There comes a time in every man's life when he stands at the brink of a precipice. He must decide whether to do what is right for him, a good idea, or what is right for her. Trevor had reached this point. He stood there in the driving rain, trying to decide whether to break her heart, which was best, or let her keep on believing that she was the one that he had been searching for. Not knowing what to do, he touched the gun in his pocket. It brought him instant relief and understanding. He knew exactly what he needed, what she needed. With his head down he started toward the squat brick motel that she was staying in, probably for the last time in his life.
It all started earlier that year with a phone call, you may think that a phone call 9 months ago couldn't put this into motion but it did. Cue Trevor, worn out, beat all to shit, and alone in some no-name place, plenty of money but on the run.
I'm sitting in this shitty hotel room, wondering whether I should even care enough to go out and buy a drink or three. So I guess I'll just sit here, tracing the shadows down her cold dead body. I didn't kill her, don't get the wrong idea. She was Frisking, or whatever the fuck the kids are calling the ecstasy-cocaine combination that is the new campus craze. Probably a heart attack from the amphetamine, that stuff really fucks you up, then again it could have been them. It could have been a dab of cyanide in her stash, a drop of arsenic in her drink, or even the tried and true morphine injection while we both were passed out. Either way, she was dead and my DNA was all over her, all in her too. A whore, of course, it seems that all I can get is whores these days. A shadow cast by a passing car's headlights rolls down her smooth breast, behind which once held a strong beating heart, but now only silence, and into the tiny cup of her navel. She was beautiful. I fucked her to death. I can't believe my luck, the one time that I think I got a hooker that didn't fake the orgasm and the bitch dies.
Now what am I supposed to do?
I can't leave her, I can't hide the body, and I can't take her with me. I am royally fucked. I guess all I can do is wait until the rain stops, and maybe hit that shit she has in that little baggie in her purse and hope that my fate will be more forgiving than hers.
Goddamn it! I'm even lying to you. I need to get it together, it's just everything has been falling apart for the last few months, and I thought I might have finally gotten away from them. Apparently I was wrong.
Let's start last night. I was in the bar as usual, when this pretty young girl with a sparkle in her eyes and cheap rouge on her cheeks came up to me and sat down. I bought her a drink, we talked. She made it seem like everything I said was music to her, I've seen the type before, find some poor bastard that looks lonely, talk to him about anything for half an hour, and then make a little money off him in the back of his car, or on the always squeaky bed of some cheap-ass motel. This time it was different, I don't think she understood what she was getting into when she swung her hips my way. I'm not infected, or a murderer, or anything else that most whores are scared of. I am unclean. We went back to my hotel room in the Shady Day Inn, located in sunny wherever the hell I am now, Kentucky. I was coming off a jaunt, my word for an 8 day drinking binge that usually lands me in a different city with a different girl, So I'm a little lonely, is that a crime? We talked money and settled that problem quickly. She was cheaper than I was used to, but close enough to count. What the hell? I might as well have some fun, so I told her, Everything. She listened, probably thinking I was some kind of lunatic, until I finished, and said "sounds rough, want me to give you a massage to make it all better?"
I could have stopped here, throwing her ass out on the street with half her money and still able to turn another trick tonight would have been better for her, but that wouldn't have been fun would it?
I fucked her; do I need to say more? I fucked her hard, fast in every way I could think of, in every hole I could get it into. About half way in she went into the bathroom to take a shower, and apparently snort some shit. I followed her, sneaking up behind her, as she looked at her smeared makeup in the mirror. I was banishing all the problems from the last year tonight, I told myself as I slid up behind her. She turned around, a slight smile playing across her lips still white with powder, and greeted me in the way that only whores can. She got down on her knees and took my whole dick into her mouth. No teeth, lots of tongue, and deep-throating till I thought she might choke. It was intense. When I came, she let it dribble down her chin and land on her obscenely perfect tits.
