by Red Hammond
But this one was his type. Reminded him of Divinity with her smallness. Georgia was pouring it on, rubbing against him. “Please, please, oh god, please…”
Hopper closed his eyes and reached under her skirt, took hold of her cotton panties and tugged them down, listening to her say “Yes, that’s it,” as she helped him by shaking her legs and letting the underwear fall to the floor. So wet she was dripping. Hopper slid his fingers across her pussy, her clit, and she nearly fell over wheezing. She held on, rubbing even harder now.
“I need it now. I need it. My ass, Hopper, my ass.”
He worked his pants with one hand while fingering her with the other. He wet his fingers with her juices and then smeared them on her asshole, lubing her with his thick middle finger. “You need more?”
She scanned the shelves before her, a bunch of bar snack accessories, and handed back a half-full bottle of vegetable oil. “This’ll work?”
“Do you have a condom?”
“I’m on the pill.” She was lying. And why would she say that if they were going to ass-fuck? Naïve kid.
Hopper’s pants dropped and his dick sprang free of the fabric, slick with pre-come. He opened the bottle and took another look over his shoulder. Nobody watching. The visiting team must’ve scored on the TV. One of the men said, “No defense.”
Georgia readied herself by resting her leg on the second shelf, bending over some, grabbing hold for dear life. She cut her eyes towards Hopper’s hard cock, a look of wide-eyed wonder. She still wheezed.
“Asthma?” Hopper asked.
She nodded, swallowed, said, “I have an inhaler. I’m okay for sex. It doesn’t bother me then.”
He said, “You ready?”
She giggled. “I can’t believe you asked me that.” She did the booty roll thing with her ass again, something she must have picked up from music videos, Hopper thought.
He took hold of her waist, aimed, and pressed himself into her swollen, dripping asshole. The wheeze that came from her almost made him come right then. He was gentle. He could tell this was a bit much for her. She’d most definitely had it in the ass before, but probably from smaller pricks when she was drunk at a trailer park block party.
Before long, he’d found a nice slow rhythm that she seemed comfortable with, the slapping skin like babymaking R&B music, the background noise of sportscaster chatter and Georgia’s wheezed dirty talk: “I love your cock in my ass. Jesus, that hurts. It hurts…so…gooooood.”
He was thinking of anything to hold off his orgasm, wanting to give her something to remember. Thinking of today’s case, the guy who tried to intimidate him—Ernie—and the way Isaac reacted to “Hottie Mommy,” a glance at his computer. That’s what he did, Hopper finally getting it. Unconscious, maybe the kid was thinking Hopper already knew and was playing Columbo on him.
Isaac had looked at his computer.
“A little faster, baby. Not so deep.” Georgia fingered her clit while Hopper pounded away.
Maybe the Hottie Mommy thing was a chat room handle? But the girls had told him she was a Hottie Mommy. More than one? He had a splinter of an idea, but he would need Divinity to look it up when he got through here.
The thought of Divinity got him going. He imagined her standing behind him, cupping his balls while he slammed this tiny bartender. Kissing him beneath his arms, such a short girl, encouraging him to let it feel good, that he was allowed to feel good when he fucked. So many times he felt like shit.
“Shit, I’m coming, I’m coming!” Georgia said, pretty damned loud. A quick glance at the bar—no one, but Hopper’s vision was bouncing, his glasses greasy. The girl wheezed in a deep breath and then let out a moan like she was crying over a boy band. “Fuck me hard, now, I’ve gotta have this one!”
He let her have it—BANG BANG BANG, and all the squishing that went with it.
“Fuck, Hoppeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrr.”
He even felt when she came, the gush from her hitting his legs, splatting to the floor. She was weak in his grasp. That’s when he couldn’t take it anymore and he let loose inside her, pulling out and letting his seed string and stretch until it snapped and ran down to the floor. Georgia sank to her knees and pulsed it out of her ass. Hopper cleaned himself with his shirt tail. After another minute, he eased over and put his arms around her. She turned to face him, an exhausted, sweaty, but lovely smile on her face as he pulled her into his chest.
