by Layla Wolfe
Without thinking, I craned my neck extremely, somehow bending and lifting her tit so I could clamp my mouth over it.
“Oh, yeah, dude,” the guy unmistakably moaned.
That did it. Unity fell silent, holding her breath. Her mouth a hard O, she climbed on tiptoes onto the tops of my feet. The thrusting of her hips told me she was violently convulsing, and how I wished I could slide a few fingers inside her to feel the contractions. But now I needed all my wits to juggle the pace of stroking with the sharpness of my biting on her nipple.
It went on and on. She would pass out from lack of air soon. I slowed my stroking to a mushy clockwise petting, and she exhaled hugely. Then inhaled hugely. Then exhaled hugely. Now she would pass out from hyperventilating. I backed off on her boob and murmured in her ear,
“That was excellent, my little queen. You deserve a reward for all that hard work.”
“I thought I was going to die!” she cried, her voice loud even under the waterfall. “Oh!”
She must have seen the hipster, who seemed as though he’d come in his pants from the way he draped himself lazily over his woman.
“Jesus! How long have they been there?”
She was a model, baring her skin and ass for all to see, so I figured it would turn her on if I told the truth. “About five minutes. Long enough to be inspired by you.”
“Oh!” Unity twirled around, and would have grabbed my shirtfront if I’d worn one. Grasping my shoulders, she slammed herself back against the wall, bringing me with her. I had to slap a hand against the sandstone to prevent myself from smashing into her. My hard-on, slick with spunk, mushed up against her belly button charm.
Wrapping one of her bare feet around the back of my knee, she begged, “Fuck me, Tanner. Fuck me now.”
For once I wasn’t ambivalent. I knew the answer to that one. “No, Unity. This is about giving you pleasure. I don’t want to be seen as a threat to you.”
My tattooed stoner model pouted. “Look, you didn’t capture me.”
“What?”
“Capture myopathy. You didn’t make a sudden loud noise or sing opera, and I didn’t freeze to death. See? I’m okay. And look. I’m touching you.”
With this, that little minx reached boldly down and wrapped her hand around the root of my erection.
It was my turn to gasp. Both hands slapped against the rock wall, my knees folded, my head rolled back.
“Oh my fucking God,” she purred. “You’re hung like a fucking martyr. And how’d you get so wet? Did you come inside your briefs?”
“Sort of,” I admitted. When she squeezed my dick, lust rushed from my balls. I knew I’d be ready to come shortly, for real this time. “Don’t do anything that makes you feel bad.”
“I would never,” she said adamantly, lifting my entire prick out of the sopping fabric. “I’ve learned how to fight. Notice how I’m not fighting you. And now that guy’s staring at your big penis.”
Maybe she was trying to take my mind off what she was doing. But I looked at the guy, and he was indeed licking his lips, his eyes honed in on my wang. Pressing my balls to Unity’s mound, it looked like she jacked the shiny, bursting penis of a Siamese twin. The androgyny made me even hotter, and the way her hand looked so tiny, full of my bulging member, turned me on too. This queen of heaven had the talent of filling me with testosterone. My cock had never been this stimulated—my ballsac had never been so full.
Lifting her against the wall with the power of my hips, I bent to slurp at her tit. My climax was so explosive, my load splashing us in the chin.
I froze into a statue as she had, ecstatic waves of sheer bliss wracking my pelvis, my spine—my brain. Worse, Unity played my game of dirty talk.
“Oh God, that’s good, Tanner. Let go. Let my hand pleasure you. You’re a big juicy stud with a long, fat cock and you’ve got gallons of delicious cum stored up in these big balls of yours.”
With that, she manhandled my balls, hard up against my body. This urged another squirt of jizz that splashed her chest anchor.
Oh Law! This woman was fine as cream gravy and she was coaxing the best orgasm of my life from me.
At first, I didn’t notice what she murmured frantically in my ear. She milked my poor abused dick of its last drops and clung to my neck.
“Tanner, I need you to fuck me. You need to fuck me proper, so I know what a proper fuck is like. Let’s go back to my place, or to your hotel room. I want to be fucked by you.”