Oh, Lament and Discordia, I didn't want that orgasm to end. You understand don't you? It was like that first blow job, that first fuck, its like a light bulb goes off in your head, telling you that you would rather die than forget this moment.
She stood, glistening with my spend, and began to rub herself in that way that says "I'm trying to get you up again so I can fuck you to death." It worked. We started out, her sitting on the little sink me standing, but that wasn't enough. She wanted to be dominated by me; she wanted me to take over, like I was the whore. So I fucked her from behind, leaning over the wrought iron bathtub. Sliding in and out of her so fast I thought I might have a heart attack. That seems almost funny now. She came, I know she did, there is no other explanation. I've had fake screamers, been called half a million dirty names, been asked if I wanted to do a million dirty things, but it has never been like this. Her muscles tightened around my dick, and she started making noise. Not that fake moan that you always hear on late night cable TV but a gasping noise that means she is enjoying this too much to talk. I never stopped, I never came, I just kept on, harder and harder, as deep as I could, hoping that she might be the one good lay that would keep me from killing myself.
Did I mention that my life was shit?
I looked down at her, her head all the way back, squinting as, what I think was a true orgasm, ripped its way through her, and still I couldn't stop. Time after time, when I would get close, I would think of what might happen if they caught me, and I'd beak out in a cold sweat and nearly lose my erection. This went on for hours, sometimes from behind, sometimes on the floor with me on top, sometimes standing against a wall, but never stopping, only pausing to change position. Finally I got close enough to want it, I told her I was cumming, all she said was don't stop, over and over again, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop. I think I blacked out when I came.
It never crossed my mind, lying in a pool of sweat, and sex, with some no-name hooker that I had nearly died fucking, that they might have found me. But I think they did.
When I came to, she was laying on top of me struggling to catch her breath, smiling at me, and rubbing my chest at the same time. She whispered something; I don't know what it was.
That's sad isn't it, these were her last words on earth, and I missed them. What can I say? I told you already that I'm a poor bastard.
I mumbled in reply, and made my way to the bed. When I woke, she was sleeping beside me; her arm curled gently around her nude body, her cleanly shaven pussy still wet with our earlier action. She could have been one of those nude models that people paint, or photograph. Their beauty unsurpassed by anything manmade. I showered, cleaning her dime-store perfume off my body was almost impossible, and dressed in the bathroom. I can't be sure if she was dead when I got out of bed, but I think she was breathing, nothing is for sure nowadays.
Let's make a long story short. When I got out of the shower, she was dead. Still with her arm curled, like a model posing for her last portrait, around her face. I couldn't even bring myself to move it to check if she was alive or not. I think they did it, I think they killed a pseudo-innocent American just to keep me guessing. And they call me the bastard. I figure, right about now you are confused about that phone call that I told you about earlier. Well, here goes. I hope that I'm not putting your life in danger by telling you. I work for the government; I've been an agent for the CIA for about 8 years now. You know what I mean, I'm the guy that they always tell before my missions that if I'm caught my country will disavow all knowledge of me or my actions. This time it was Russian mafia.
About 9 months ago I was assigned to do some routine penetration surveillance, that's Nazi-speak for undercover infiltration of a group with the intent to gather information. It was all going well, until the stupid doorman-soldier gave me the wrong cell phone after the meeting. Leave it to my shitty luck to have a cell that looked exactly like the Don's. When my contact from the agency called me he answered, and knew exactly what was going on. I don't know how he knew the information codes to get my new orders, but he did. Just so happens, my new code-set orders were to kill him.
What fucking luck. All those months of undercover work undone because the doorman keeps cell phones at the meetings. I guess it is policy, to keep people from being able to make a call to a remote detonator. Either way, I'm royally fucked. Didn't I say that already? So now you know, I've been on the run ever since. I can't get help from the State Department, because I don't exist. I can't get help from my mafia contacts, because they are already dead, I can't even get help from some third-rate hooker in a small town.
