Here is part 2. Oh, you MUST read part 1 to understand Part 2. :)
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Slippery pussies.
Sweaty balls.
Perfume floating over the musk.
Cigarette smoke.
The odors blended, wrapped around me as I opened the bar door. My nose twitched, head throbbed harder. Wished I’d swallowed an aspirin, drank a V8 and hit the bed. But I’d taken the cheddar so it was time to do the do.
The bar was crunk. Booty clapping. Slow grinding. Laughing. Indecent propositions.
The smoke choked, invaded hair, clothes and pores. Music thumped, the speakers obviously turned up to LOUD AS HELL.
My head pounded harder.
The shuffling crowd on the dance floor got my attention as I positioned my hips on the stool.
They hovered around a couple. Spotlit. Jamming by themselves. The man, damn what a specimen he was—huge, dark and nattily dressed. His partner was no slouch either. Every man in the room would give her the street title, dimepiece. Their bodies writhed, contorted to the pulsing samba beat.
Touch. Back away. Brush. Hump.
But this samba wasn’t the usual. They’d put added some Caribbean flavor in the Latin dance—exaggerated pelvic movements and thrusts. Dry-fucking.
My labia twitched as the man’s tongue slid down the woman’s neck, saliva trail glinting in the dim light. Long fingers massaged her stomach before skimming up, cupping her fabric-encased breasts.
I crossed my legs, stopping the sexual impulses trying to grab a foothold. Why waste time on shit going nowhere? Besides, I wasn’t here to get laid but to do a job on Mr. Hunk himself. John Pendergast. The mark. A cheating husband who I’d being paid—very nicely, I might add—to get the goods on by his wife. My partner, Schi, was the woman he was all over. The dumb fuck.
Lick.
Nibble the ear.
Squeeze the ass.
Whisper sweet bullshit in her hair.
That’s it baby.
I sipped my Singapore Sling and snapped shots of their antics with my spypen. I had two back up pens in my purse. No client will ever say we underwhelmed them, that’s for sure.
The music ended with the John’s lips pressed obscenely between the valley of the Schi’s tits.
This joker been at this crap so long, felt his game was so tight he didn’t look around; try to hide. His dirt was out front where any one vaguely interested could witness it for themselves.
The hair rose suddenly on the back of my neck.
Cold fingers scratched up my spine.
My nose lifted, became one with its mammalian cousins.
Sniffed.
Cayenne pepper. Fecund earth. Metal. Blood.
The scent was no stranger to me. It meant only one thing: Trouble.
I straightened as I scanned the room, my hand lightly fingering the shank in my purse. Flat, hard plastic with an edge grinded down to razor thinness, it breezed past metal detectors but could slice to the bone.
My radar honed in on one specimen striding confidently my way. Strobe lights illuminated his form in snatches.
John Coffey in The Green Mile.
Gone dark tan.
Plus an earring.
Satan in a suit.
Danger seeped from his pores, fluoresced like neon daggers.
I let my eyes slide past, turned back to the bar, uncrossed my legs, fingered the shank again. He took the stool next to me. Cologne teased my nostrils. A hand was placed open-palm near mine.
Looking up, my eyes were captured by a pair of hazel ones surrounded by a goateed, caramel face.
“I’m Meylon. Let me buy you a drink?” The voice and exterior didn’t match. He looked GQ smooth but what I heard told another story. Gritty. Rough around the edges. Hood gone to school. Gutter been upgraded. Menace to society cloaked in a high end suit.
An unwanted distraction.
“Mo, and I’ll have another Singapore Sling.” Ignored the hand and tossed back the last of my drink, my brain screaming Watch his ass!
I should be scared…but I’m not. Cassieta Modine ain’t afraid of too much. Just God and a gun and he’s neither.
He glanced at the sweaty couple leaving the floor. Bodies fused.
“Know them?”
“No.” Taut, fake smile.
“Can’t tell.” Voice rumbled, hardened. Street trying to come out.
“They put on a good show and I don’t want to miss the encore if there’s one.” Eyebrow lifted. A dare.
“Ahem. A voyeur.” He stroked his goatee.
I held his eyes. “Hey, if they don’t mind fucking in front of me, I’m damn sure gonna watch.”
“Touché.” His hands moved downward, stroked my exposed back.
This is a bold brother here. Playing me cheap.
I stiffened, removed his hand. That door had been welded shut for a while.
“My bad. Guess I’m moving too fast for you.” Palms in surrender. A seasoned playa’s move.
“For yourself, too.” Read my mind: Playa be gone.
Smirking now, Meylon turned to the bartender. “Freshen our drinks, would you?”
I shifted away, watched the couple now situated in a booth. Still at it. John’s hands were inside the V of Schi’s dress, obviously pulling her nipples, his tongue licking her lips.