Despite all the little dizzying birds swimming around my head, I knew what this was about. Like someone with an addictive personality, she’d just found a new drug, and she was going, shall I say, balls to the wall with it. She was overdosing, going the whole hog, wanting the whole pie.
We needed to slow it down. So I did what any rational man would do.
Detaching myself from her clutches, I stuffed my waning dick into my wet strip of fabric and made a muscular dash for the waterfall.
I cleaved it like Hawkeye, the Long Rifle himself. As the force of the spray against my shoulders urged me abruptly down, I realized I didn’t know what was below the waterfall. Would this be the act of a bold explorer?
Unity Mitford had driven me to irrational acts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Unity
“I intervened because I have concerns,” said Slushy. “I’ve heard that you no longer wish to be a, shall we say, an administrator for the Bare Bones.”
The strange, ego-riddled dandy sitting across the table from us didn’t seem to be listening to Slushy. He was too busy taking a selfie with a jackalope on the wall behind him. “Hashtag Team Santiago Slayer!” he declared.
“Look,” said Slushy, clearly irritated, “will you just put the fucking phone down?”
The handsome devil drew himself up, dramatically offended. “I need to tweet to my five point six million followers!”
“That you’re in a biker bar?” asked Tanner.
“Yes!” said Santiago Slayer, as though it were completely obvious. He pointed over his shoulder. “It isn’t every day you get to see a jackalope!”
I frowned. Did he seriously think that was a real animal? This was the guy who was supposed to track down the university security tapes, and he wore a lavender scarf knotted around his neck. His glossy, wavy black hair was perfectly greying at the temples, and his tan looked sprayed on.
We’d agreed to meet with the legendary, alleged sicario at the Bum Steer. Slushy had interjected himself because he’d heard rumors that Santiago Slayer didn’t want to be a hit man anymore. Maybe offing strangers—I pictured him coolly shooting a cartel loser through the forehead with a silencer on his piece—and calmly walking away was getting to be a giant bore. Slushy was afraid Slayer wouldn’t bring the proper oomph to the job, I suppose. But both Wolf and Tobiah had tried to gain access to the university tapes and couldn’t. This was probably a job best done in person, by someone as suave as Santiago Slayer.
So yeah, I could see where he’d be useful, if his heart was really in it. This particular job wouldn’t involve burying anyone. So, if he’d gotten religion or morals, that shouldn’t stand in his way. This was actually a do-gooder job, uncovering a murderer and maybe taking down a fentanyl king along the way.
Slushy repeated himself, slicing the table with the edge of his hand. “Mr. Slayer, I have concerns that you’re losing your professional edge. I heard that the ATF almost tracked you down as being the administrator of the de la Juerte burials in Sinaloa because you stupidly sent your DNA to Ancestry dot com.”
Slayer glared down at Slushy. “I have every right to know about my excellent heritage. It reconfirmed that I am a finely-honed model of shining DNA, ninety-nine percent Iberian Peninsula!” He calmed down. “Besides, the ATF arrested my cousin twice removed instead. He had a very bad record of not paying child support.”
Slushy squeezed his eyes shut with patience. “Yes, but didn’t it occur to you the government would be able to get ahold of your DNA that way?”
/> “They should not!” declared Slayer. “My DNA is between me and the canals of Lisbon, me and the Roman ruins of Toledo!” He seemed to be painting an El Greco canvas with his dramatic hand.
“What’s the other one percent?” I asked.
Slayer visibly deflated, thinking about that one percent. “Africa South Central Hunter-Gatherers,” he admitted, quietly.
“That’s really fascinating,” said Tanner. “Those DNA tests only go back like three hundred years, right? Your ancestors must’ve taken some slaves from Angola or Namibia. Gorgeous area.”
Slayer still looked defeated. “The dunes of the Namib Desert come right down to the ocean at Tigers Bay, where lions can be seen sunning themselves on the Atlantic Ocean.”
Slushy held up a hand. “As interesting as that all is—I mean, I was pleasantly shocked to see I’m actually a Heinz 57 mish-mash of mainly European Jewish with dashes of Caucasus, Middle East, and Native American thrown in—“
“Cherokee?” asked Tanner.
