Cuban Sandwich
by
Tobias Tanner
I stopped at Ernesto's coffee shop on the way back to the office and got a fresh pressed Cuban sandwich to go. Ernie was my wife's favorite uncle, and asked to be remembered to her. I drove down Eighth Avenue and cut across to US-1, then jumped the Rickenbacker Causeway toward my building in downtown Miami. The doorman gave me a half grin and a nod. I just waved and punched for the elevator. My eyeballs felt like they'd been sandpapered, and I was tired right down in my bones.
And heard voices as soon as the doors slid back on my floor. Not just voices, but loud voices. Somebody was sounding like they were winning the Most-Seriously-Tortured-To-Death contest, and it was coming from my end of the hall.
Ah, shit, I thought. Give me a break, will you?
I got the Glock out of its holster and didn't have anywhere to put the damned sandwich. Ended up laying it on the little table between the elevator doors and hoped that no one would steal it before I got back. I hefted the gun and checked the loads.
The ugly hunk of polymer and aluminum fits my hand so quick and natural after all these years you’d think it had a mind of its own. It doesn't, of course. A pistol is like a hammer, or a telescope, or a lawn mower; useful for its particular design function, but not much good for anything else. I carry one because in my line of work, I don't get invited to drive nails or cut grass or stargaze.
I got the butt in the two handed isometric grip Col. Cooper teaches and went to see what was going on. And I’ll be goddamned if the noise wasn’t coming right from my office. The door was unlocked. I eased it open and paused to take one more deep breath to calm the adrenaline shakes. The sounds were coming from my left.
My overpriced little slice of heaven is mid-way down the north corridor on the top floor, east side. It's a two-room suite of something demonstrably less than four-hundred square feet total. Two window offices (with dandy views of Biscayne Bay to justify the outrageous rent) separated by a kitchenette and a bathroom and two closets. It says John Zane-Private Investigations on the door. That's me, only most everyone calls me Jack. There are a few who call me other things, but not to my face.
I eased around the corner and took a quick look to see what I could see.
Well, well, I thought.
Sex, is what I could see, and what I'd been hearing. Somebody was power fucking my old lady, and he had her hand cuffed to the big overstuffed sofa to do it. Didn't look like she was fighting him much, either. Rosalyn is likely to shout the house down when she's really turned on, and that's the way it sounded. I'd have recognized her voice in the first place, only I wasn't but about half awake.
I stepped into the room and prodded the side of the guy's head with the gun. He gave me a hard, flat stare, just in case I needed any help figuring out that I was interrupting him.
"Joo focking crazy, main?" he said.
Guy had balls, I'll give him that. It takes a set of solid brass pistachios to ignore the business end of a .45 caliber pistol. I had the feeling I knew him from somewhere but groggy as I was, I was lucky to remember my own name, never mind his. He did look familiar, though. Tough little fucker, too, if I had to guess. He had those blank, killer's eyes. Like mine, maybe.
"We're just playing, honey," Rosalyn said, and winked at me.
She glanced significantly over toward my desk, meaning she wanted me to sit in on the proceedings. She bucked underneath the guy to remind him what he was there for, and watching me with deliberate eyes while she did it.
Oh ho, I thought.
"Sorry about that." I straightened up and put the pistol away. I wasn't a damned bit sorry but, as my sainted grandmother always said, it pays to be polite.
"Theenk joo toff guy, main? Wave ah focking peestol?"
"I am a tough guy, comprade," I told him. “Best you remember that.”
"Ah don' fock no tied up beech before," he said.
Like that explained something? Hell, I couldn't even tell whether he was bragging or complaining. I grinned at Rosalyn and shook my head. Gave the guy a friendly pat on the shoulder, meaning to reassure him, but he jumped like I had shot him.
"Don' totch me like that, main. I keel joo for totching me."
This from a guy who'd just looked 200 grains of instant death in the face. If I didn't know better, I'd say the little shitbird was trying to get my goat. Lucky for him I was tired. Ten years ago I might've shot his squirrelly ass for it, or at least drug him out of the saddle and flang him around some to teach him some manners.
"You want to watch how you talk about people," I said mildly. "Some folks lack the sensitivity and depth of understanding that I have. Might take offense, you know?"
Rosalyn rolled her eyes at that. She lifted her head off the couch and kissed the guy's throat. "Come on, pretty man," she whispered to him. "Don't pay any attention. He's just being an asshole." She's got a fine, lightly accented contralto reaches down in your body somewhere and makes you glad she's talking to you, even when she's saying shit like that.
