by Tia Lewis
I was wearing what I always wore: black leather jacket, black T-shirt, denim jeans, and boots. Her eyes trailed up and down my chiseled arms, to my strong hands, and then to my face.
“How did you get that?” she asked, studying the upside-down scar above my eye.
Something in her voice had changed. It was the voice of a woman thinking about doing something with a man that she wanted to do, but felt guilty about wanting to do it.
“You can see I’m watching TV, right?”
She closed her eyes, as though preparing herself. “Perhaps if you told me about yourself it might make your request and this whole situation a little less awkward.”
“What do you want to know about me?”
“Well, that scar on your face, I can’t help noticing it. Can you tell me how you got that?”
I clenched my fists and looked down at my knuckles as I spoke. My temple pulsed, as it always did when I thought about Kevin, especially what happened on the night that still haunts me to this day.
“We were in a bar, and these men walked in—five of them. I was with my younger brother, Kevin, and I was eleven years old, and he was six. I was waiting for a friend, that’s why we were there.”
If by a “friend” I meant Boss, then yes, I was waiting for a friend. Back then it was a normal practice for Bostonians at our age to hang out in bars, especially in this type of neighborhood.
“So what happened?”
“These guys thought it’d be funny to pick on some kids, I guess. They come over with their drinks, pretended to stumble and spilled an entire beer right in Kevin’s lap.”
“Oh wow.”
“My brother was a soft kid. Not like me at all. He was only there with me in the first place because he hated going anywhere without me. So I stood up, and I said, ‘You’ve got a fucking problem?’”
I could remember it like it had happened just last night: the thick scent of smoke, beer, spirits, heavy cologne and sweat. The dim, flickering lights, Kevin’s terrified face, and my trembling bottom lip. The men, clearly drugged up or drunk out of their minds giggling like schoolgirls. My fingernails biting into my palms, a hot ball of rage rising in my chest.
“Then what happened?”
“They laughed because they thought I was just some young punk. And then I grabbed a beer bottle and smashed one guy upside his head. Then one of the other guys threw me to the ground and stomped on my head.”
I pointed to the scar.
“I started to bleed, but I managed to get up. I began swinging like mad, and before I knew it, I was covered in their blood as well as mine. They ended up stepping back like I was some kind of madman. Maybe I was.” I turned to her.
She was just staring at me with wide eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what to say to that."
“There isn’t anything to say,” I said, staring intensely into her bright blue eyes. “Now get on your knees.”
She looked down and started fiddling with her thumbs.
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she said, hesitantly, voice hitching slightly. A mix of confusion and shock at my bluntness crossed her delicate features. She wasn’t used to people being quite so direct with her, or maybe just not so crude. No problem. I could give her a guiding hand.
“Knees,” I commanded.
One of my palms gripped her shoulder roughly, the other cupped around the back of her head. She half stumbled, half fell onto the floor on her knees, instinctively leaning forward to brace her arms against my thighs for support. A soft gasp escaped her lips on the way down. My cock throbbed in my jeans, both at the sound of her voice and at the feel of her pressed up against me.
I reached over the table next to the couch and grabbed my pistol. The woman’s eyes widened with terror, and I displayed a menacing grin as I rubbed the gun against her red cheeks and chin. I moved the pistol in front of my crotch, and the shine in those pretty blue eyes threatened to erupt into full-blown tears.
“No... Please.” Her voice shook.
“Why don’t you give him a kiss?”
Her eyes started to swell with tears, and she quickly kissed my gun.
“Nah. A real kiss.”
“Please don’t do this. Can we talk this…”
I cut her off and slid the barrel of the pistol inside her mouth, and she gagged instinctively. I held the back of her head, not allowing her to pull away and offered her some “encouragement.”
“Breathe through your nose like it was your first time,” I instructed her.
I pulled the pistol out just a tiny bit and pushed it back into her cheek, causing it to bulge out.
I cocked the gun, she shrieked and began to cry.
“Suck it.”
