by Stephens, L.
Max ended the call before Jake could respond.
“What the fuck was that about?” Jake mumbled to himself.
The job Max had set forth was out of the ordinary. Most of the jobs Jake had done for him involved simple surveillance or creating slash finding incriminating evidence on people. Max wasn’t a criminal mastermind. He wasn’t connected to the underworld. He paid his taxes like everyone else. Well, he paid taxes on what he hadn’t hidden away in offshore accounts. At the heart of it all, he was just a businessman, and robbing trucks and lighting them on fire definitely wasn’t a part of that, as far as Jake knew anyway. Jake’s grandfather was Max’s first ever boss, and he had been somewhat of a mentor to Max, so when Jake’s grandfather died, Max had been around at birthdays and Christmases, helping out where he could. He had offered to pay Jake’s way through college, but Jake had other ideas. Other ideas that didn’t include him going to college. Other ideas that involved, alcohol, drugs and women of loose virtue. Even though Jake hadn’t followed the typical adult route, Max hadn’t forgotten about him. In fact, he had encouraged his recklessness, paying for expensive trips to Las Vegas and New York and making sure Jake had a nice place to live. Max was Jake’s unofficial sponsor. He loved hearing about Jake’s shenanigans, but he never took part in them with him. He kept his and Jake’s lives fairly separate, until the day he called Jake and asked him if he wanted to earn a little money.
Jake immediately pulled up Daryl’s name from his recently called list on his phone, and the phone began ringing. He waited for what seemed like minutes until it went to voicemail.
“D-Dubs, call me, man, okay?” he said calmly. “It’s Jake. Soon as you get this. I need to talk you, it’s urgent.”
Jake ended the call and put his phone away as the strippers got up and walked towards him. He pulled out his wad of cash and counted out a thousand dollars and handed it to them. He wasn’t going to be responsible for who got what. One of them had taken his dick in her mouth; he didn’t want to have to say she should get less. After all, it seemed pretty obvious.
Jake poured another couple shots and knocked them back. He thought about taking the blow as well, but he thought that might be a tad gauche seeing as it wasn’t his, and he didn’t want to be on the hook for a bag of diamonds and a bag of blow. Even though he had been doing things most guys go their whole life dreaming of, he was bummed. He just couldn’t party, and he just couldn’t forget about the one woman who he swore didn’t mean shit to him anymore. He needed to go find someone to fuck all his troubles away.
@KillingJake I live a charmed life at the best of times and at the worst of times.
“My dick, like a mythical tale, Has been passed from mouth to mouth.”
Vladimir Mayakovsky:
#TooMuchToKillYa #Blequila #BonScotting #LonesomeDove
CHAPTER 36: BUSINESS TIME
Kansas City reeked of midlife crisis. There was no ex-wife crying herself to sleep. She had moved on years ago, wised up while she still had time to salvage some sort of life. The pungent stench of mass-produced body spray sucked out all the air in the booth, and it was easily identified as some stupid named body spray from Axe. She was surprised it wasn’t Old Spice, because he seemed like the type. Jill didn’t even give him the credit for dropping in to his local Walgreens to pick it up. In her mind, he got it as a Christmas gift from his son. It had come in a gift pack with a similar scented body wash.
She had found him leaning back, resting his elbows on the bar, presenting his crotch to the world. His pants seemed uncomfortably tight, and his waistline was so high there were hipster girls in Silver Lake posting it on Tumblr. He was drinking Glen Fiddich on the rocks, trying to look sophisticated but failing miserably in this establishment. She guessed he was from out of town, here for a convention, staying at the Marriott or the Sheraton, somewhere that gave points. Jill winced at how low she had fallen. She estimated the value of the cash in his wallet at fourteen hundred and some change. She imagined he had emptied his meager credit union account before he left home for the big city, and that he’d probably be late with his monthly child support, but that wasn’t her problem.
Jill was sheepish when she approached him. Another rejection and she would have to pull up Google maps on her phone to find the nearest bridge to jump off.
