My thoughts drift to the asshole back on the dock. He’d been way too fucking easy to lure there, but then I’d been watching him for a while, and I knew exactly what to say and do to get him all alone.
The fucker had been beating on his wife for the last ten years of their marriage. I guess the wife finally had enough. A quick phone call and explanation of my price, and that shithead was all mine to do with as I pleased.
I’ve spent the last week stalking him, and tonight, I made a point of bumping into him in a club on the outskirts of town. Most people avoid Black Creek like the plague, but you get plenty of middle and upper class men—and women—who come here for the thrill; who think it’ll be fun to hang with the ruffians for a night. Our whores are dirtier than the high-class prostitutes, and there are plenty of bored middle-aged housewives who find some excitement in fucking a thug covered in tats.
It wasn’t difficult to coax him into taking a drive with me. Dressed in skin tight leather pants that hug my ample curves and enhance my ass, and a bralette that draws mens eyes to my D cup boobs, it was practically a sure thing. Add in a hushed whisper about how I wanted to choke on his cock, and he was practically coming in his pants as he escorted me out of the club.
I directed him to the docks, where I’d left my bike earlier, and it was a piece of cake, distracting him with my tits and pussy as I ground against his dick until I could slip my gun out of my clutch and bash him over the head with it.
The hardest part was dragging his heavy ass over to the edge of the dock where I’d stashed my duffel bag, equipped with everything I needed to wipe the sorry sack of shit off the face of the earth for good.
I’ll never understand men's need to inflict violence on the very people they claim to love and should instinctively feel the need to protect. Does it really make them feel more manly to beat on people smaller and weaker than them? It’s the same pattern I’ve witnessed every day of my life. I grew up with it, and I’ve watched women and children around me be subjected to it, so there has to be some reasoning behind it. Just not one I’ll ever understand.
My thoughts move on to my to-do list for tomorrow. I have my regular meeting with Enzo, and then work tomorrow night, because in this town, a girl needs to have multiple sources of income in order to get by.
The water is lukewarm by the time I drag myself out of it, wrapping a towel around me as I pull the plug before heading to my bedroom—which is really more of a box room. Suddenly feeling exhausted, I climb under the covers and fall asleep to the satisfied thought that tonight there is one less abusive shitstain on the planet.
***
Still-damp strands of hair whip around my face as I jog across the street. My electric cut out this morning, so I couldn’t blow dry my hair, which also meant the coffee machine wouldn’t work, and my alarm didn’t go off. So I’m running late, and all-in-all, I’m in a crabby mood by the time I arrive at the G&T that afternoon for my monthly meeting with Enzo.
Beyond the paycheck, I do not look forward to these meetings. They’re awkward and uncomfortable. I always feel like I’m under a microscope, my every action and inaction being analyzed and catalogued for future examination. Something about Enzo just doesn’t sit right with me. Besides, I do not enjoy spending my free time in dingy bars with drunk assholes. I get enough of that at work.
The rickety door of the bar squeaks on its hinges as I pull it open and step into the dark interior. I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of stale cigarette smoke, sweat and beer. It’s midday, but every seat at the bar is occupied, patrons talking in hushed whispers, staring absently into their drinks, or watching this afternoon's entertainment—an aging stripper dancing on the small stage at the side of the room.
I glance around the small, stuffy space, faintly aware of some song from the nineties playing from the ancient jukebox as I locate Enzo sitting at a table for two at the back of the room. I make sure my resting bitch face is in place before I stride toward him, ignoring the way the soles of my boots stick to the floor with each step.
“Where’s my money?” I demand once I’ve reached the table. The legs of the barstool scrape against the wooden floor as I pull it back, sliding onto the hard seat and fixing Enzo with a stony-faced expression.
“What, no hello, how ya doing?” Enzo asks. He’s a strange guy. Probably not much older than me, and attractive, with his dirty blonde hair and striking green eyes, but there’s something about him I can never put my finger on. I don’t know if it’s his too clean appearance, the lack of desperation in his eyes, or the fact he doesn’t leer at me the way everyone else does. I’m not big-headed, but in a town where everyone is stick and bones, my wide hips, round ass and big tits make quite a splash, regardless of how much I try to hide them. I gave up even trying a long time ago, and learned to embrace my femininity, using it for my own gain. Whatever it is about him though, he just stands out from everyone else in the bar, in Black Creek in general. But he’s never made a wrong move toward me, and he pays me handsomely for the tidbits of information I slide his way. “At least let me get you a drink.”
“No, thanks,” I reply bluntly. He’s always trying to get me to stay and have a drink with him, but this is nothing more than business to me. And it should remain that way.
He ignores me as he waves over a waitress, ordering two glasses of whiskey before focusing his intense apple-green eyes on me. Getting down to business, I pull an envelope out of the inner pocket of my leather jacket and hold it out for him to take.
He just smiles, not making a move to take it from me. “How have you been?”