Page 15 of Dirty
Oh,fuck…
No way I was going to be able to hold it back. I opened my mouth and blasted out the air inside my lungs, making sure the roar that escaped me was a silent, wordless one. My cock throbbed once, twice, three times as I came, sending out jets of hot, white ejaculate that hit the wall behind the toilet. My vision danced. I’d come hard last night, I’d expected it then, but now, jerking off? It shouldn’t have felt that fucking good. It shouldn’t have felt so fucking incredible that I lost control and blew my load all over a motherfucking breezeblock wall. What the fuckwasthat?
I felt a little unsteady as I wiped myself off and put my dick away. My legs were jelly, and the back of my neck was burning, hotter than usual, the tips of my ears prickling with pins and needles. For a second I considered leaving my come running down the wall, but then I thought better of it. Leaving considerable deposits of DNA lying around was one thing, but when you were about to commit a crime directly across the street? Yeah, that wouldn’t have been the smartest move on my part. Took me a minute to do away with my mess, and another thirty seconds to wash my hands, straighten up my hair and my jacket, and then I exited the bathroom and went to locate my coffee.
Sitting opposite my booth, another customer had come in while I was busy in the back cleaning my rifle. I recognized him the moment I laid eyes on him, but my expression and my body language didn’t change. The world had shifted, but to the acne ridden server and the balding, overweight guy sitting at the bar, squinting at a menu, everything appeared completely normal.
“I’ll take the pancakes, Jason. And make sure Herb doesn’t skimp on the syrup this time. Last time I ordered ‘em, they came out drier’n my grand mammy’s cooter.”
Jason blanched a little—probably was a good church-going boy. Probably only heard words like cooter and references to them being dry when he was here, working in this shithole. Franz Halford didn’t seem to realize he’d made the boy uncomfortable, though. He dropped the menu down on the counter and pulled a tin of tobacco, popping the lid and thumbing a small amount of its contents underneath his top lip. Why was I not surprised the guy dipped? Such a gross, nasty habit. I enjoyed a cigarette more often that I should, but shoving that shit directly into your mouth made me want to gag.
I’d been careful not to make eye contact with Franz as I sat down and settled myself back in the booth, picking up my coffee mug and taking a sip. I was a fucking professional, for god’s sake. I’d given him absolutely no reason to talk to me whatsoever, but when Jason, the server, turned around and went to hand in Franz’s order to the kitchen, the miserable fucker turned around on his stool and grinned at me, a flash of brown liquid running over his teeth as he did so.
“How you enjoyin’ this here weather?” he asked. Then he did something I just could not fathom. He turned his head and he spat on the floor. I’d just been flinging my come around in the bathroom like a deranged monkey that couldn’t stop touching its own junk, but this was far, far worse. This was fucking unforgiveable.
I hid my disdain. I hid my violence—the violence that lived under my skin at all times, begging to be unleashed. I hid the fact that I wanted to pull out the gun I had resting in a holster in the small of my back at that very same moment we sat there. I plastered a broad smile on my face that said,Hey! I’m utterly enamored by your authentic Southern charm and I am abso-fucking-lutely thrilled that you decided to talk to me, kind sir.“We sure as hell don’t get rain like this where I’m from,” I announced. To a trained ear, the laughter I forced out of me next might possibly have sounded a little manic and unhinged, but Franz didn’t bat an eyelid. He pointed to the bench opposite me in the booth, waggling his bushy eyebrows up and down.
“You want some company while you have your mornin’ Joe, or you wanna be left alone? I don’t mind either way. I just thought you might like to enjoy some of the local color, seein’ as how y’ain’t from ‘round here and all.”
I gestured to the seat opposite and shrugged a shoulder, shaking my head. “Please. Be my guest.”
Halford slid from his stool, hiking his baggy, stained jeans up on one side, though the action was pointless. His belly was sticking out from beneath the hem of his Budweiser t-shirt, and hanging over his waistband at the same time—no matter how many times he pulled his pants up, there was no way his considerable belly was going to allow them to stay up. The man grunted like a walrus as he lowered himself down into the seat, then removed his sweat-rimmed baseball cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, before returning the cap to the crown of his head.