"Joo focking righ’ he is," the guy said.
Yeah, maybe I was. I sighed and went to get some decaf from the Braun in the kitchen and the morning paper off Rosalyn’s desk and brought them back in and sat down. Kicked my shoes off. Fished the Maker's Mark out of the bottom drawer of my desk and added a dollop to the cup, just for luck. The room smelled of cigars and wet pussy and stale coffee, all very cozy.
Damn, I was feeling ragged. I wondered what the hell Rosalyn was up to, fucking somebody in my office at eight in the morning, but I was too polite to ask.
And fucking him she was, too. Make no mistake about that.
She had those gorgeous legs of hers spread out and man, he was just pounding the living shit out of her. They were going at it like a couple of dogs in a hurry and her tits were jouncing like water balloons on a trampoline. His cock made a crackling wet slurp of sound as it moved inside her. I don't know, maybe he was showing off, but he had reared back and was purely giving it hell.
None of that romance and candles stuff for this boy. No sir.
Not that Rosalyn was being all girlish and shy, either. Not likely. She was giving as good as she got, humping back at him, yanking on the handcuffs and urging him on, telling him to hurry harder, hurry harder, hurry harder, oh god, oh god, oh goddamnit, come on, come on, COME ON! Sex talk like that doesn’t have to make any sense, and I was getting a hard on just listening to it, never mind looking.
She's a long-legged Miami Cubana, is my Rosie. Richly curved, stacked out of her mind and single-mindedly dedicated to the idea that sex must be the primary motivator for the species. It’s her variation on the empty nest syndrome. Get nekkid and fuck your brains out. Most men think that'd be a fine idea when they first see her. She’s got an elegant sensuality about her, spiced with a tough, street-wise edginess that is frankly erotic. I won her in a poker game—swear to God.
The blinds were open over the window above the couch, so the two of them were hammering away below a perfect view of Biscayne Bay. Glinting water and blue sky with Greater Miami on the skyline. Beautiful. I peered at them over the top of the newspaper, still puzzling over the identity of the fucker (as opposed to the fuckee, who would be Rosalyn, in this case).
Cuban or Puerto Rican, maybe. Young and good looking—long black hair skinned back over his skull and tied in a pony tail. And a sculpted copper skinned body that had seen a lot of gym time. I knew it was gym muscle because of his arms. I've got them, too. You just can't build triceps like that anywhere else.
Where had I seen this guy before? Might be at the restaurant where Rosie hostessed some nights, but I wasn't sure yet. Kitchen staff, maybe? He had a red dragon tattooed on his right shoulder and about half the cock I carry, but I'm way too bashful to mention something like that. Wearing one of those ridged condoms she likes, too. Those things'll wear the hide off you. No wonder she was making so much noise.
I rubbed my eyes, feeling old and used up. Been out thirty hours following this silly-assed attorney who is running around on his old lady and ought to know better, and I was dead on my feet. The lawyer’s wife was going to rip his guts out in divorce court, just as soon as I got the pictures downloaded and emailed to her lawyer. I was feeling short on sympathy. Guy was throwing it all away. The BMW and the big house and the gorgeous wife and the great kids, all for a twenty year old titty dancer who hadn't even told him her real name.
People are so fucking dumb.
It would depress me something awful if I actually gave a shit, which I don't, mostly. Maybe the lack of sleep was making me cynical.
"You going to be here long," I said finally. "I need a nap."
"Shot ah fock op, main," the guy snarled back.
Shot ah fock up? Now, that’s funny. Shot ah fock up? Jesus. I was going to treasure that one for awhile. Rosie glared at me with those hot, tobacco colored eyes of hers, threatening me with unspoken and undoubtedly dire consequences if I didn't leave them alone, and pleading with me, just in case the threats didn't work, to please, please, please just shot ah fock up. Pretty neat trick, that.
Well, Rosalyn's a pretty neat trick herself in my book. I met her ten years ago at a high stakes poker game on a yacht tied up in the Miami River. The owner had a bunch of coke whores on board, one of which was chained naked under the teak saloon table, lapping scotch out of a dish like a trained dog. Rosalyn. She stayed down there the whole night giving blow jobs while I peeled the hide off her host at five card stud.