† For those playing at home, the nearest bridge would be the 4th Street Bridge. I’ll have “Famous Bridges From The Movies” for $400, Alex.†
Jill floated over to him, placing her body as a sacrifice to his crotch. She was doing more work than she had intended, but the night was growing old and she needed to get that W. He took a big swig of his scotch and stood upright. He was nearly a foot shorter than Jill, and he was twice as wide. His name turned out to be Joe, and in a stunning turn of events he was a print salesman from Kansas City. He motioned towards an empty booth in the corner. There was no V.I.P. section here, just a line of booths and a tiny dance floor for anyone who was drunk enough to wander out to it. The waitress stood at the booth. It wasn’t clear if she was ready to take their order or to kill herself right there in front of them.
“What would you like to drink, darling?” Kansas City asked Jill as he caressed her thigh under the table.
“Champagne of course,” Jill beamed.
“Champagne it is. A bottle of your best champagne, my dear,” Kansas City beamed, trying to match Jill’s enthusiasm.
“Right away,” the waitress said. “Would you like to start a tab?”
“Yes, yes of course,” Kansas City said, taking his hand off Jill’s thigh to hand his card to the waitress.
Jill looked at the card and gave a slight eye roll. She hated when she was right, especially about guys with no real money. He returned his sweaty palm to her thigh, this time a little higher than before. Jill had taken the brief moment his hand was away to cross her legs, so when he inevitably returned his hand, he would have limited access to her vagina. Jill smiled pleasantly at his groping and made small talk with him. She knew how to keep the conversation light. It was crucial to her plans that he felt smart. The waitress arrived back at the booth and placed the glasses on the table. They weren’t champagne flutes—not in this establishment.
“Would you like me to pour?” the waitress asked evenly.
“Totally, that would be awesome!” Jill said, feigning enthusiasm.
The waitress rolled her eyes and poured the champagne as Jill cuddled into Kansas City.
“Thanks, babe,” Jill said, turning her head away from Kansas City as he leaned in to kiss her lips. Without skipping a beat, Jill grabbed the two glasses of champagne and handed one to him.
“Let’s toast this bitch!” Jill said as she lifted her glass up.
The waitress hid a smirk as she slinked away, and Jill cringed internally with every exclamation she made. The Valley accent was over the top, but the out-of-towners loved it, and it worked every time.
“Sure,” Kansas City said, lifting his glass. “What would you like to toast to?”
“To us, babe!” Jill said, keeping it light.
“To us!” Kansas City said, clinking his glass with Jill’s.
The bottle of champagne slowly emptied as Jill fended off Kansas City’s busy hand. She could feel a bruise forming on her upper thigh from where he was trying to wedge his fingers in between her legs.
Jill poured the last mouthful of champagne from the bottle into Kansas City’s glass and helped him guide it to his mouth. He was visibly drunk, sweating profusely and slurring his speech. Sensing the empty bottle, the waitress appeared at the table.
“Everything going okay here?” she asked Jill.
“Oh, we’re just fine,” Jill said, nodding towards Kansas City who was slipping in and out of consciousness. “He’s just had a little too much to drink.”
“Oh, that’s a pity,” the waitress said sarcastically. “Should I call a taxi?”
“That would be sweet, if you did!” Jill said, oozing sugar.
The waitress turned and waved over the burly bouncer, who quickly strode over to the booth.
“We need a taxi,” the waitress said, using her eyes to point out Kansas City.
“Of course, one moment,” the bouncer said, reaching into the booth and grabbing Kansas City by the shoulders.
Kansas City snored as the bouncer pulled him from the booth.
“Don’t forget this,” the waitress said, slipping Kansas City’s card into his pocket.
The bouncer frog-marched Kansas City out of the bar and into the street as the waitress turned back to the booth and started clearing away the glasses and the empty champagne bottle. Jill had already laid out a stack of Kansas City’s cash on the table.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you around here,” the waitress said with a holier-than-thou smile. “I thought you’d up and got married to some rich guy!”
“There you go,” Jill said, ignoring the waitress’s obvious barb. “Three for me, two for you, one for the bartender and one fifty for the taxi driver and the bouncer. There’s also an extra twenty for that horse swill you call champagne.”
“Seems a bit light, sugar,” the waitress said.
“Please, he’s from Kansas City, I would have been surprised if he had enough on that card to cover the champagne,” Jill said putting her cut of the money in her clutch. “I assume you didn’t run it.”