“How’d you know? And of course, a healthy splash of the ol’ Irish, right savage!”
Now Slushy was getting sidetracked, so I asked Slayer, “Slushy said you were thinking of giving up administrating? Becoming an actor instead?”
“Yes!” Slayer said decisively. “It has long worried that tender part of my heart that I have spilled unnecessary blood in the name of righteousness.”
Tanner said, “But if it’s in the name of righteousness, what’s wrong with it?”
Slayer’s eyes became big and moist, and he pointed at his chest. “I know I have been on the right side of the war against drugs. I know I have ‘administered’ some extremely bad men.” He now pointed at the ceiling. “Never has an innocent been caught in the cross-fire when Santiago Slayer is operating! It has long been a grand play of dramatic integrity to see Slayer at work, worthy of the master Shakespeare himself! Talk about the tragedy, the drama—“
“The comedy,” inserted Tanner.
“—the grand overreaching themes of families torn apart, love gone sour, backstabbing to the utmost degree! Yes, it has been a good run for Santiago Slayer, but during my travels I’ve been in touch with many people in the business. Many people have said I would make an excellent telenovela actor in Mexico City.”
Our jaws were on the table.
Slushy was the first to recover. “So you’re out, then?”
Slayer sipped his pink lemonade through a straw. “I would not say that. You say this job doesn’t involve any administering. I simply have to convince someone—some woman, hopefully—to hand over some security tapes. That sounds quite easy, and will help hone my acting chops!” He looked sad now. It was amazing how many faces he could adopt within the space of one minute. “I do not usually get to practice acting much, when I just go in and pop someone off and leave. There isn’t much personal interaction most of the time. One time, I got into a physical struggle with a heroin kingpin. We both lost our pieces and it became a matter of hand-to-hand combat. He called me idiota and estúpido, and I called him a hijo de puta and a pendejo many times. It was exhilarating! To finally test both my physical strength and acting talent at the same time!”
“Who won?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“I did, naturally. One punch to the face and he was knocked out. From there it was very simple to toss him over the bridge.”
“You were fighting on a bridge?” asked Tanner.
“Yes. I shouted out ‘Que te folle un pez!’ as he flailed downward like a rag doll. He hit a rock instead of the water.”
Slushy frowned. “I hope you get fucked by a fish?”
“Yes. Well. It seemed appropriate at the time. How was I to know he’d land on a rock?”
“Well, then,” said Slushy. “So you’re in?”
Slayer smiled happily. “I should say so!”
Slushy stood. This was club business, so our meals were free of charge. “All right, then. I’ll leave it up to you guys to give Mr. Slayer the particulars. Just give us your word, Mr. Slayer, that you’re not going to leave in the middle of the job for a part in The Many Lives of Alejandro, all right?”
“You have my word,” vowed Slayer soberly. With more excitement, he confided in us, “Although the producers at The Many Lives of Alejandro are currently perusing my resume.”
What kind of resume could he possibly have? He seemed the type to post it on LinkedIn, so I made a mental note to check later. Of course, he was probably using another pseudonym for his acting.
We explained that in Lavinia’s last communication, she had said that she would drive Corey to the U of Arizona in Phoenix to make a delivery. We gave him the date and the make and model of Lavinia’s car, currently parked in her driveway at home. We had the license plate number. Slayer took it all in without asking questions. He made no notes.
Finally, he said, “Now. You said this Tutti Morgan pendejo was trying to convince Lavinia to drive to the Grand Canyon with him.”
We’d forgotten all about that, assuming it never happened. “Well,” said Tanner, “I guess, but I don’t think it happened. I think she took this Corey moron down to the U of A, and he somehow offed her there.”
Slayer pointed at the table as though it were a map. “I think this Grand Canyon thing is worth looking into. They have cameras at the entry gates to all national parks, so it would be very simple.”
I shrugged. “If you want. But I think it’s more likely they went south.”
“Who is the professional here?” asked Slayer haughtily.
“Do whatever it takes,” said Tanner. “Are you staying at my hotel?”