Hell, I thought she was a prisoner or something until the son of a bitch sold her to me for his I.O.U.s. Then laughed his ass off when she refused to leave him. I had to drag her out of there on a leash, fer chrissakes. Didn't know that she actually wanted to go. That kind of thing was a new game for me at the time. She cost me fifty-six hundred dollars and change. At the time I thought maybe it was a bad deal.
The day after the poker game I woke up in her bed and watched with amazement as she became a sweet, conservative suburban matron. It was like magic. She made breakfast for the kids and packed their lunches. Then she served me sliced mango and perfect sunny-side eggs on wheat toast, and while I ate she knelt on the floor and explained how things were with her.
I had been having one hell of a time reconciling the slut under the table with the sweet woman in the kitchen. How could two such different people live in the same skin like that? And to tell the truth, that's when I really started to get more than passingly interested in her. She had gone from the two-dimensional, tube dressed, spike heeled coke whore who’d say or do anything for another snort, to a three-dimensional human female with responsibilities, intelligence and an agenda of her own.
I can't help it, she'd said. I like the rough stuff. And I'd started falling for her right then and there.
She's raised a couple of kids, mostly on her own until I came along. There were two useless ex-husbands still giving her crap when I tangled up with her, and I'd had to
beat one of them about half to death to square that problem away. And there was that cocaine monkey on her back, among other things. Bills to pay. Leaky faucets. Paint on the house. The usual. We had some dandy fights, but I never hit her in anger. Besides, the kids liked having me around, and that's the way to any mother's heart. You ask her what happened, she'll smile and say that she finally found somebody who'd beat some sense into her. Me? I'd never say that. Not out loud, anyway.
I guess it was a pretty rocky start, at least by conventional standards, but things worked out for us. Maybe because of how it started or maybe in spite of it—I don't know and I don’t care anymore. Just leave it as read. We met, fell in love, got married, and here we are. Lucky us. Her children got through high school and went on to college and grew up to be productive citizens. Where I come from that means they made it into adulthood without any serious drug habits or illegitimate children, and without killing anyone or getting killed. In downtown Miami, you don't necessarily enjoy being a kid. You beat the odds, or you don't. It's a survival thing.
Nowadays, the oldest girl, Marsha, is in pre-med at the University of Miami. The youngest, Millie, who made Rosalyn a thirty-six year old grandmother, is going to be a school teacher. That grandmother thing might sound like a dirty trick, but we like it just fine, thank you. Be warned, though. Rosalyn doesn’t cotton to being called Granny. Take your life in your hands calling her that.
It's proof of how resilient people really are, I guess. Rosalyn is funny and quirky and caring, even with all those hard miles run up on her. Smart, too. She takes care of the business side of my business with steely-eyed efficiency, and I trust her with my life. Besides, she cleans up real nice. She can still wear the tube dresses and spikes and turn heads when she enters a room.
Oh my, yes.
I propped my feet up on the desk and rubbed my dick, watching from under my lashes while she went at it with this guy. Got to be circumspect and sly when you're an investigator, see? You can't just go around staring at people. Makes them edgy.
They were worth watching, too. That boy had energy to spare, I'll give him that. Shot ah fock op or not, he hadn't missed a stroke. He eased up long enough to roll her over and up on her knees and went right back at it, plowing that sweet field like I wasn't there rattling the paper and complaining, and like I hadn't shoved a gun in his face. He smacked her ass hard with the flats of his hands, and Rosalyn jerked and squealed and kept asking for more. Which he gave her.
That Latin blood is tough. He hadn't panicked and he didn't break stride. That's a man to respect, you ask me. But what the fuck was his name? It was right on the tip of my tongue and I still couldn't quite say it. Aggravating as hell.
I unfolded the newspaper and went back to reading all the news that's fit to print, figuring the name would come if I'd just quit thinking about it so hard. Shouldn't have bothered. Today's news was just a rehash of yesterday's news. Hell, I was beginning to wonder if they weren't printing the same paper every day and just changing the dates and the tide tables.
The President’s War on Terrorism (their caps, not mine) was in full swing. I'd sure like to see it work out better than the War on Poverty or the War on Drugs or the War on Illiteracy, but I'm not betting on it. Anthrax had been found in New York again and we were still being assured it was no terrorist threat, except maybe it was. The local baseball team was demanding ten million dollars worth of upgrades to the thirty million dollar sports complex the taxpayers had already built for them. Do it or we move to Boynton Beach, they said, which sounded a lot like terrorism at home by lawyers in thousand dollar suits.