“I’ve never been taken like that before,” she said. “You must’ve done something special.”
“Shush, now, doll. Be a good girl. Like I said, I don’t even know you.”
“You know, I won’t mind sharing you if you’ll promise to come back and see me again.”
“That’s not you talking. That’s whatever it is I did to you. Please.”
“I can’t help who I want to be with.”
Hopper imagined he wouldn’t be back here again for a long long time, wished he had left sooner. She didn’t deserve him—a bastard who fucked everything. She deserved a special guy, even if she liked playing the slut. It was Hopper who deserved the slut, and he had found her already. Divinity. He deserved Divinity.
“Put your panties on, sweetie. I’ve got work to do. Are you going to be okay?”
Georgia wheezed again, pointed across the room. Hopper pulled his pants up and walked over to where she pointed. Her purse by the fire extinguisher. He rushed it over to her, and as he expected, she pulled out her inhaler and took a few squirts. Hopper moved behind her on the floor and propped her up until she calmed down.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll be better than fine, wishing I could have you with me again tonight.”
“Sorry, you know I can’t.”
Sigh. “I know. I just…wish.”
“You can still work? You need to wash off?”
Georgia laughed. “Here? If you haven’t noticed, the place already smells like shit. You go on, do what you need to do.”
Hopper arranged himself and stepped into the front room, the sportswatchers averting their eyes, probably crying in their beer. He left a message on Divinity’s cell: Let’s meet in an hour.
As he hung up, he heard one of the guys mutter, “Fuck and run. What a dick.”
Hopper stared him down. The guy went dead silent. Hopper made his footsteps heavy. When he was directly behind the son of a bitch, he clapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Treat her right the rest of the afternoon. If not,” he squeezed the guy’s shoulder, fingertips grinding into muscle, “I’ll find out.”
The guy nodded. Hopper turned for the front door.
Hopper pushed open the Pub’s door and stepped out into Sahara heat and sunlight that made him squint and feel dizzy. He turned towards his car and barely saw the two-by-four swinging toward his head.
It struck and burned and every muscle hurt. Whiplash. Hopper hit the pavement. The strikes came—two, three, four—on his head and shoulders. Cleared his vision right up. He shaded his eyes with his arm and caught a glimpse of Ernie the Charming Goon wielding wood and waiting for Hopper to get up. Another man was with him, a tall guy who looked like a TV actor, in a double-breasted navy chalk-stripe. He held a digital camera. A careful step closer to Hopper, then he dropped to a crouch. Hopper whiffed expensive cologne and sweat.
“Mr. Garland, I’m Alex Michel, and I’m Ernie’s attorney. I’m here to make sure you don’t assault him again as you did earlier this afternoon.”
“Him? What about me?” Hopper felt his face swelling.
Michel shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My fucking face, man!”
The lawyer stood. “You’re not my client. He would like to have a word with you.”
Ernie rushed forward and took another swipe, Hopper’s ass getting the full force this time. Hopper scooted and curled into a fetal position, afraid to roll over, trying to find a chance to get up. Eyes sharp for a weapon—a bottle, another board.
“I’d adv
ise you to stay still and listen. Any attempt you make to injure my client will be recorded.” Michel held up the digital camera. He pressed a button and it beeped.
Ernie said, “Once I break your nose, maybe you’ll listen to my offer again. I’m not asking much. Simply for you to back off a case no one wants you on.”
“Yasmin’s sister wants me on it. Must be important if it’s got you going.” Hopper was pretty sure there was a splinter in his ear.
“My client offers no response to that. Mr. Garland, it’s in your best interest to let the authorities take care of this matter.”
“If you were on TV, you’d say ‘Screw the police.’”
“We’re not on TV.”
Ernie took a shot at Hopper’s ankle, but Hopper moved it quickly and the board thudded to the concrete.
“Stop that!”
Ernie pointed a finger. These two were made for Broadway, Hopper thought. “We don’t need you playing private eye. It’ll make things worse. Trust me, there’s not a case here. I tried to tell you before.”
