El Malo

by K. Webster

  “N-No, p-please,” he begs.

  Ignoring him, I walk over to the far wall and pull down my rubber apron. I slide it over my head and tie it around my back. The putrid scent of piss fills the air and I groan. Thank fuck the little shit is sitting over a drain. When I’m done with him—whenever that might be—I’ll hose him down and all evidence of our fun will slide down the tiny hole at his feet.

  “I can get you the money.”

  “You didn’t, though,” I say as I unbutton my cuffs and start rolling one sleeve up.

  “I needed m-more t-time, Señor Estrada.” He sobs. “P-Por favor.”

  He begs and pleads as if this will sway my decision. I roll up my other sleeve to my elbow and then walk over to the toolbox. “You know how things work, hijo de puta.” I hold up a hammer and inspect it in the light before setting it down. “You obey or you don’t.” I pick up the pliers. “Sencillo.” Simple.

  “Not simple,” he argues, his voice reaching shrill heights. “M-My wife. She would have killed me for t-taking the money from our savings and—”

  “I. Will. Kill. You,” I roar as I stalk over to him. My Gucci leather shoe splashes in his piss puddle and it makes me want to grab him by his thinning hair so I can punch his fucking skull in. Dealing with this motherfucker was not on the agenda. Hours ago, I had my finger inside the tight pussy of a beautiful woman. Had this asshole not fucked up my day, who knows where I would’ve gotten with her. But now I have to go get back into the car with her smelling like this dickhead’s piss.

  “I promised my bodyguard I’d bring him a souvenir,” I say with a manic grin. “I wonder what he’d like. A finger? A toe? Your tongue?”

  He trembles, but there’s nowhere for him to go. His wrists are bound behind him and tied to the chair. Each ankle is tied to a leg of the chair. I lift my leg and step on his small, limp old man cock with my soiled shoe, pressing it into the chair beneath him. He howls in pain when I dig my toe forward, smashing his balls too.

  “Please d-don’t cut off my penis,” he begs, snot running from his nose over his salt and pepper mustache.

  “Oh, Velez, such little imagination. You’ve been watching too many American eighties movies. I’m not the bad guy from a Sylvester Stallone movie. Nobody is coming to save you. You’re not going to free yourself from your bindings and punch your way out of this shit.” I playfully slap his sweaty face. “And I’m not going to cut your little pecker off. I don’t have my tweezers with me to find the damn thing,” I say, my lips turning up in a predatory smile. “The things I have planned for you are much more violent.”

  “N-No, please! I have money in my safe at my office. The code is 87654. Take it all. Just take it all.”

  I let up on smashing his cock and balls and step away from him. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone. I hold up a picture of his wife. “I talked to Val.”

  “Don’t hurt her. She’s innocent,” he chokes out.

  I laugh so hard tears spring to my eyes. “You fool. You fucking fool. Your sweet wife is not innocent. You should have heard the swear words coming out of her mouth when I told her about your little addiction. At first she didn’t believe me, but I showed her the pictures. The latest kid. He’s what, same age as your son?” I shake my head at him. “Your wife gave me the money.”

  “W-What? She paid you to protect me from my shame?”

  Another dark laugh. “No, Velez. She paid me to make you fucking suffer.”

  His eyes grow wide with horror. “She wouldn’t.”

  I flip to the video recording of Val. She’s destroying his home office and screaming. Tears stream down her face. When I told her how many boys and the extent of her husband’s perversions, she cracked. Went fucking mad. In the recording, she turns her tearstained, hate-filled face to the camera. “I hope you suffer,” she hisses. “I hope you suffer slowly.”

  I end the recording and pocket my phone. Velez sobs. Val is packing her shit as we speak and moving out of the city. Nobody, not even in a crime-ridden city, wants to be associated with that sort of horror. Even fucking criminals have to draw the line somewhere. That makes Velez the lowest of the low.

  With my back to Velez, I whistle to a new Luis Fonsi song I heard at the club last week as I choose a long, thin wire from my toolbox. Once I’m satisfied with one that’ll do the job, I turn and face the piece of shit. He’s purple and practically hyperventilating. I keep whistling and dance my way back over to him, careful not to splash in his piss. Squatting in front of him, I push his laughable, urine dripping cock out of the way and grab hold of his big-ass balls. He squeals like a goddamned stuck pig when I pull his nuts toward me.