She slowly began to fellate my pistol as deep as she can take it without gagging. I closed my eyes while she feigned pleasure.
“Good girl. I’m just getting you warmed up,” I said and placed my pistol back on the table. I fumbled with my belt, unbuckled the button of my jeans and set my cock free.
She gasped again when my thick shaft practically jumped out of my pants and swelled into a full erection. It throbbed, heavy and hungry, the veins under the skin, pulsing with my need. I stood up from the couch and kicked my jeans down around my ankles, my heavy balls swinging slightly, so full of my cum that they were ready to erupt. They just needed a little stimulation. So did she.
“Can we please talk this out? Please!” She pleaded.
Her head was pulled back as far as she could manage while still clinging to my legs for support. She stared at my cock, hypnotized. Entranced. Was it the first time she’d ever seen one or was I just that intimidating to her? Either way, I grew impatient.
“Open your fucking mouth,” I growled. “This is the part where you show your gratitude. Show me how much you appreciate all I’ve done for you.”
She stared up at me, delicate pink lips parting ever so slightly at that. Her eyes shimmered wetly. God, she was fucking gorgeous. I slipped a thumb between her lips, widening them further and cupped her cheek in the other calloused palm. She leaned into my cock, almost without realizing it, and I guided the head of my shaft to that warm, tantalizing opening. The heat of her breath hardened my cock into a steel rod, but it still met a surprising amount of resistance when it reached her mouth.
She slammed her lips shut again and shook her head, sobbing ‘no.' Her head pulled back, and my cock slipped along the outside of her cheek.
“No! Please!”
“Goddammit,” I hissed, disgusted. Nothing killed my hard-on faster than a bitch crying all over it. I rolled my eyes, took my cock in my hand and told her to turn over.
“I don’t want to do this.” She wiped her eyes and coughed like I’d actually just throat fucked her to Hell and back. I rolled my eyes.
“Turn over. Lift your dress. Show me that pretty little ass,” I said, slow and deliberate. “I need a release, and you’re going to help me with that one way or another.”
She shuffled awkwardly around on her knees, hands fluttering around the bottom of her red mini-dress before they finally found a grip and pulled it up past her waist. The pale skin of that pert, tight ass practically glowed in the dim lights. Now it was my breath that was hitching, my fist finding a near frantic rhythm pumping up and down my shaft at the sight. The animal inside me was indeed unleashing, and I couldn’t control myself. All my fantasies were embodied in her.
“Now that’s more like it.” I bit my lip, tugging at my balls with my other hand. “Show me that ass, show it off. Tease me like the little whore you are.”
She started to moan, tentative and fake at first, but my raging hard-on didn’t care. She found a rhythm of her own and her hips slowly began to gyrate, the bubbles of her ass cheeks jiggling up and down. Unable to help myself, I reached out and smacked one with a heavy palm, digging my fingers into the soft flesh just to see the angry red marks they left behind. She cried out in surprise.
“Tell me you like it,” I commanded. My breath
was coming fast and thunderous now as I jerked my cock furiously. “Let me hear how much you like putting on a show for me, you filthy whore.”
“I love it,” she gasped out, almost as though she surprised herself with the admission. I growled, chest heaving with the urgency of my impending orgasm and my need to release.
“More,” I said. “Tell me more. You want me to spank you again? You need to feel my cum all over you?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “Oh yes, that’s what I want, Liam. That’s what I need.”
Maybe she was just saying what I wanted to hear. Maybe she meant it more than she knew. Fuck it, I didn’t care either way. The sight of her bent over like that on her knees, the wiggle of her hips and her gorgeous bouncing ass, the soft, breathy moans―they were all too much. I felt the swelling start at the base of my cock, my rock hard girth managing to harden even further. Liquid heat raced through me as pleasure flooded my body. I threw my head back and grit my teeth to keep from howling.
