the pillow. All through this, she moves with sleepy motion, but she keeps murmuring nonsense at me.
When she’s settled, I go to the window, take my pistol, and sit on the sill glancing out of the curtains. I’
ve never been one for protecting a woman. I usually meet some whore, fuck her until I’m drained, and then discard her before even learning her name. But with Becky, I don’t know, it’s like I wanna do both. Fuck her brains out like a whore and protect her. I don’t fuckin’ know why. Maybe it’s just thinkin’ of her in that warehouse with those crazy fucks. Maybe it’s ’cause I’ve never had to kill a woman. The woman thing is a funny one. I never gave it any thought before tonight, never made any special big deal about it, but now I think on it, I must’ve always had somethin’ in me that was against the idea. There’s been a couple’a times when one of my marks’ whores saw me clip him, and by rights I should’ve killed her, and yet all I did was say some scary shit and leave, reckoning she wouldn’t say a word. I never told any of the Family about it, so I must’ve known it was wrong.
Is there somethin’ in this cold dead black place I used to call a heart? Is there really somethin’ left in there? Or is just that she’s got a cute face, a cute ass, cute tits and a cute cunt? I really have no goddamn idea.
When it’s two o’clock in the morning and no one’s attacked us, I take the bed, glad I made her sleep on the floor.
I need the rest.
Chapter Seven
Becky
I wake lying on the floor, murky autumn sunlight coming through the curtains. It takes a moment for the events of last night to become real. So for a few blessed moments, I just lie here, telling myself I’m aching because of the way I slept—in my own bed, in my own bedroom—and that today I’m going down to the studio and to do some painting. Yes, that’s what I’ll do, and then I’ll go down to the local college and ask about details for enrolling in an arts course. I’ll quit my job at the bakery—part-time now anyway since Dad promised me to that old perverted man Julian—and become an art student. Maybe I’ll become an illustrator…
Then I hear the shower in the next room and I remember that all of that is a pipe dream, remember what happened last night, a night which seemed to last for years. I roll over, working out the kinks in my body, and then remind myself that it’s better to be achy lying on blankets in a motel room than being achy lying on a cold concrete floor. Closing my eyes, I find myself reliving the moments of last night, which I immediately push away. I focus on other things instead, like how Chance touched me last night.
Did he know I was awake? Did he think I wouldn’t remember? I should be outraged. I really should be outraged. Part of me is. How dare he! And yet another part—a part I wasn’t sure existed until last night, when that random, crazed lust came over me—loves that he wasn’t sure if I was awake when he did it. He just did it. I remember how his hands felt on my body, efficient, grabbing, but I also heard him growling from the back of his throat. He was loving it, loving how I felt. I remember when he grabbed my pussy, his palm pressing into my clit, the pleasure moving through me. Without giving it any thought, I lie back down and slide my hand under the sweatpants. I’m not wearing any underwear. When my fingers find my pussy, they instantly get wet. I’m soaked just thinking about the way he touched me.
I remember how he turned me around, and how I followed his movements because I was so tired it was either that or stumble to my knees, and he just bent me forward and smoothed his hand over my ass, lathering the shower gel into it, but really just massaging it for his own pleasure. I remember how, as he was rubbing it, sometimes his finger would slide in between my ass cheeks and brush against my pussy. I suck my fingers, making them wet, and then slide two of my fingers deep into my wet pussy, blotting out the memories of last night, all of them except his hands all over my body. I keep thinking: He just touched me. He just touched me and didn’t care how I felt about it. I should hate him for that, but I find it incredibly sexy, me just bending and twisting for him, him just taking what he wants. I was putting on a show for him without even really trying.
I slide my fingers in and out of my pussy fast, loving how hot and wet it is already, far hotter and wetter than it’s been for any other man, in fantasy or reality. Then I slide my fingers out and press them against my clit, closing my eyes tight and focusing all my attention on remembering the feeling of him just casually cupping my pussy. I try and picture it: muscle-bound, serious-looking Chance with his hand casually pressed against my clit, growling with lust without even realizing it, not giving a damn if I even know what he’s doing. It’s so dirty, so bad, so wrong, that I—And then I feel the orgasm gathering and I know I can’t stop, even if I want to. Even if any moment Chance could walk in on me…maybe I want him to walk in on me.