  “You might feel a little pinch,” I taunt, baring my teeth at him. When will the men in this city learn you don’t fucking blow off an Estrada? They should have learned from my father. They sure as hell should have learned from me. Word gets around. These motherfuckers know who runs this show.

  I wrap the thin wire around his balls and twist it. Then, I latch the pliers onto the twisted wires and begin turning. His screams get louder and louder as I twist the metal. Each turn makes his balls bulge more and turn purple. Once I’m close to breaking the skin but still tight enough to hurt like a motherfucker, I stop. I rise to my feet and ruffle his drenched-from-sweat hair.

  “Someone will be by each day to give it a few turns.” I grin at him as I step away and walk over to the wall. “Eventually those fuckers are going to fall right off.” I toss the pliers into the box and yank off the hot-ass apron. “I told you I wasn’t the type of man to cut your dick off.” I shrug as I hang my apron. “Now Marco Antonio? I can’t promise he won’t be feeding you your own cock later for dinner.”

  He screams and cries as I wash up at the sink. Once I’ve got that sick fuck’s ball sweat off my hands, I grab my jacket and toss it over my shoulder. Another song flips into my mind and I start whistling that one as I leave Velez to sit and stew about what happens when you fuck with Javier Motherfucking Estrada.

  You lose.

  Rosa

  I step out of my shower, newly cleaned but still harboring a lot of pain. After Javier showed up out of the blue this evening, I’d been reeling. I kept waiting for him to reveal he knows who I am. What I am. But he didn’t. Simply took me to the shed.

  The shed.

  One of the locations that have alluded the CIA for years. He simply drove straight to it with me in tow.

  I’m not a threat.

  Even after him catching me snooping, he didn’t feel as though he needed to keep such a private thing from me. By digging around a little deeper, he let me in.

  Michael is right.

  I do need to do this.

  Seduce the one-dimpled, sexy-as-sin monster.

  My core throbs at the reminder of him touching me. If I’m to seduce him, the prospect of him touching me more is a very real idea.

  Images of myself naked and beneath that beast of a man flip through my mind fast enough to catch fire. A mewl escapes me. That would be terrifying. Right?

  I’m having a hard time convincing myself.

  If I’m going to have to fuck Javier Estrada, willingly, then I’m going to need a drink. I walk out of my bathroom once I’m dried and hunt down something sexy. Of course, I own nothing. In the end, I choose a tank top and a short pair of cotton shorts. My pajamas. I groan but don’t give up. I leave my wet hair down to air dry and quickly put on some makeup. Just enough to look like I didn’t put any on. I do, though, make sure to apply a dark shade of red on my lips. Every man loves red lips, I’d assume.

  Once I’m satisfied that I look decent enough, I slide on some flip-flops and sneak past the girls’ room. When I’d come home earlier, Yolanda and Silvia were still out. Leticia made me some dinner and pouted when I picked at it. Nobody, including me, knows where Araceli is, but at least Alejandro slipped and indicated she was fine. It gives me hope.

  I make my way downstairs and rummage around in the liquor cabinet in the kitchen.
There is liquor all over this house, but the kitchen has what I want. Tequila. I grab the bottle and head to the back patio. I’ll get some liquid courage in my veins and then I’ll seek out Estrada. I know he’s here.

  The wind is cool and hard enough that it hisses through the trees. I unscrew the bottle and take a long pull on the alcohol. It burns as it slides down my throat. Since I’m always on the job, I don’t drink. I forgot how gross it is. Groaning, I tip the bottle again. I swallow down some more, but my esophagus is already on fire, so it isn’t as difficult to drink this time.

  I plop down on a lounger and watch leaves blow into the pool. I make a mental note to have Pablo scoop them out tomorrow. With Yoet coming, I know Javier will want the heated pool ready. His father enjoys swimming.

