Fifty thousand dollars in exchange for three weeks of sheer commitment and consented submission. It was a simple proposal from the employer to an employee until feelings got in the way.
Being a college student and the legal guardian of her two sibli...
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"Where is she?" I'm still at the door, the room smelling of sweat, marijuana, and rotten pizza.
He's still as shabby as I remember; even washing a cup is a chore beyond him.
Like the cunt he is, he imposes on playing the verbal cat and mouse, vacuously believing I'm still the same boy he used to punch, tie up, and kick whenever his crooked temper would allow. So he stands there, laughing cynically.
"I told you I don't know, kiddo! That whore left with some dick and she's probably fucked in the gutters! You think I fucking care about what she does now? Well, unless you got some green cash to—you know what they say about money." He drinks his crappy beer that I unplug my gun and shoot at in a heartbeat. "Fuck! Are you nuts? That was the last one!"
"Where is she?" I repeat with the last ounce of patience left in me, pointing the 9mm Glock at him.
"I said I don't fucking know!"
"Wrong answer." A bullet flies from the barrel and pierces through his right thigh.
A flesh wound.
I step into the stinky dilapidated shack toward him as he groans painfully.
"You fucking fucker! Arghhh! What the fuck have you done?" he cries with one bent leg on the floor, terror swimming in his filthy eyes now that he sees a red stain growing on his thigh.
There's something infernal about blood. It's scary at first, but once you get that metallic stench accustomed to your nose and its dark crimson to your eyes, it begins to consume you demonically from within, viciously, like a beast in shackles fighting for release.
And when the beast is released...
"You think I'll tell you where that puta is?" he groans. "I'll fucking tell you no shit!"
Maybe not. I free another bullet straight to his left knee, and off he cracks on the floor wailing in hysterics. No longer a flesh wound. A bolt in the joint. Guaranteed fracture.
"Stop! Just fucking stop, motherfucker!" he bellows, stirring and groaning, his blood choking his nasty confidence to my liking. "If you kill me you won't find her! You hear me? You won't fucking find her!"
I stop before him, my gun held still toward his face, the still-hot barrel pointed to his forehead. He swallows hard, and I can smell his rotten guts and fear alongside his pouring blood.
"I'm the only one who can take you to your mother, Adrian!" he adds, breathing shakily. "Alright? Help me and I'll take you there." He struggles to give me his trembling bloody hand.
The same one that used to punch me, beat her, and choke my brother.
"Come on, boy," he begs, slim sweat jutting off his temples, and I plod closer without missing a blink of his horror-infested eyes. He struggles to edge back, pleading though nonverbally. "Don't. Adrian, don't kill—"