I twist and writhe in the blankets, causing them to wrap around me, causing them to swaddle me. The pressure in my clit mounts, feeling like a wave of pleasure gathering just beyond my fingertips, waiting to be released. He touched me, groped me, rubbed my ass and grabbed my tits, all whilst I was semi-conscious. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and yet it feels to right, right, right…Arching my hips, the orgasm hits me. I rub my fingers with mad speed, pumping my arm, dragging my fingers up and down my pussy, the friction so hot now I feel like I’m on fire. I picture one image: me, bent forward, with Chance’s palm pressed against my clit, imagining that my fingers are his fingers. The pressure mounts—and then the pleasure is released, surging through me, causing my legs to vibrate spasmodically, euphoria flooding my head and making everything else disappear for a few precious seconds. I sink into the pleasure, burning, blankets sticking with sweat to my skin. And then, slowly, it abates, and I’m left lying on the blankets, panting.
After a moment, I lean up and look at the bathroom door. It seems like hours have passed lost in the pleasure, but the shower is still on, the door still closed. I disentangle myself from the blankets, removing my hand from my pussy, and try and figure out exactly what the hell is going on with me. Sitting up, leaning against the wall, I bring my knees to my chest and just sit here thinking, all whilst I hear Chance washing himself in the next room, my mind straying to what he might look like naked…
No, I tell myself. No. What the hell did I just do? I’ve touched myself before, of course, and I’ve even had a few men touch me, but that was before I was promised to Julian. But I’ve never imagined I would be into kinky stuff like a man fondling me when I was almost passed out. I wouldn’t be, I reason, if it was anybody other than Chance. But he saved me and—well, he’s handsome and sexy in a dark, kinda scary way. He reminds me of a jaguar, the way his movements are like stalking, big-cat movements, the way his eyes are full of violence and pain and yet, I’m sure, a little humanity, in that speck of blue in the dark brown. I’ve felt lust before, many times, but it’s always been tame, regular, vanilla lust. Never anything like this. I try and figure this out for a long time, why it would turn me on so much, but I just can’t settle on an answer. Maybe things like that can’t be properly answered, anyway. Maybe there are things going on in my body that just can’t be explained.
So my mind turns to other things, like how Dad sold me to Julian so that he could take my virginity. The thought makes me sick the more I think about it. I wonder, since Chance is a Family man, if I’ll now be turned back to the Family, to Dad, and he’ll give me back to Julian. Julian gave me to those men, I’m sure, but maybe he’ll want to have me to himself now his first plan—whatever sick plan that was—has failed. Julian is a disgusting old man and only wants me because I’m the typical Good Girl, because I’m a virgin. Ever since I was promised to him a few months ago, all I’ve heard from Dad is that I better not be partying, I better not be seeing boys, I better still be a virgin. Basically, I better spend the rest of my life being the Good Girl or there will be trouble.
I remember coming home tipsy one evening and Dad waiting in his armchair, staring at the door, drinking a glass of whisky. He’s never hit me, but that night I thought he might. “Where’ve you been, out drinking with your whore friends?” When I lied and said no, he jumped to his feet and ranted and raved and broke drawers and roared at me that the Capo won’t want damaged goods, that I have
to stay safe, have to remain the Good Girl, until the twisted wedding day. Sitting here, head still light with the release of my orgasm, I realize the only way to truly mess up Dad’s plans, Julian’s plans, is to stop being the Good Girl. Maybe this is just an excuse to act in a way I’d never normally act, or maybe nineteen is just too old to be pushing away lust at every turn, I don’t know. All I know is I’m sick and tired of people telling me how to behave!
Even so, I feel scared as I stand up and go to Chance’s bed. What if he thinks I look silly? What if he laughs at me? What if he knows about Julian wanting me because I’m a virgin? What if I really did dream last night and he has no interest in me in that way? I’m so nervous my mouth goes dry, my legs begin to shake, but I’ve spent so long letting my nerves, Dad’s expectations, the Capo’s disgusting desires get the better of me, I think it’s time I acted on my own desires—even if my own desires might be as confusing as all the rest of it.