The force of my climax stunned even me as I fired several thick spurts all over her ass. I caught myself on the arm of the couch before I fell atop her. The aftermath of my release left me breathless and shaking like I was a junkie coming down from the most elusive of highs. She remained motionless underneath me, the evidence of my arousal puddled all over her pale skin. The evidence of what the mere sight of her could do to me was not something she needed to see.
“Go clean yourself up,” I instructed. She quickly rushed off to the bathroom, without so much as a backward glance. I used the opportunity to compose myself, and by the time she returned and all but threw a towel at me, I was seated on the couch, pants and self-control back in their proper place. My head was never clearer than the moments before I killed a man or the moment after I came with a woman.
“Satisfied?” she asked curtly as I wiped my hand clean
“For now,” I grunted. “That was just the beginning.”
“Now where is this apartment?”
“You’re disgusting and perverted,” she wiped her watery eyes.
“It’s not the first time that I heard that,” I smirked. “Tell me where your apartment is so I can get this shit over with.”
She wrinkled her nose, but she told me. It was on the border of South Boston.
“Anything I should know?” I asked. “Boyfriends? Cats? Dogs?”
“No, no, and no. Just my things. When are we leaving?”
“We? We’re not going anywhere. I’ll handle this on my own. Write a list of the shit you want.” I waved my hand. “Hurry up.”
“You’re not leaving me here on my own again, are you?”
“Do you think you’re safer on the streets than you are in this ‘dump’? Jesus Christ, do you think this is a game? You stay here. Lock the door behind me. Draw the curtains. You’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Can you guarantee that?”
“No, but I can guarantee that you’ll be safer here than if you come with me.”
“My life used to be simple, you know,” she sulked. “I never used to look into shadows wondering if there were men out there trying to hurt me.”
“You were naïve, then. Everywhere in the world, men are seeking to hurt women. That’s just how it goes.”
“You’re a great big barrel of optimism, aren’t you?”
“This is South Boston. Optimism gets you killed. Now, write down the list.”
She didn’t argue this time. Maybe she was glad she wouldn’t be along for the ride. If I had learned a single thing in my twenty-three years, it was that in the end, it always came to violence.
“Liam,” she said, as I was about to leave.
“What?” I said, half-turning.
“Try not to die.”
“I always do.”
Chapter Four
My mind should have been on the job, but it kept returning to Wendy’s fine ass back in my apartment. I would fuck her eventually. I wasn’t one of those pretentious assholes, but women tended to want me, and I had no problem with that. But you don’t usually bring these women back to your apartment. You definitely don’t run errands for them, I thought. That was true, but I ignored it. I had no clue what it meant, and I wasn’t interested in knowing. All I wanted was that tight pussy around my cock.
But it was more than my cock, I realized, and that surprised me. Women, to me, were usually there to suck and fuck. I liked the fire in Wendy. A perfect combination of innocence and spunk. However, I couldn’t let myself get soft, couldn’t let some whore get into my head. I had to focus on the task at hand.
The streets were full of kids playing soccer other childlike games that kids play before they have to grow up and start fighting. I walked past a gang of kids who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. They were smoking in a huddle with hoodies pulled up despite the sunlight. Their weed-tinged smoke lingered in the air. I passed a fire hydrant, and just like a cliché a dog urinated on it. I walked with a leopard-like grace and passed an elderly man holding a cane, which shook in his trembling hand. “Fine weather, fine weather,” the man muttered under his breath.
Soon, I was close to Wendy’s apartment.
I approached the elegant building, located in a beautiful area, in the middle of a sunny Saturday. I was so preoccupied with the shit storm that I knew was coming my way because of this shit with Wendy that I failed to notice the two sunglasses-wearing men behind the parked jet-black sedan and the way their heads turned when I walked past. I also neglected to hear the metal click of their car doors opening behind me.
I used a bobby pin to pick the door lock to the apartment building. This door was neither damaged nor defaced. There was no graffiti, and the glass was intact. It was nothing short of a miracle and the polar opposites of my shitty apartment.