I maneuvered the spypen up and in their direction, clicking imperceptibly.
Meylon followed the direction of my eyes. “That your man or something?”
I turned back to my fresh drink, kept the couple in my periphery. “What do you think?” I gave him a hard step-the-fuck-off stare.
“Looks like you’re more interested in some Bama and his woman than this hot-blooded sexy mothafucka in front of you. Not cool. Not cool at all.” Eyes like diamonds. Gutter swarmed just beneath his skin.
I scanned him from his closely cropped head to his indented waist down to his Kenneth Cole encased toes. He’d probably been told he was all that and a few buckets of KFC too. Since his groupies had already given him the 4-1-1, no need for me to add to it. “Like I said, I don’t want to miss any encores.”
He leaned closer, liquor-sweetened breath bathed my face. “Hell, we could be the encore. Mo…I so want to—”
I held up my hand. Cut him off. “Please. Give it a rest. Okay?”
I was not in the mood for some new variation of a trite come-on and I think I’ve probably heard them all. “Baby you are so fine” or “When my eyes met yours, I knew you were the mother of my children”, only problem is, they forgot to add the “So…let’s fuck tonight” to the end of them. And that’s all they wanted to do. But, I’m not interested.
Nostrils flared.
Dark pools bored into mine.
Hood was about to make my acquaintance.
Stalemate.
John and Schi suddenly rose from the booth, coats in hand.
Showtime!
Without another word, I swung from the barstool and strode towards the door.
“Hey!” Meylon called after me.
I didn’t even break stride. I had work to do.
“Hey! Mo! I know you hear me!”
Closer.
I kept walking until a hand grabbed my upper arm; stopped me in my tracks. With ease of practice, I grabbed his thumb, twisted and lifted upwards. He cussed in pain. Seeing a chair next to us, I gave him a solid punch to the solar plexus. He grunted and slumped forward. I caught him, roughly pushed his gasping body into the chair.
His eyes spoke volumes as they bored into mine.
Time shifted.
Tugged.
I tore my eyes away and without another glance, walked out the door and onto the street, Meylon’s eyes haunting me as I began the second phase of my night work.
I jogged over to my nondescript Crown Victoria and cranked the engine while watching the door. John’s Mercedes was parked five cars up.
They exited the club still doing the “my new Boo” shit, hugged up tighter than welded metal. Schi gave a discreet “thumbs up” sign before he seated her in the car. I let a few vehicles pass by before I pulled out to trail them. A busted taillight— courtesy of yours truly— made surveillance an easy task.
Ten minutes of riding, plotting…trying to rid the memory of Meylon’s eyes from my mind before they pulled into the Grommet Hotel. I whistled. This hotel started at two-fifty a night. That John Pendergast would spend that kind of money on a woman he just met spoke volumes.
I parked across the street from them, grabbed my suitcase purse and strutted towards the entrance. The attendant opened the door, a pleasant greeting sliding from his lips. John retrieved his key from the desk clerk. I strode towards the elevators, my progress hidden from the front desk. They followed on my heels, entered together.
“Floor?”
“Ah…” John looked down at the key, “ah…twelfth.”
I pushed the correct button. John ignored me, began fondling Schi before the doors closed completely. That’s all right. His exhibitionist ass will know who I am in a few.
The elevator slid smoothly upward before stopping with a ding. I held the door open button, watched as they shuffled out, arms wrapped around each other like a cocoon. I followed, stopped and stared at the arrow signs. Made it appear to anyone watching I was trying to locate my room.
The cocoon ambled down the hallway to my left. John fumbled with the key then finally got it right. I retraced their steps.
Adrenaline was surging. It was the put-up-or-shut-up point of the game. If our plan played out like I hoped, John should be washing his balls, anticipating Schi riding his swollen dick.
A light knock.
Schi immediately opened the door. No words. None needed. The toilet flushed as I sat my bag on the nightstand.
John stumbled out, erect cock leading the way. Pulled up short when he spied me.
“Who the hell…what the hell…” Confused eyes vacillated between me and Schi. “What’s going on here?”
“Baby, I thought we’d finish the night off with a bang!” Schi walked over, boldly began massaging his pole through his shorts. Girl might be many things but shy ain’t one of them. Kisses rained down his neck and chest for added persuasion. “I thought you’d enjoy a threesome. Hell! What man doesn’t?” Laughter.
He closed his eyes. She pulled his rod free. The war in his head played out on his face then, his traitorous body overrode his sensible mind; consented to anything and everything.
That’s my boy.
Schi maneuvered him onto the bed. I joined the party, rubbed him all over his chest, ran my fingers through his bush. Rough hands pushed into the neckline of my dress, freed my tits. John moaned low while Schi stroked, bit his chest.
