I definitely can’t shake the image of her lips wrapped around the head of my cock as she gave me the most intense orgasm of my life.
All those thoughts are probably why I’m sitting in my parked car, a block away from the location I’m supposed to meet Carmine at with a hard-on that could cut diamonds.
This girl is going to kill me, I swear.
I adjust myself and climb out of the car—maybe if helping Carmine doesn’t take too long I can swing back to Felony…Mallory’s place and fuck more than just her mouth.
That thought gets me even harder.
Okay, whatever this shit is with Carmine, I’m getting it done real quick.
I slam the door and hit the fob and scan the area. In a crappy neighborhood like this, I know I have about twenty minutes before my rims are gone and my car is left up on cinder blocks. Thirty minutes until it’s gutted for the rare parts and I have about an hour before it vanishes completely into a chop shop.
I’m giving Carmine ten minutes, tops. Then I’m spending the rest of the day inside Felony-Mallory.
Mallory-Felony.
Neither names fit her.
I make my way down the street and walk through the vestibule of the building. Immediately uneasiness settles over my shoulders.
The entryway is empty, its walls covered with gouges and marked with graffiti. In the corner, a pile of filth stands about three feet high, crawling with cockroaches a size compatible to my fist.
My gun is in my hand instantly.
There’s no elevator in the place and the staircase smells of sour milk and piss.
I’m never going to forgive Carmine for making me come here.
Well, at least my boner’s gone.
At the top of the stairs to the second floor I pull out my phone and reread Carmine’s text.
Apartment 2G. Third door on the right.
This hallway is a little better than the first. It has the distinct aroma of skunk weed mixed with fried bologna. Somewhere in the mix there’s a bit of yellow mustard and Axe body spray.
A drunk guy sprawls out in the middle of the hallway, his face is mushed up against apartment 2E, and he’s fast asleep. He reeks of shit and whiskey and I silently step over him then a take picture with my phone. I’m not going to let Carmine live this down. I will post this place all over Facebook, telling everyone it’s his new home.
I have to remember to snap a pic of those dragon-sized roaches downstairs too.
When I get to apartment 2G, the door is wide open.
For a moment I stand there confused, not understanding the scene in front of me.
An overturned chair, one splintered leg swinging slowly back and forth. A broken window with a swirl of autumn leaves blowing in and spilling across the stained carpet that sparkles with glass. A panel of once-white curtains hangs crooked on a bent rod, covered with pieces of drywall crumbled over it. And all around the room, at chest level, are fist-shaped holes punched into the walls.
I’m about to lift up my camera and take another picture when a hoarse voice whispers my name. "Cor...rad...o." Gurgling and wet.
My heart jumps erratically. I feel it pulsing and throbbing under my skin and muscles and bones when I shouldn’t be feeling it beat at all.
A crumpled shape lay in a heap on the floor. “Carmine?” I call out. “Joke’s over, this shit isn’t funny.”
Gasping breaths, bubbling and thick. I take a few steps closer and on instinct the crook of my arm is immediately at my mouth trying to block the heavy scent of tangy metal.
I’m standing over Carmine, his body bathed in sweat, a pungent stench of urine lingering over him that comes from the dark stain across his pants. "Ang...elo. It's Angelo..."
It’s Angelo?The name trickles down my spine like melting ice.