I walked up the stairs to the fourth floor and found her apartment. Picking the door lock again, I let myself inside. Easy. Inside, I leaned down under her bed, took the suitcase and began packing her things. I found the locket where she told me it would be, inside a pillow case in her drawer, buried at the bottom. The painting was hanging on the wall. It was abstract art, as far as I could tell, all oblong shapes and rectangles mashed together like the artist had done a good deal of cocaine beforehand. The apartment hardly looked lived in. There were no dirty dishes and everything was pristine and in place, like a show apartment. If it weren't for the women’s clothes on the dresser, which I began throwing into the suitcase, I would have thought Wendy had lied to me. But it was all here; I kept packing.
I’d packed everything that she wanted and was making for the door when it crashed open, and the two men came tumbling in, guns in their hands. The man closest to me was bald and had a tattoo under his right eye of a winged demon. The other man was stout, his head was also bald, and in the center of his broad forehead, there was a tattoo of a spear aimed down between his narrowed eyes.
I swung the suitcase and smashed the man with the demon tattoo across the head, dazing him. As the other man took a step back, I leaped forward and head-butted him in the nose, hooked my finger around his ear, and yanked with all my strength. The man fell down, right on his knee. This all happened in about three seconds. Just as the other man with the spear tattoo was resting, I had laid out his partner with an uppercut to the jaw.
“Bloody bastard!” The man shouted in a thick Russian accent, struggling to aim his gun.
I grabbed the gun-wielding hand in a rage and bit down on his wrist, blood filling my mouth. I spat the blood in the man’s face. The man screamed and dropped the gun. His head slammed back against the wall before he slid down to the ground in heaps of flailing limbs.
Panting, I took a step back. My body was heaving, blood-spattered across my chest. My arms were flecked with crimson droplets, which dripped down my biceps. My fists were clenched, and my knuckles were split open and red. My chest rose and fell, the blood making my black T-shirt stick to the contours of my pectorals. Drops of blood speckled my boots, and on my knee, there was a large bl
oody patch from where I’d kneed the man in the face.
My body was on high alert like an agitated gorilla after a fight. My eyes were steady and searching for an incoming threat. My lips flattened into a thin line. The only sign on my face that something had happened was the constant pulsation of my temple and a single bead of sweat which dripped from my forehead down my face.
I looked down at the men. Both of them were groaning. There was no reason to kill them―I wasn’t being paid for this shit―so I picked up the suitcase and stepped over them.
I was about to close the door when the man with the demon tattoo muttered: “I will have her… I will take what is mine.”
I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck from side to side and laid down the suitcase. I walked back to the man and knelt down next to him. People in the nearby apartments poked their heads out of their doors to investigate the source of the commotion, but I didn’t care.
“This whore…” he smiled a bloody smile. “Is this whore… worth it?”
“I haven't decided yet."
“Why not just hand her over then?"
"Don't really feel like it." I shrugged.
“You’re making a big… big mistake.” He coughed blood.
“You’re probably right.”
“You…” His bloody smile grew wider.
“Speak up.”
“I know you.”
“A lot of people know me.”
“You’re… You’re The Animal. We know your name. You work for Boss, and you have the blood of three hundred men on your hands.”
“What’s your point?”
“A man like you draws lines?”
“It seems so.”
I cracked the man in the forehead with the barrel of my pistol.
I left the apartment, I was eager to get back to Wendy and use what was mine. Any other man would have been terrified of the Russians. She was lucky that I wasn’t any other man.
You would’ve thought I’d walked through the door with a case full of gold by the way Wendy looked at me. I set the suitcase down on the counter and went back to the couch. It had been—what? Around forty-five minutes? I sat down for a few moments, then went to the bathroom to try and wash the blood off my clothes. I’m surprised that she didn’t notice the crimson spatter, but then again her focus was only on the suitcase. After washing up, I returned back to the living room. Wendy was sitting on the couch with the suitcase in her lap. She kept looking toward the door, holding the suitcase close, like she was scared the Russians were going to crash into the apartment and try and take it back.