Same old shit.
I refolded the paper and dropped it onto the wastebasket.
Rosalyn had gotten herself turned around again, and was straddling the guy with her elbows down on either side of his head and her breasts pushed into his face. She grinned at me over her shoulder. "You want in on this?" She patted herself on the backside, golden fingers moving like shadows over the mottled redness where what's-his-name had hit her.
"Got room for two?" I grinned back at her.
She made big eyes at me. It was something new.
She was keeping a nice steady little jerking motion with her hips that drove his cock deep inside her. I got out of my clothes and pulled the leather belt out of my pant loops. Rosalyn licked her lips and turned to tell the boy in Spanish that they were fixing to have company. He grunted something, but his voice was muffled by tit flesh.
Pablo, his name was. How did I know that?
I swung the belt and cracked her a good one across the ass.
She laughed.
"Thass eet, nassy beech," Pablo said.
I hoped he was talking to Rosalyn. Gave her six more hard ones while she shivered and yelped on top of him. She had the KY laid out on the table, like maybe she'd been expecting company. I smeared some on myself and got up on the couch, kneeling awkwardly with one knee between Pablo's muscular thighs and one leg out to the floor. It was close enough. Rosalyn held herself still while I probed her ass, gasped as I went in.
Slowly.
Ass fucking is a new thing for us, too, and I have to go easy because my cock is so thick. I could feel her muscles pushing down on me while she tried to help with the penetration. She says it doesn't really hurt, that it's just the strain that makes it hard to accept. But the muscles relax, and she opens up for me. It's like magic.
She told Pablo to fuck her, to move up into her, and she held herself still while I moved in back. Pablo closed his eyes, mostly to keep from seeing me, I'd guess. If he didn't like me touching his shoulder, I wondered how he liked feeling my cock rubbing against his with only a couple of tissue layers between us.
Whatever else was going on, Rosalyn was liking her end of it. She was moaning and groaning, and I felt the big fist start to squeeze in my belly. Inside her she was hot and welcoming. Fucking her ass wasn't like anything else I'd ever done. Just as sweet, but different. I tried to hold off for a while, but I couldn't. The squirter came on and I came inside her, grunting like a pig, and Rosalyn shouted my name.
I pulled out, and Pablo squirmed out from under Rosalyn just afterwards. He got a handful of her black hair and forced her head around
"Sock eet, beech," he said in a snarl, and I went to light a cigar.
Rosalyn went down on him, sticking her butt up at the same time. She knew I'd like the view, and she was right about that. I got the digital camera out and took a couple of pictures, trying to frame it so her heavy breasts showed hanging down between her arms like they were. Very pretty.
“Thass eet, beech,” the guy said, smirking at me.
He didn't give a shit whether I took his picture or not, the little bastard. He was porking my old lady and he thought that put him one up on me. Dumb ass purely didn't have a clue, and that's the truth of the matter. He didn't know that Rosalyn was playing to an audience of one, and that he wasn’t anything more than a biological dildo for her to use while she did it.
I remembered him, finally. Pablo was the new dishwasher at Chez Jose, where Rosalyn works part-time and where I eat when I can afford to. He was Joe Soto's cousin from Puerto Rico by way of New York Shitty. Pablo's smile faded to a glare. I was trying his patience a little bit, I think.
Well, Pablo my man, fuck you if you can't take a joke.
He wasn't long for this world anyway, if I had to guess. Normal men can’t sustain one of Rosalyn’s patent blowjobs for long, and Pablo the dishwasher was no different. She had his toes curled in about two minutes, even through the rubber, and that was the end of Pablo. He gave a Puerto Rican grunt of surprise and came like a greyhound pissing. Couldn't have stopped if he’d wanted to, and I was nearly sympathetic.
Hell, she's done it to me a thousand times. She lets you tie her up and play boss, then she sucks your soul out and swallows it and laughs in purest delight. And there isn't a damned thing you can do about it except laugh with her.
Except Pablo the dishwasher wasn’t laughing. It’s a hard lesson, and it’s harder still with an audience. Especially an audience who points guns at you and sits around drinking coffee and reading the newspaper while you're giving it your very best shot. He wouldn't like the feeling of being unmanned, which was the view he'd take. It wouldn't do to take him for granted, I decided.