“Santiago Slayer does not do chain hotels. But I also cannot be seen with any of the Bare Bones. So I’ve found an adorable little Airbnb up in the Whiskey Slide area of Pure and Easy. Quite lovely and spacious, with a view of the sunset on the red rocks. They also provide a seaweed soak and a sauna.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking how that place was so not Tanner. I’d often wondered what his dog ranch was like in St. Louis. Anything could be a “ranch,” really. It could be a hut with a line of horrible kennels, though I doubted it, knowing his love of dogs. Or it could be like some of those TV trainers, with miles of manicured lawns, landscaping, and specially outfitted training rooms. What sort of man was Tanner, really? The kind who would not get a seaweed soak and a sauna, that was for sure.
So we bid adieu to Santiago Slayer. He sauntered down the aisle between filthy wooden tables greasy with years of burgers and fries, his hand on his abdomen as though about to bow stiffly to people. People noticed him and nodded, that was the strange thing. Maybe some were affiliated with the Bare Bones. The manager Bobo Segrist knew Slayer, and he gave him a sort of salute as he exited. Everyone seemed to have the highest regard for him. I wondered how slick and undercover he could possibly be with his lavender scarf and shiny white, pointy shoes.
“Let’s go up to my place,” I suggested, not telling Tanner why. Truth was, I wanted to suck his cock. I was ready for it. I was going to touch a man, to pay him back for the immense gift he’d given to me under the waterfall.
He didn’t ask why. “All right.”
When we went down the aisle, no one looked at us. “Why do they call you Leatherstocking?” I asked.
“Do you know Last of the Mohicans?”
“Oh, the movie is great. Daniel Day-Lewis?”
“Right. He plays Natty Bumppo, whose nickname is Leatherstocking, or Long Knife.”
“And . . . you did something like him once?”
He shrugged modestly as we rounded the façade of the Bum Steer where all the bikes were parked, mine included. “I suppose. During a big prison rumble, I made one of those hundred-yard rushes through a field of brawling men with knives to save this one pathetic guy. Guys were always preying on him because he was weak.”
“Oh, I remember that scene. He ran through hell and high water, men murdering each other barehanded, just to get to his love.” W
hat a man. And an explorer to boot. I used to fantasize about Daniel Day-Lewis in that film, all decked out in his leathers, shooting a deer with a cap and ball rifle.
“Well, right. This guy wasn’t my love, don’t get me wrong. But I was sort of his protector. We trained Puppies Behind Bars together. I don’t care a continental what anyone thinks.”
“I wouldn’t care if you were involved with another man. You’re still you. The most virile, lusty man I’ve ever known.”
Before Tanner could react, he said, “Did you leave your door open?” He’d gone ahead of me up the stairs, and now he held out an arm to stop me.
“No, of course not. Shit!”
He withdrew his new piece from his waistband and said, “Stay here.” He crept almost sideways up the rest of the stairs.
I heard nothing for a few seconds, so of course I didn’t stay there. Wolf had taken Beetle back with him to Lytton’s house where he lived. He’d returned Lavinia’s dog Diesel to Tutti Morgan because my little deck was nowhere for a dog to stay. I peeked around the corner of the door. In the vestibule, Tanner was standing over a prone figure, leveling the barrel of his piece at the guy’s head. A three-quarters empty bottle of White Ace was on the floor next to him.
But the guy wasn’t moving, so I guessed it’d be unfair to shoot him.
Stepping over, I said, “It’s Corey. Why is he passed out?”
Tanner said, “I’m guessing he was sampling his own product.”
“Fentanyl?”
“No. Ford told me that instead of firing Tutti, they stopped ordering fentanyl from him. So my guess is it’s that synthetic marijuana he was trying to ship out of FedEx. Ah, can you go through his pockets while he’s passed out? Or would you rather hold the gun?”
That was a dilemma. First, I took some photos of him to send Santiago Slayer. By then, Corey started stirring and moaning, so I quickly dropped to my knees and went through the pockets of his hoodie. Used Kleenex, toothpicks, a lighter, a crumpled pack of two cigs, a dollar bill rolled into a snorter, and an open sort of condom-looking package with a red dog on the front. Scooby Bites.