“I gotta say, people tell me I’m pretty good at figurin’ where people are from, sir. I can identify an accent from the other side of a crowded room, and I’m pretty sure I got you pegged. I’d be willing to bet good money that you’re from Minnesota or the like.” Franz’s eyebrows were more than bushy. They were like furry caterpillars that had crawled up onto his forehead and had the misfortune to get stuck there. I couldn’t stop staring at them—mostly grey, with a stripe of ginger in the center of each. Weird.
“Iamfrom Minnesota! That’s really damn impressive,” I told him, taking another mouthful of coffee. Fuck knows who’d said he was good with accents, but they were dead fucking wrong. The Minnesotan accent bore absolutely no resemblance to the thick Chicago accent I was putting on just for him. Screw it. Let him believe what he wanted to believe. From the powerful waves of Jack Daniels that were wafting across the table, and the loose, watery grin on Franz’s face, there was a high probability that the guy was still drunk from last night. It was best not to antagonize half-drunk people by disagreeing with them.
“You were in the army, weren’t you?” Franz says, his eyes glazing over a little. “You got that look about you.”
“And what look would that be?” I say, smiling easily: a lie, a trick, a trap. A spider weaving his web with practice and ease.
“Back’s too straight for a civilian. And your eyes are quick,” he told me, scratching at the red scruff on his chin. “You’re looking at everything here, figuring it all out.”
I lowered my head—a show of deference—laughing a little under my breath. “Sad to say, I’ve never served. Wish I had, though. I’d probably have gotten a lot out of it when I was younger.”
Franz nodded enthusiastically, then spat on the floor again. Urgh. Bastard. “I was in the army for fifteen years,” he said. “Best years of my life, too. Protected the freedom of my fellow American citizens. Got to see the world. And got my dick sucked more times’n I can count!” He slapped the table, eyes disappearing into slits as he burst out laughing, his belly spilling over onto the table.
This was getting worse and worse by the second. Things would have been far simpler if I’d run into Franz over at the auto shop; now the piece of shit was ordering breakfast, and I was going to have to sit here with him until he fucking finished.
No.
Just no.
Completely ignoring his last statement, I stabbed a finger out of the window at the shop across the street, frowning slightly. “Hey, friend? I don’t suppose you know if that auto place is gonna open today? My truck’s making a rattling noise. I’m a little worried about driving it in this weather without getting it checked out first.”
Franz sat back in his seat, puffing his chest out with an unreasonable amount of pride. “That place most definitelyisgoing to open up today. I’m Franz Halford. I own the place.” He thrust out his hand toward me, waiting for me to shake it, face split open with a grin, like he’d just surprised me with the biggest secret known to man or something. I shook, unhappy about the contact, feigning amusement to rival Franz’s.
“That’s well met, then. I’m lucky to have run into you. All the other places in town are closed.”
Franz pulled a face, waving me off with an unsteady flick of his wrist. “Those motherfuckers over at Dimson’s are criminals, man. Fucking immigrants. Don’t speak a word of English between ‘em. They ain’t ever open before midday, and when you do catch ‘em open, they’ll over change you by a couple’a hundred bucks every single goddamn time. It’s unchristian is what it is.”
A shiver of annoyance raced down my spine, but once again I managed to hide my reaction to the grotesque human being in front of me. “Then I really will consider myself lucky. Listen,” I said, making a show of looking down to glance at my watch. “I heard you ordering breakfast and all, but I was wondering…I’m in a serious hurry. If I picked up your tab here and shot you an extra hundred bucks for accommodating me, would you get your food to go and come cast an eye over my engine for a second? It’s probably nothing, I’m probably being overly cautious, but I just wanna make sure…”
Franz narrowed his eyes at me, looking me up and down. “A hundred bucks and you pay for my breakfast,on topof the assessment fee for looking at your vehicle?” He pronounced the H in vehicle—one of my pet peeves. I nodded, though, continuing to smile.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, alright then. I ain’t gonna argue with you, mister. What’s your name again?”