If there's one thing I've learned over the years it's to sort the wannabes from the real bad boys. Most of the smart asses out there looking for trouble aren't really much of a problem for someone who's ready for them. It's the other kind you got to watch for. They'll break you like a bad habit, if you let them. This guy humping my wife, for instance, was probably of the smart-ass variety, but I didn't know him well enough to make that determination out of hand. It would pay to be careful around him.
When he got done, Pablo was ... um, how shall I say it? Ungracious? Is that a real word? He peeled the prophylactic off and shoved Rosalyn aside to get dressed, cussing me steadily in Spanish while he did it, too.
"Give him fifty bucks," Rosalyn said.
I cocked an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Paid him. He took the money and slammed out the door without saying a word. Didn't even unlock her handcuffs.
“Ingrate," I said.
Latino jizz dribbled onto the tabletop from the limp condom and it looked just like mine. Rosalyn says there are variations in flavor according to diet and lifestyle. I tell her that's interesting. Always good to have subject matter experts in our line of work, us being information specialists and all.
"Sorry,” she said, not sounding any sorrier than I had been when I took my gun out of Pablo’s ear. She was laughing at me a little bit.
I didn't know how she worked this morning's little sex show, but it was a pretty cute. She would've had to time it just right to get Pablo the dishwasher fired up on schedule with her handcuffed and underneath him just as I came in on my white charger to save the day. I had to guess, I'd say Jimmy the doorman would have been the lookout and given her a call while I was in the elevator. That damned Jimmy would pack sand and shit Waterford crystal if Rosie asked him to. Comes to that, I probably would, too.
"I could use some help over here," she said.
I lit her a cigarette and let her twist her arms around enough to smoke it. Her hips were still moving in urgent little spasms and her face had that pinched up look she gets when she hasn't gotten off and wants to. I got up from behind my desk again and picked the stiff gun belt up off the table and hit her across the tits with it. She jumped.
"You paid that little weasel?" I asked, and hit her again.
She made a face at that.
"I wasn't going to seduce his silly ass, was I?"
Well, probably not, since she put it that way. If she had've, he'd be taking her for granted. Modern urban machismo would have had him hanging around the office all day, with expectations of full rights and services. This way, it was business. He'd brag about it to his buddies, but he wouldn't hang around. And he'd worry about me a little bit, which suited me just fine. Even so, I thought it was a lot of trouble to go through just for a prank.
"I was hoping it would make you a little bit mad at me," she said.
She gave me that cryptic, dimpled, mystery smile of hers and reached out with her manacled hands to stroke my cock, which rose obediently. I was pleased to see it didn‘t fit into her mouth as easily as the other guy's had. She had to rock her head back and forth a little bit to stretch her lips around it. I hadn't washed since being in her ass, but she didn't seem to mind.
"I been up all night, you know?"
"Yeah?" She lifted her head, and her pink tongue darted out to slither over those lips. Oh, those gorgeous lips. She smiled and spread out on the sofa again. She made that a breathy invitation, too. "Mark me up a little more, Boss Man. See if that doesn't get you going again."
Keys to the kingdom is what that is.
I made the belt sigh going through the air. Hit her low, angling from her left hip bone, across the neatly trimmed copse of brown pubic hair to her right thigh. She blinked and let go of me and raised her arms over her head again to get them out of my way, all invitation.
I sat on the coffee table, feeling the coolness of the wood on my bare ass, and smacked her tits for a while. She jerked and whimpered as the marks began to crisscross over themselves. Liking it. When she started to cry I gave her a break and sat back to finish my coffee.
This was a lot better than reading that damned newspaper.
Rosalyn blinked the tears away and got her cigarette from the ashtray on the side table and tapped the ash off and smoked some more. I pinched her nipples for her. They were swollen like they always are when she gets going good; big and red as ripe raspberries. Sweeter maybe. She lifted one leg to hook the heel over the back of the couch and let the other bent knee sag outward.
“Pussy whip me?" It made her throat tighten up to ask that. Pussy whipping is serious stuff.
"Who's in charge here?"
She laughed at that and I felt better. Making this girl laugh is the most important thing I do. Any fool can make her scream, but I'd trade my last breath to make her laugh. She stuck her leg out so I could tuck it under my left arm where she could jerk around without spoiling my aim. Smiled ruefully, cringing a little bit, knowing what was coming.