  Sometimes, I look out past the beautiful home and watch the waves. For just a few moments, I can pretend I’m on vacation. Lord knows I need one. I imagine I’m at a fancy hotel and allow myself to dream. Much like I did when I was a young girl. Before all hell broke loose and destroyed my life. Back then, I imagined growing up to be beautiful like my mother. I wanted to marry someone who was just as handsome and fearsome as my father. I realize now that was ridiculous, but at the time it was a girly dream.

  In the end, I chose retribution.

  I chose a career.

  Family and marriage and white picket fences are for soft people. I’m too hard for all that. I started hardening the day I watched my mother bleed out on a greasy kitchen floor.

  Tears flood, thanks to the alcohol, and I don’t hold them in. I drink the warming tequila and welcome the fall. My heart that wasn’t very big to begin with suffered its final blow tonight. I’d been reaching and hoping for something with Michael. A small step toward a sliver of happiness. An almost happily ever after. It felt attainable.

  But for my every tug for this relationship, he pulled away.

  My bitter heart aches for the loss of him.

  A part of me is furious at him. I’m a strong, educated, brave woman—imbedded in the hornet’s nest. Each day I stare at the face of danger on behalf of the CIA. I’m a catch. Right?

  What does Michael, besides being my superior, have over me that makes him better than me? What makes him think it’s okay to fuck me and then fuck whores behind my back?

  Rage bubbles up inside me. Hot and violent. I won’t take him back. Ever. Over the past four years, we’ve had our ups and downs, but for some stupid reason, I forgave him. I give and give and give.

  He takes and takes and takes.

  Fuck, Michael.

  A low, deep voice rumbles behind me. “Yeah, fuck, Michael.”

  I nearly drop the bottle of tequila. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  Javier emerges from the shadows on the side of the house with his hands in his pockets. His big, expensive watch catches the moonlight and flashes. He’s changed from earlier, his hair wet from a recent shower. My gaze roves over his white T-shirt that molds to his impressive chest. His black track pants hug his muscled thighs and my mouth waters.

  I can do this.

  It’s not like he’s a dog.

  He’s a fine-looking man.

  Seducing him will be second nature.

  “Storm’s coming,” he murmurs as he walks past me. He rests his forearms on the railing and I get a nice view of his ass.

  “Yep,” I agree as I swallow more tequila.

  He turns and flashes me a dimpled grin that makes my thighs clinch. “Better slow down on that tequila, manzanita, or you’ll end up naked in my bed.”

  I laugh at his arrogance. “You wish, baddie.”

  He walks over to me and pries the tequila bottle from my grip, his fingers brushing against the back of my hand, sending hot currents of excitement coursing through me. “Baddie?”

  With the liquor burning through my veins, I feel bolder. I poke his hard stomach. “Yep. El Malo,” I mock, making my voice deep like a man. “The bad. And you’re the king baddie.”

  His dimple reappears as he brings the bottle to his lips. I lick my own because damn he’s making me thirsty. He tilts his head back and swallows, his Adam’s apple moving as he drinks.

  “Well, if you work for the king baddie,” he says with a black eyebrow raised, “what does that make you, criada?”

  I shrug as I grab the bottle and take another drink. “The bad maid?”

  He chuckles as he reaches down and curls his strong hand around my wrist. I’m tugged to my feet easily. Dizzy on my feet, I sway slightly. His hands find my waist to steady me. “You’re a good maid, mami. So good.” His dark eyes flicker with hunger.

  I want to get eaten.

  A giggle bursts from me. “You want to eat me.”

  His lips turn up in a wolfish grin. “I sure do. I bet you taste like sweet, succulent apples.”

  “I—” A scream rips from me the moment I see one of the lawn chair cushions blowing away. The bottle falls from my grip and hits the deck, shattering.

  A strong arm wraps around my waist and he lifts me while simultaneously pulling a gun from his waistband. He swings it around to shoot at whatever I screamed at. His quick movements to protect me have my heart swelling in my chest.

  “It’s gone,” I complain, my bottom lip pouting out. My feet dangle as he holds me in his grip.

  His nose nuzzles my hair and he inhales me, sending blasts of need rippling through me. “What’s gone, Rosa?”

  “The cushion.”

  He chuckles against my hair as he tucks his gun behind him back into his pants. “You scared the fuck out of me, mami.”

