XXX Shamus Read online

  “I take what comes my way.”

  “Funny how it’s always girls, young and horny and of questionable character. You surround yourself with them. Especially that new secretary.”

  Hopper watched the screen and wished he were elsewhere. Burt Figg was going to feel all Hopper’s bottled-up rage, guaranteed.

  “Divinity’s helped a lot. Maybe she’ll organize me into a new tax bracket.”

  “That’s enough. Shut up, all right?”

  Sister’s cheeks sagged and the lines were deeper than last time. She was never diagnosed as manic depressive, but the signs were all there. The moods varied every time Colin left. Sometimes she’d get ambitious, start a new novel, clean the house, try to learn Russian. Other times, this was what happened—self-doubt, hostility, acid-strength sarcasm.

  Hopper stopped the backrub.

  She said, “What is that, a threat? I didn’t say stop.”

  “No, I’m really tired.”

  “We’ve been through this before.”

  He collapsed onto the mattress, blew out a long breath. “Do you ever believe me? Ever?”

  A long moment passed, her back to him, before she rolled, her head on his shoulder, hand on his chest. “I believe you when you agree with me. Besides, you’ve pulled this type of thing before. Your cock will betray how you really feel.”

  She had that quality, indeed. Something about her brought out the rawest sexuality in him. He’d even fucked her once when he had the flu and fever. She insisted. He swore he couldn’t get it up. All she had to do was touch his belt.

  Much like she was doing right then.

  “Why tonight? Can’t we talk? Veg out?”

  Her eyes. Full, soulful, turned up to his. “You sound like a queer.”

  “You know better.”

  Sister’s hand unbuckled the belt without looking. Hopper stirred, throbbed, wished he wasn’t getting hard for her. “Please.”

  “Your mouth says ‘Please,’ but your body, well, let’s take a look.” She worked the button, the zipper. Of course, no underwear for Hopper. He considered changing that habit to give himself an extra layer of protection from moments like this, albeit a thin one. Sister’s hand circled him in just the right way, the organ half-hard and growing.

  “Violet—”

  “You say my name? You don’t dare.” She laughed darkly and slid herself towards his waist. He watched her nightgown slide up. White thighs. She didn’t get out to tan much.

  Her lips were around him, taking him in fully before coming off again and flicking her tongue against the tip. Her warm saliva chilled quickly. She took him again. He was hard indeed, pretty much full bore, no turning back. One of Sister’s hands cupped his balls while the other yanked at his waistband. He didn’t help her. Soon his pants were free and she pushed them to his knees. She wouldn’t let him come in her mouth. Not if he knew what was good for him. She wouldn’t let him come until she had gotten all of him that she wanted.

  She lifted her mouth from him, caught his eye again. “Your balls stink. You have been busy today, haven’t you? Is this what Divinity’s cunt smells like?”

  Hopper tried to roll away, but she held his thighs down, bobbed up and down on his penis a few more times before saying, “I hit a nerve. Not enough to deflate you. I knew she didn’t mean much to you.”

  Hopper sat up, grabbed his sister’s hair and pulled. She laughed, her neck inviting a kiss. He wanted to slap her in the face.

  “Do it.”

  He didn’t know if she meant kiss or slap.

  “You don’t get that hard for anyone but me.”

  Yeah, it was a grudge fuck. One hell of a grudge.

  Hopper released Sister’s hair and she responded by pulling his pants off completely. She slipped the shoulder straps of her nightgown down, pushed until her breasts were free. She cozied up to Hopper and he couldn’t help but take a nipple into his mouth the way she liked. Licked it the way she liked. Her moan and laugh combo meant she’d won and it was too late for him to stop because he needed to come now more than he had with anyone else that day. He needed to pound her flesh like this was a prizefight, make her sore the next day. Sister read him like a short story and knew when it was time for her to turn around on her hands and knees and pull her gown above her hips.

  “Come on. Come on,” she said. “Fuck me. I need it hard.”

  Her ass and pussy in his face, shit and fish smell overpowering him as he pulled himself up, placed his hands on either side of her waist, and pulled her towards him. Sister reached behind and guided his dick inside her and pressed back against him while she rubbed her clit. “Come on, fuck me, little brother. Fuck your sister like your only lover.”