When I swung at her again, twisting around some to get a good angle at her crotch, she let herself scream a little. More like a cat yowling for her tom, I thought. She had started to sweat so I knew it was hurting her. Big oily beads grew out of her skin and rolled off her like rain off a roof. I hit her again, harder. I was thinking we'd damned sure better be the only people on the floor, or we were going to have the cops around our ears pretty quick. You'd think I was killing her, all the noise she made.
When she called my name it sounded like praying. It's a lot of incentive.
I could hear the orgasm in her voice, pressing down on her. I bent her leg back some more and braced myself against her muscular heaves so she couldn't double up or pull away on me and spoil my rhythm. I gave her time to take a big shaky breath and then I whacked her eight or ten times more—vicious little shots that turned her screams into harsh, desperate barks of pain. She struggled. Not too much, of course. Just enough to show she wasn't just going to lie there and take it.
I understood.
Hard to be calm about that sort of thing, you know?
Her hips writhed, trying to get out from under the pain. Welcoming it, too. I knew the signs, and I knew the only way to hurt her worse was to quit. The breath whistled in her throat and the lean body arched up to the belt, deliberate and wanton, then flinched away when it hit her. She was breathing through clenched teeth, making noises that hurt to listen to and would have busted eardrums if they ever got out of her throat.
Getting off.
Finally.
My arm was getting tired.
The orgasm rippled her belly muscles. I had to stand up and put a knee on her chest to hold her down enough for the slashing belt licks to rain down right where I wanted them.
Dead center.
The soft flesh between her legs blanched with shock and then gorged to scarlet after each impact. Whelps rose, crosshatching over the moist lips of her sex. I held her while she came, letting her push as hard as she wanted to against me.
When she finished, I crawled between her legs and got inside her. She heaved against me, and my cock had that half-pumped rubber hose feel that says you can just fuck forever. I wasn’t sure I could come again, but I did, eventually, and collapsed onto her like a limp dishrag when it was done. After a while I unlocked her handcuffs and she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me tight.
"What would you like for your breakfast?" she said, when we'd caught our breath. “I’ve got eggs and bacon in the fridge.”
"Ernie fixed us a Cuban sandwich."
"You just had one of those," she said with a twisted little smile.
"Well," I said, "at least it was Latin in the middle." And we both laughed.
She dropped her handcuffs on the tabletop. They were lined in leather and had her name engraved into them. She picked up her watch and checked the time.
I yawned.
"You've got an appointment right after lunch," she said. "I'll wake you up in time for a shower." She wrinkled her pretty nose with delicate, but unmistakable, disdain. "Unless you'd prefer to have your back scrubbed?"
Meaning to get off my sorry ass and hit the shower, I guess. She was right. I stank. I got up and followed her into the three by three stall and we spent a happy ten minutes washing each other's bits and pieces. I got a secondary ache down in my belly somewhere, but the old cock just didn't have enough steam left to raise its head. Rosalyn knelt so I could pee on her, then shoved me out. I dried off and flopped naked back onto the couch, hardly able to keep my eyes open.
What the fuck was Pablo's last name?
Rosalyn came back from the john and dressed where I could watch her. I pried one eyelid up. She’s five seven in her bare feet, running a carefully maintained hundred and thirty-five pounds, and carrying it very well, indeed. She isn’t thrilled with her tits, in spite of my boyish enthusiasm. Thirty-six double D. Inelegant, she says. Ruins the lines of her clothes and makes her hard to fit.
To fit what, I ask.
Her body was striped red where I'd whipped her, but the marks were already fading. She’s a fast healer, which is just as well considering the games she likes to play. She lit another cigarette and dressed like she was by herself; lavender satin bra, black g-string, a tailored dress of scarlet silk cut low enough in front to keep it interesting. She put on the wide leather belt to accent her narrow waist and slid her pretty bare feet into black leather mules. When she leaned over the sofa, I ran my hand up her leg.
She gave me a motherly pat on the shoulder and took the sandwich for her breakfast. I watched the exaggerated sway of her hips as she walked away on the absurdly high heels. Beautiful thing to see, even in my condition. The door closed behind her and I heard the double latch snick home. She was locking me in, or maybe blocking the world out, and at that point I didn't much care either way.
Martinez, I thought suddenly. That was the cocksucker's name.
Pablo Martinez.
I rolled over, falling into that deep black hole that exhaustion had made, reaching out for the little death with both hands. Man, that fucking couch sure felt good.
Fucking couch.
That made me smile.
I slept.