  My flesh heats. “Don’t tell anyone a little ol’ maid can scare the big bad baddie of them all.”

  He walks us away from the mess and drops me to my feet. His arm stays curled around me, just under my breasts. “You shouldn’t scream like that unless you’re getting hurt or when my mouth is latched onto your cunt.”

  I tremble in his grip. Fear is the last thing I’m feeling right now. My plan to seduce him is almost too easy. A job perk if you will. I want him to slide his palm under my shirt and pinch my nipple. “Nobody cares about them.”

  “Who?”

  “The lawn chair cushions.”

  His lips press against my hair and he turns his body to press his cock against my backside. I’m locked in his grip and I’m not looking to escape.

  “You’re right,” he says, amusement in his tone. “Nobody fucking cares about the lawn chair cushions.”

  “I do,” I say with a huff, genuinely offended.

  “Because you’re the good maid,” he growls, his thumb sliding over my erect nipple through my tank top. “The best maid. My favorite one, in fact.”

  I melt against him and tilt my head to the side. I like him touching me. I like him whispering things to me and touching me so sweetly. I’ve been so starved of affection that I’m desperate for what he offers.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I ask suddenly, tears prickling my eyes again.

  His lips seek my neck, giving me what I silently ask for. “Nothing, manzanita. Absolutely nothing.” He runs his tongue along my flesh, causing me to shiver. “You let Michael fill your head with filth. He’s a loser and undeserving of such a gem.” His teeth nip at my skin. “Could he even make my good little maid come?”

  I roll my head back against him. With the tequila turning my bones to molten lava, I melt at his words and touch. I’m greedy to prolong whatever it is that’s happening. In fact, I want to encourage it.

  “He did in the past,” I admit. “Not recently.”

  “Tonight?”

  I stiffen and my heart aches as tears well in my eyes. “I felt used.”

  His thumb brushes along my nipple again. “He fucked you?”

  Bitter tears roll down my cheeks and I sniffle. He presses sweet kisses along my neck to my ear. His large palm cups my breast and his other one slides from my hip to between my thighs. He grips me possessively over my shorts in a claiming sort of way.

  �
��He fucked me,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “I wanted him to even though I caught him with a prostitute.” A sob catches in my throat. “I used to not be like this. So weak.”

  His longest finger rubs my clit over my shorts. Slowly but expertly. “You are not weak,” he whispers. “You are fierce.”

  I am fierce.

  Fierce, strong, smart.

  I needed the reminder.

  “I’m going to make you come,” he utters, his voice sure and unwavering. He continues his unhurried assault, successfully making my panties grow wet for him. An embarrassing moan climbs from my throat. “That’s it, Rosa, let me show you how it feels to be with a real man.”

  Stars glitter around me as my orgasm nears.

  God, I want more.

  “Javier,” I whisper.

  “Sweet woman,” he rumbles. “My name on your lips is torture.”

  “I need…”

  I don’t know what I need. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t even know who I am anymore. But this…this I need. This man touching me and making my body come alive. This man whispering things that awaken the battered soul that has been haunting this body.

  His finger leaves my pussy, causing me to whine, but then his giant hand is delving into my shorts past my panties. I cry out when his hot fingers seek out my soaked flesh. He pushes a finger past my opening, wetting it, before he slides it back up to my clit. It’s slippery and it gives him the movement he’s searching for. With quick, expert circles, he brings me to orgasm. His name bursts from my lips and my knees buckle.

  I’m spent.

  Dizzy and confused and spent.

  And now I’m flying.

  I’m in Javier’s arms and he’s striding through his massive estate. He carries me to his bedroom. The moment his masculine scent that is strongest in his room hits my nose, a sliver of panic flitters through me.

  He tosses me on the bed and his eyes flare with hunger. Suddenly shy, I cross my legs.

  “You can’t hide from me now,” he says with a grin, his dimple making an appearance. “You’re in my lair now and I’m starved.”

  I wait for him to pounce and take me, but instead he lowers the lights and places his phone on a music dock. He scrolls through some songs and then lands on a fairly new Mexican band I’ve heard on the radio a few times. The singer’s voice is sultry and almost pleading as he croons for his love to understand who he is behind the many faces he’s forced to wear.