  And he did. Drove her hard while he stared into the still eyes of Demi Moore, only thinking of this groaning beast beneath him and how much he wanted to hurt her. He sped up when she came the first time, slowed down for the second. She finally said, “Wait,” and flipped over on her back, held her pasty lumpy legs high and wide. “Look into my eyes when you come.”

  Hopper pushed into her again and held her wrists above her head. She bit her bottom lip and then whispered, “Say you love me.”

  “I love you I love you I—”

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  “Jesus, I love you so much, Sister, I can’t tell you how much you mean to me—”

  A devilish smile and then she took in deep breaths, then short and hard, and she came loudly, shuddered all over, grabbed the back of Hopper’s neck and yelled, “Look at me! Come in me!”

  Hopper gritted his teeth and growled at her and waited until that moment when he knew she had come and was most sensitive and that’s when he kept going harder, her telling him to “Wait wait wait slow down wait” but he kept on and on and on and:

  “Shit!”

  Deep deep inside her. Deep deep. Hold it. Hold it.

  Let it go.

  She had a tear running down her cheek. She wasn’t looking in Hopper’s eyes anymore, but somewhere to the left. He wanted to collapse on her, hold her, but both she and Divinity, so much alike to be so different, didn’t like cuddling. He sometimes forgot for a moment that he didn’t want to cuddle with Sister anyway.

  Hopper rolled off, felt the sickening moment of release when his slimy penis trailed out of her and left spunk on her legs, on her sheets.

  He breathed in slowly, held his hand over his revved-up heart and willed it to slow down, thinking of how he wanted to leave town, change his name, forget he even had a sister. He thought that after every fuck. A night of beating the piss out of Figg would hardly make up for it.

  Sister turned towards him, fingers on his chest, soft and ticklish. She usually didn’t do that. She usually got up, said something like, “That was a good one, boyo,” and then took a loud piss in the half-bath off her bedroom. Her attention was suspicious.

  “What?” Hopper said.

  “I forgot to tell you,” she said, her face blank of all emotion. “I’m off the pill.”

  Outside Burt Figg’s condo at three in the morning, Hopper threw up as quietly as he could. He had held in the bile and acid after his sister mentioned she was off birth control, asking her, “But you’re keeping track, right? This was…okay?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t exactly remember. Colin used a condom this morning. I made him. I should have made you, too.”

  “You never make me.”

  “Feels better. I forgot. No biggie.”

  “No biggie?”

  Sister shrugged again. Was she joking? A big practical joke? She’d done it before, usually talking about other men who’d fucked her better in whatever position they were grinding. Hopper did the math in his head—maybe three, four fucks while she was off the pill. Almost intentional.

  “So, what if—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this. Why do you always have to ruin the moment like that? You think I’m stupid? You think I’d keep it?”

  Yeah, Hopper thought. T
hat’s exactly what I think you’d do.

  When Hopper could swallow again after emptying his guts on the shrubs outside Figg’s window, he gave the baseball bat he was carrying a good two-handed shake. Blood had browned up and down the wood like a bad varnish job, splotchy and uneven.

  It was always a bat instead of a gun in the old days. Wounds by bat healed, but the victims rarely snitched, usually because they were involved in some bad shit in the first place, which was why they got the beat-down.

  Hopper had used it five times. Four men, all scum. Once on a woman pointing a .22 at him. Shattered her hand and the gun fell to pieces.

  Tonight was number six. A pleasure.

  Once he had checked out the windows, made sure it was nice and dark and no one with insomnia was watching infomercials, Hopper crept around the front door. Modern technology was a pisser. Hopper was aware of surveillance cameras, so he hid his face with a Hornets cap. He had parked far enough away that no one would connect his car to the mysterious stranger sneaking outside Figg’s building. The condo probably had an alarm rigged, too. If he set off a wail, he’d probably run for it and hunker down, wait for another chance in the daylight while Figg was out and about.

  If not, though…

  If he picked the lock and the door swung open to absolute silence…

  If God answered Hopper’s prayers…

  Then Figg would have trouble walking and speaking come sunrise.