“The rich kid sent you, right? The babydaddy? Just tell me that much at least. His folks are protecting him. They know something.”
“Silly conjecture,” the lawyer said. “Absolute fantasy.”
“We’ll see. If I say I won’t give up, what’s next? Killing me?”
Ernie turned his head to the counselor, who looked thoughtful for a few moments before saying, “Whatever it takes. I don’t see a thing.”
He started to walk away at the same time Ernie lifted the board for another shot. Hopper grabbed Michel’s leg and yanked him, sunk his teeth into the lawyer’s calf.
“Holy shit, get him off!” Michel tried to get away, snapping pictures as he did. “Assault! Battery!”
Ernie landed a few blows to Hopper’s torso. Hopper kicked him in the knee. Not enough to drop him, so he did it again and again and again until there was a loud crack and the little punk collapsed.
Hopper scooted away. Ernie looked way too red, serious damage done. The lawyer was trying to keep the blood on his leg from ruining his suit. Michel said, “He might be diseased. Look what he’s done.”
“I…need an ambulance, Alex.”
The lawyer looked at Ernie, then at his leg, lifted slick wet fingers from where Hopper had broken skin and torn jagged holes. He shook his hand, wiped it on his sock. Still not good enough. He one-handed the digital camera and took some shots of Ernie.
“We’ll take this lightweight down, Ernie. He’s finished.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Ernie said, seething between clenched teeth. “I want a fucking ambulance.”
Hopper was finally losing the stings of the two-by-four, getting his bearing back, when more trouble walked out the front door of the Pub and ogled the scene. The sportswatchers.
“Can you call 911? We’ve been attacked. Hold that guy. Don’t let him leave,” Michel said, pointing to Hopper.
Before Hopper could defend himself, the men were headed his way. He looked left, right. Goddamn it, why is this alley litter-free? When they were standing over Hopper, one reached a hand down. “Need a hand?”
The other turned to the lawyer and said, “We watched the whole thing from the bar. We’ve got windows, you know.” Chin nod towards Ernie. “That one got what he deserved.”
“I didn’t do a thing to him,” Ernie said.
The sportswatchers traded This is fun looks and the talker answered, “You’re kidding, right? You kicked him when he was down. Sure enough. That’s how I remember it.”
Michel tried to pull his sock up enough to cover the bite. Only got a couple dents. He gave up and crossed to Ernie, a ginger eight steps or so. Ernie appeared to be disoriented with pain.
“Can you walk? We need to get out of here,” Michel said.
“I told you already—a, m, b, u, l, a—”
“I’ll drive you to the hospital, it’s faster. Now, can you walk?”
Hopper watched them fumble around before telling the guys, “Thanks for that. I owe you.”
They helped him up, the quiet one saying, “She told us to do it. And, look, two on one ain’t fair anyway. We’re settled.”
“Maybe one beer?”
“She said we can drink free the rest of the day if we helped. Remember, we don’t like you. No need for us to get all friendly now.”
“Sorry.”
The other said, “I’ll give you credit—you cracked the shit outta that guy’s knee.”
Hopper grinned. Michel had helped Ernie up, one-legged, draped the punk’s arm over his shoulder and walked towards a black Chrysler 300. They looked like two old men.
Back in the car, Hopper took a peek at his face—cheek ballooned out, half his mouth purple. Dried blood on his earlobe. He felt like a prisoner of war. Next time he wouldn’t be facing Ernie. The kid had probably beaten down some wannabes before, but his stock would drop after fucking up this job. No, next time they’d send guys with guns and pliers and rubbing alcohol. Sickos. Hopper’s job was about to start sucking worse really soon.
He checked his watch. Still on schedule to see Divinity. Wished he looked better, didn’t want her to worry. She punished him when she was worried about him—usually cut him off for a while. Usually ended up in bed with a couple other guys, swilling frozen margaritas and fucking away her fear.
A few blocks from the office, rolling along Decatur with the windows down, Hopper got a call from Divinity. She wanted to meet at her dorm room instead of the office.
“Two trips to that dump in one day is a bit much,” she said.