“Of course not,” the waitress said, folding up her portion of the money and putting it in her cleavage. “How many times have we done this routine before?”
Jill shrugged her shoulders as the waitress walked away from the booth.
“Till the next time, Danni,” the waitress called over her shoulder.
Danni. That was the name on her first fake I.D., and Jill had been scamming under that name ever since. Jill was her real name, but only the big fish knew her by that, and only because she needed them to put money in her bank account. When it was just a cash transaction, it was Danni, Danielle, Tracy, Angel or Amber.
The money she had pulled from Kansas City’s wallet was well short of the fourteen hundred she had estimated, and with the abundance of one-dollar bills at the center of the billfold she assumed he had made a visit to the strip club at some point during the night. Jill had told the waitress her personal cut was three hundred dollars, but it was more like six hundred and forty-two dollars, which wasn’t bad for a couple hours work. Poor old Kansas City would be deposited in a taxi and driven around the city for twenty minutes before waking up at the police station. The taxi driver would say he had picked him up down the street from the strip club and when he had reached the destination he had found the passenger was too wasted and had no money. Jill’s marks had never come back to haunt her. The roofies she slipped in their champagne would help with the drunken appearance and the eventual memory loss.
Jill got up from the booth and pulled down her skirt, but not too far. There were always one or two guys looking at the situation thinking they were hotter than the guy with his paws all over her, and they might want a shot at the title themselves. She could feel the eyes in the darkness assessing her as she walked to the door. Even though she had done her best not to, she had gotten a little drunk from the champagne, but it had been a tough day after all. With her head high and the W securely in its win column, she began to walk out the door. She turned her head one last time to the darkness of the bar to give that one last shot to anyone with the gumption, but the next thing Jill knew, she was on the floor, her legs spread and underwear on show for all comers. The blood rushed to her head as the fury washed over her.
“You keep that face any longer you’re going to get some wrinkles,” the asshole said as he looked down at her.
With her head turned, Jill hadn’t even seen him when he came in the door, knocking her to the floor.
“Give me your hand,” the asshole said, reaching down to her. “I’ll help you up.”
Jill ignored his hand. Her heels battled her, but she found her way to her feet and pulled her skirt down to a semi-respectable level.
“So, you hate me now, or what?” the asshole asked with a smirk.
She could see him now. He wasn’t super good looking, and Jill had seduced way hotter guys, but he did have a look that she found intriguing.
“You’re not going to say sorry, asshole?” Jill snapped.
“I’ll buy you a fucking drink,” the asshole said, motioning to the bar. “That’s a hundred times better than some forced sorry.”
“What?” Jill demanded.
“Come on, stop being such a cry-baby,” the asshole said, walking to the bar. “Come have a drink with me.”
CHAPTER 37: LAST EXIT TO WESTLAKE
My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness.
― Dalai Lama XIV
After returning from his phone call, David had barked at the waiter to bring another Jack and Coke and the check. To Sarah, he could be as much of a jerk as he wanted because she had a choice, but being a jerk to waiters was something that she could not handle. He had also drunkenly argued with the manager over the price of the check, and to make matters worse, if they could get any worse, he had spilled his drink all over himself as he gesticulated wildly. Sarah was glad neither of them were celebrities as they would have surely ended up on some entertainment website or even worse, TMZ. She put an end to the whole ordeal by grabbing the check from David and handing it to the manager with her credit card inside. David, being the absolute gent that he was didn’t offer any more argument. He just announced he was going to get the car from the valet and left her in the middle of the restaurant. The movie star from her acting class looked at her and gave her a brief acknowledgement that she existed, even if it was out of pity. Sarah gave him a smile and a head nod. She just couldn’t catch a break, not even when she had actually caught one.
She made her way to the bar and ordered another martini while she waited for the check, if only to get herself away from the spotlight and the crime scene that was her life. After slamming the martini down and being sure to tip the waiter and the bartender well, she walked out of the restaurant into the cool L.A. night.