  Even if the man gave up information on Yasmin’s whereabouts, Hopper was going to perform some dis-cosmetic surgery. Half his reasons didn’t have anything to do with Figg himself.

  The lock was simple, a DIY store standard bolt-action, tough to break but mass-produced enough that Hopper had figured out a master key design that had worked on more than half the locks he tried. Better to try that first instead of the clumsy picks.

  He slid the key in easily, felt it catch, pulled out halfway, tried again. He thought it was like sex, took a deep breath and chased that away. He didn’t want images of his naked sister riding him. He didn’t need the distraction of Divinity bent over the loveseat in the office asking him to “pick her lock.” One more try with the key. Fully in. Turned it clockwise. It spun a full twelve hours. Open sesame.

  Inside, closing softly, trying to keep squeaks down, Hopper let his eyes adjust to the dark. The living room, minimal and futuristic, furniture facing a huge flat-screen TV, empty of people. A buzz of light from the doorway leading to the kitchen. Probably over the stove, always on. At the end of the hall, two dark open doorways—Hopper guessed bathroom and bedroom.

  He had changed into black suede Hush Puppy shoes, like walking on air. The trip down the hall was stealthy, all ninja, the way it is in movies but never in real life. His palm was slick on the bat. It had been a while since he’d pounded someone with the plank, but he was more than ready. The sweat was pure calorie-burning energy, quietly spent.

  Looked like two figures in the bed under the comforter. That might be a problem. Hopper had a plan—after busting Figg’s kneecap, he would find a belt, bind the lover’s hands and tie her to the clothes rod in the closet. Too many plans at once. He was going to get caught if there were more than one person here. No way would this be a fair fight between two men. Shit.

  Turn back? Try again tomorrow?

  Not after coming this far. I don’t have time to waste.

  Bedside. No limbs stuck out from under the comforter, a bit much for the middle of summer. Still, lumpy and generally the right size. Hopper guessed where the knee might be. Windmilled his bat a couple times, then brought it high over his head, tense, tense. A grin. Couldn’t wait for the sound of it. He brought it down hard.

  And didn’t hear popping cracking breaking bones. Didn’t feel the bat shake his whole body on contact.

  It was all mushy. Like…a marshmallow.

  The lights blinded him, the whooping noise coming from behind, scrabbling footsteps, but before Hopper could turn around, something banged his head and sickened him and he thought to himself while he still had a chance, I’ve never been knocked unconscious before.

  Hopper woke up strapped to one of the futuristic chairs in the living room. His skull throbbed. His eye socket hurt, but he couldn’t remember why. Then a remote control flew towards his face, smacked him in the teeth. Across from him, three college-aged men sat in the couch, all fully dressed, throwing things at Hopper—the remote, a paperback, an orange, an X-Box controller. One swigged from a can of beer and then sent it flying. Hopper ducked his head. The can sailed over and exploded frothy on the carpet.

  “Jesus, what the hell?” A Scottish accent for certain. It was coming from Hopper’s left. “All over my carpet!”

  The bland-eyed kid on the sofa slurred a sentence together. “Well, blame him, he moved, you know?”

  “You threw a full can at ‘im. Even if it had hit…never mind.” A strained sigh.

  Hopper turned his head and saw the thin, angular Burt Figg standing with his arms crossed, a phone in one hand. He wasn’t dialing it so much as considering it. He wore silk pajamas.

  When Figg caught Hopper’s stare, he said, “Your new friend, Ivana? She tipped me off. One of my best customers these days. Figured you’d do something like this.”

  Hopper cleared his throat, said, “What if I hadn’t?”

  “Then I guess I’d have let my guard slip and you would have broken my leg in a few days. Then I would’ve been angry. Now I’m just annoyed.”

  A coaster twirled like a throwing star and hit Hopper’s cheek. The couch-sitters erupted in cheers and high-fives. All three pretty muscled, short-haired. Hopper had seen their vacant stares on too many college students. He wondered if they would show up on the disc Ivana had given him. Figg barked “Enough” and gave two of the guys an errand to run. Hopper thought he told them to go buy some beer and tacos.