Maybe, but Hopper was sure she’d done it before without complaint. This was something else. Hopper got the code: My roommate is gone and I’m horny.
“You okay with that?” she said when he didn’t say anything past Hm.
“I’ll be putting you to work. You’ve got time?” No sex, please.
“More than enough. And energy to burn.” There’d better be sex, you prick.
Hopper sighed. “Soon as I can break out of traffic.”
She said, “Can’t wait.” Hung up.
Hopper’s stomach ached. He hated disappointing her. He thought about her naked. Got a little stirring from his tired tool. He tried thinking the thing he didn’t like: her fucking frat boys. She’d detailed a few of those encounters one night. Pissed Hopper off. Got him hard like a monument.
It didn’t work so well this time. He was too tired, too frustrated, and he hoped she would wipe his face with a cool cloth and make sympathetic noises. He needed that so bad. But Divinity, most of the time, wasn’t that type of girl.
By the time he pulled into the parking lot at Divinity’s dorm at the University of New Orleans, his cheek and ear were still throbbing, although not quite as much. Sharp to the touch. Another look in the rearview showed him in bad shape. He needed recovery time. Only the first day of the case and he already had death threats, beatings, and jailbait on his plate. He adjusted his crotch, his dick trying to shrink the more he willed it to grow.
The student workers at the desk knew him on sight and buzzed him in, told him Divinity was waiting for him, doing an imitation of a gentleman’s club hostess. He headed for the elevator and heard the usual whispered chat among the girls in the lobby:
“Such a nerd, but what a man”, “I’d do him. Can you believe how good he smells?”, and “D’s told me how good he is. In her all-time top three.”
Not number one? Hopper thought.
Her floor. Her door. He knocked, heard the girlish, “Come in! Come on!”
He pushed it open, closed it, and saw his tiny smiling secretary laid out on her bed in a satin nightie, barelegged and barefoot, but her smile vanished and she hopped up, fingertips gingerly brushing his cheek.
“Who did this? What the hell?”
“It’s been a bad day.”
“The case? Your sister? Angry boyfriend?”
Her fingertips were nice but the nails stung, so he eased her hand down, sat on
her bed. She paced in front of him. Hopper said, “Somebody knows we’ve been hired. I’ve got some black belt punk warning me off.”
“You let him do this?”
He glared, said, “I thought you believed in me more than that. Think I cracked his kneecap.”
That got the smile back. “Good going. Fuck him up.”
“He brought his lawyer with him. We’re talking serious money behind the scenes. They had great cars.”
Divinity waited for him to say more. It hurt to talk, so Hopper shrugged. He wanted her to offer a washcloth, some hydrogen peroxide, something to take the sting away.
Instead, “Too hurt to, you know?”
He kept his head low. “It’s been a tough day in other ways as well.”
That took some of the good feeling from the air.
“Can you get a washcloth, please? Warm water?”
She went to the bathroom, a shared one between two of the rooms. Hopper always felt too big and too bad for this room. Divinity was totally alternachick, with the posters for bands Hopper had never heard of—Rilo Kiley? The Cramps? Death Cab for Cutie?—and her prized original movie poster from Rocky Horror Picture Show, signed by Richard “Riff Raff” O’Brien. He’d accompanied her to at least a dozen showings.
Hopper had never met the roommate, but her side leaned conservative. A couple of kitten posters, a very orderly bookshelf with science texts and sci-fi novels. A collection of DVDs including box sets of The Lord of the Rings and Star Trek: Voyager. Hopper imagined a thin girl with glasses who dressed in sweaters and khakis, pageboy hair, round glasses. For someone as open as Divinity, Hopper wondered why she had not introduced him to “Emily.” A little jealousy? Maybe she could live with him taking on the faceless girls on the job, but not with the person sharing her space day and night. It would knock her down a peg. She needed her sex goddess mystique intact—big fish, small pond.
That caused him to grin, shooting an ache through his nerve endings. Divinity was back, inches in front of him, a warm wet cloth across her palm. Her toes lapped over his shoetips. A glance at her nightie gave her away—she’d taken off her panties while getting the washcloth.