She pretended she hadn’t seen him stiff the valet guy as he got into the driver seat. He didn’t even bother to reach across to let her in. He just sat there with his hands at ten and two waiting for her to get in. The spritely valet guy saw her dilemma and ran around and opened the door for her. She palmed him twenty dollars without David seeing. He was too drunk anyway and so was she. It was a terrible combo. Her thoughts flashed through happy scenarios where she and David died in a fiery inferno that made her a trending topic on Twitter for a few hours, followed by a final cameo in the Emmy’s “In Memoriam” montage. It actually brought a smile to her face as she watched the world blur past on the drive back to her house. She didn’t even notice her dress riding up as he gradually made his way higher and higher up the inside of her thigh. By the time Sarah looked down, they were stopped at a green light being honked at by the cars behind them as David greedily rubbed her clit through her underwear.
It was definitely the martinis. He hadn’t romanced her, or even been cordial for that matter. What he thought he was doing was not even close to what he should have been doing. It was almost laughable and she derived less than zero pleasure from it.
“The light’s green, David,” Sarah said with a slight head nod.
He took his hand away and drove forward before the light turned red again, leaving the cars that were honking behind them furious and stuck for another rotation. Sarah let him return his hand to her inner thigh. She assumed this was his Neanderthal way of apologizing. He wasn’t much of a lover to begin with. The best sex they’d had was at the start of their relationship and had been passionate but brief. She had hoped it would improve over time, and after a while it did. And then she found the receipt for a prescription of Viagra. Once the pills ran out, so did his hard-ons, and since she didn’t want to bring up the ugly truth, she just let the sex retu
rn to being short and not so sweet.
He mauled her like a rabid dog as they entered the front door, and she hoped he didn’t have whiskey dick because that would have been the icing on the shitty cake that was her night. David got to his knees and began to eat her out as she stood against the hallway wall. He didn’t even try to remove her panties he just forced them to the side and rammed his chin into her pussy, his tongue desperately looking for anything that resembled Sarah’s clit. She protested that she wanted to take it upstairs to the bedroom where she might be able to enjoy it, where she might actually be able to get naked and lie down instead of having to stand on one leg and have her underwear dig in to her, but this was David at his best. This was David doing something for someone else, a grand gesture, so it should be on his terms, even though the beneficiary had no say in how the present was delivered. He took her protests as the go-ahead to stop giving head and to fuck her, even though it had only been thirty odd seconds of his tongue in the general vicinity of her clitoris.
The sex—because that’s what it was: not fucking, not love making, just robotic by-the-numbers sex—was a bigger travesty than the restaurant, the valet, the drive home and the brief oral sex in the hallway all put together. He stood up and stuck his fingers into her pussy, holding her like a human bowling ball, trying to practically launch her down the hallway to the kitchen. Sarah played along. She was drunk. There was a part of her that was trapped, screaming for her to stop, but her drunken self wanted to see how this panned out. She didn’t have to wait long to find out. He bent her over the kitchen counter, almost hitting her head on the cabinets above, and lifted her dress. Seeing as it was about his enjoyment now, he pulled her underwear down to her knees— he didn’t want her underwear to reduce the feeling of his cock in her pussy. Sarah looked over her shoulder doubtfully as he fumbled with his dick, trying to make it hard. She was about to give up and turn around to get on her knees and give him what he did not deserve, when she felt the head of his cock enter her pussy. But that was all. There was no shaft or pelvis banging into her; it was just the head of his cock and his fist wrapped around the rest of his dick banging on her labia majora. Thankfully, he wasn’t trying to put his fist in her as well. He was just trying to force blood to the head of his cock so at least some aspect of it was hard. He smashed away at her pussy, with one or two inches of his cock going in and out of her, and she tried to garner some pleasure from his fist accidently bumping into her clit, but, in reality, she had gotten more pleasure from her last gynecological examination. Eventually his cock did start to get hard and it wasn’t long after that that he started his usual “I’m about to cum” breathing and panting. Sarah had given up by then. She was already thinking about what she had to do tomorrow and if she should upgrade the kitchen with her newfound money from the role she hadn’t even gotten yet. Barely ten shallow thrusts later, David howled as he pulled out and began furiously jerking off over her back. He hadn’t even pushed her dress up further; he had just cum on it. It seemed his cum was actually the icing on the shitty cake that was her night.