  Once they were gone, Figg sat on the couch, sank into the leather cushions, while the guy next to him stared Hopper down. The biggest of the three guys, of course. The one who made Figg feel safe. Hopper’s bat was leaning against the guy’s leg.

  Figg pointed at the bat. “Let me see that.”

  Hopper strained against the electrical tape holding his torso to the chair. Wrists, too. He needed them loose, not broken. Figg took the bat as he watched the struggle, a smile lighting up his face.

  “I wonder if it hurts worse when you’re expecting it. Asleep, well, can’t be the worst, can it? Perhaps disorienting. But if you’re wide awake…”

  He stood and gave the bat a lazy swing before waggling it with two hands. Hopper flinched.

  “This doesn’t do you any good,” Hopper said. “You’re still in trouble no matter what. I’ve made arrangements so that the cops get what I know if I don’t come back tonight.”

  “What, you mean arrangements with your secretary? The Asian bird? That’s no problem. We’ve an eye on her. Face it. We’ve been ahead of you the whole way on this.”

  “I don’t want to bring you down. I just want to find Yasmin.”

  A quick swing and stop, wood inches from Hopper’s face. He sucked in air and closed his eyes, pulled hard left. Figg and the bodyguard laughed. Figg tapped the bat on Hopper’s head. “This tool tells me otherwise. You wanted to make me pay for what I’ve done to your poor sainted Yasmin. Abused and used and manipulated. That’s what you’re thinking. You wanted to crack my bones.”

  Hopper opened his eyes. “I needed some leverage. Call it protection.”

  “Call it vigilantism. Going all Batman, that’s your plan.”

  “Can you blame me? Doesn’t matter how you justify it. You’re still fucking around with children. Yasmin was a child.”

  “Are you mad? She was pregnant when she came to me. Look, I do the best check I can on age, but when they fake licenses like pros with these laser printers, all I can do is trust them. I make sure they know the consequences—could put me out of business, send me to jail, embarrass the girl and ruin their reputations.”


  Hopper leaned forward. The tape whined as he stretched. “You mean selling their naked asses to whoever lays down cash somehow enhances their reps?”

  Figg touched Hopper’s chest with the end of the bat, spun it slowly. It burned. “The girls change their names. The guys change their names. It’s all about secret identities and double-lives. The closest they’ll get to James Bond, all the sex but without the guns. Much less dangerous.”

  “Still Russian roulette.”

  Got a laugh. “What? Diseases? It’s not like I’m calling in the crackheads and faggots. Jesus.”

  Fuck the moral debate. Like talking to a fundamentalist—same hard head, different side of the brick wall. Hopper tried, “I’m only here to find Yasmin, report back to her sister. Some idea she’s all right, even if it’s in the porn world. The baby and all.”

  Figg nodded. Then he shrugged. “No clue. Sorry, mate. I can sympathize, but I don’t have the answer.”

  “What about him?” Hopper pointed his chin towards the bruiser on the couch.

  The guy shifted, looked away, said, “I liked her. Wish she’d come back.”

  “You fuck her?” Hopper asked.

  The bat smacked his ear hard and fast. He hadn’t expected it, nearly tipped the chair over. Caught himself with his foot. They hadn’t tied his feet.

  “Have respect for my employees. They’re like family,” Figg said.

  “What’s wrong with ‘fuck’? That’s the word.”

  “It was the tone. Gary over here starred in a couple of scenes with Yasmin, yes. He treated her sweetly, protected her all chivalrous, a knight and a gentleman. They had good chemistry, but offscreen it was pure. You don’t see that often. It gets all confused.”

  Gary said, “I was hoping she’d ask me to her prom.”

  Hopper relaxed his straining to see if he’d made progress on stretching the tape enough to scoot out. Not yet. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “A few days before she disappeared. She showed me a sonogram. Happy as could be.”

  “Have you been looking for her?”

  Gary’s face blanked again. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. Thoughts must not have occurred to him much anyway. Hopper had either hit a dead end or Figg was a big phony liar. Worth checking into later, but he’d screwed up the interrogation tonight. No upper hand. No reason for these two to tell him the truth about anything. Time to retreat and regroup.