While John sucked my tits, I reached behind me, removed two sets of handcuffs. Schi never stopped biting as I passed one set over John’s closed eyes. I mouthed the numbers.
Snap.
John’s eyes flipped open. Before he could fight, we snapped the other end to the iron headboard.
That was good. Ropes could be messy.
Pupils dilated. “What the fuck is going on! I don’t do no freaky tying up shit! Turn me loose!”
We ignored him, grabbed a leg, planned to handcuff his ankles to the footboard. This joker read our minds. He thrashed out; feet swinging wildly.
“Watch out!” I yelled just before his foot connected with Schi’s chest. She thumped onto the floor. Hard.
“What’s this shit about?!” Spittle flew onto my face.
This beyotch better be HIV negative!
I was angry now, punched his punk ass in the stomach, silencing him. Grabbed a now-complacent foot and handcuffed the ankle to the footboard. Repeated with the other ankle before checking on Schi.
She was shook up, but otherwise unhurt.
“What…is….this…about?”—gasping now, eyes wide—“My… money… is… in… my…wallet.”
I tsked him. “This is not about money, at all.” Not from him, anyway.
“Well…what is it about?” Voice grew stronger, meaner. “I mean, I pick up this bitch at a bar,” –eyes darted to Schi— “and you join us and tie me up. If it’s not about money, then what the fuck is it about?”
Funny thing about me and Schi. You can
think we’re bitches all you want. Just don’t
call us one.
Schi shimmied over to my bag, retrieved a short whip.
“Wait, girl. Don’t mark him up!” She was a take-no-prisoner witch when angered. And calling her a bitch will do it every time.
“I’m not gonna mark this asshole up. I’m just making sure that Mrs. Pendergast gets her money’s worth. Grab the damn camera!”
I did so with a smile.
“My wife!” John sputtered. “What the hell does she have to do with this?” We waited. Head finally cocked to the side; realization dawned. “I’ll pay you double what she’s paying you! How much is it?”
“Save your money, sweetie. After you called me a bitch…I’d do this for free.” Schi’s saccharine smile didn’t reach past her nose.
“You bitches, you! I’m gonna get you for this! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”
I shook my head. Screw yourself into a tighter corner.
John pulled, pushed and wiggled in an effort to free himself. Waste of time. We were that good.
“Ready?”
“As ever.”
I positioned the camera. Schi slapped John’s exposed rod with her bare hand. His mouth opened in anguish. Schi positioned her fat nipple close—but not too close—to his open mouth. I chuckled as I snapped. It looked like ole boy was taking a break from sucking, ecstasy etched on his face.
Schi sat on his chest, inched her body forward. John bucked, knew what was about to go down. She stopped scant inches from his mouth, thigh-locked his face. On celluloid, it’d look like he was going downtown, especially when Schi arched her back and palmed her own breasts.
My panties wet as I watched.
John panted, watched me. Smelled my sex, his deflated erection rising to attention.
Schi changed positions, leaned towards the stiffening cock. John pushed upwards, fooled himself into believing this shit was real. Schi’s hair fell forward, shielded her lips and the top part of his rod. From my sideview: straight up fellatio.
And half of the estate goes to Mrs. Pendergast!
Schi wrapped the whip around the base of his rod, gave the shot a sex-frenzy feeling. Like he and she were really into this thing. John grunted, shifted around, tried to locate her mouth obviously was really into this thing.
After filling up two memory cards, Schi slid off the bed, began putting on her clothes.
“What? That’s it?” Frowns sprouted. “I’m really not getting any? This is really for my wife?” Fear returned to his voice.
“Yep. You’re not and it is.” I returned the camera to my purse.
“What about the keys? You aren’t going to just leave me here like this, are you?”
Eyes vacillated again, until finally discerning the answer.
Let the groveling begin!
“Please. Please. Don’t do this.”
John rattled the cuffs, arched, yanked and pulled. I never turned to look at him, my job now finished.
His anger returned like a tsunami.
“I’ll get you bitches! I’ll cut your hands off and slit your throat! You don’t know who you’re fucking with!” John screamed at my back.
Give me a dollar for every time I’ve heard that statement or one of its variations, and I’d be a damn millionaire.
“Ready, girl?”
Schi straightened her clothes and stood.
“Ready.”
We walked out the door without another glance at John. He continued shouting obscenities at out back. The door clicked shut, we high-fived each other and sista’ strutted towards the elevator.
Ahhhhhhhh. Another lying/cheating/philandering asshole bites the dust.
We were hugging when the huge shape rounded the corner.
Face hard.
Eyes locked on mine.
Intent: obvious.
The alarm clock screamed.
