Trophy 20

The inside of the house was worth weeping over. Frank could tell it’d once had the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. Probably had it for a long time. But neglect and open abuse had turned it into an above-ground dungeon. The lack of working bulbs was probably the only thing that could be counted as clean-up in the last decade, since at least it hid the inches of trash that covered the floor, the graffiti that smeared the walls, the bullet holes in the ceiling.

This was these people’s pride and joy—the place they actually tried to keep habitable for long-term living? It felt like a sick joke, being asked to believe anyone lived like this, but they were probably half-aware of it at best. Their world was drugs, drink, and the adrenaline of vandalism and violence. His were probably the first wholly sober eyes that had seen the inside of the walls in years.

There certainly hadn’t been police here recently. Just by looking from right to left, Frank could see evidence of half a dozen crimes. One afternoon here and a CSI crew could probably fill a whole cell block.

“I’m Divina,” the woman said, leading him up a staircase with several steps that’d been pried away to get at copper wiring. Cables spilled out of these gaps like a disemboweled man’s organs. Divina stepped over them with practiced familiarity. Frank tried to duplicate her sure stride. “Hope that’s not too long to moan…”

“Frank,” Frank said.

She got to the head of the stairs and opened a bedroom door. Inside, a shirtless black man was raining blows down on another man, who bled so much that the sheets of the bed might as well have been red.

Frank would’ve intervened, but it looked like the second man was past the point of it mattering where the assault continued or not.

Divina closed the door again. “Oopsie. Ocupado. The brothers are settling a private matter… ovah heah, baby…”

She led him to another guest room. This one was empty and reasonably clean. Moonlight streamed through the window and glinted off a wall mirror, which was surprisingly clean, given the graffiti that swirled and clawed its way around the wallpaper.

Divina let go of his hand, sashaying to the bed alone, her hands trailing up her swaying body, waving in the air to the tune of the beat that still shook the floorboards. With practiced ease, she rubbed against one of the bedposts, dislodging her beads so they dropped to the floor. One strand burst and the beads rolled around the hardwood like a game of marbles.

Frank took his shirt off—more because it pissed him off to still be wearing the ugly thing than because he wanted to be naked—and unzipped his fly, drawing his erection through the opening. His long, pounding cock came into view.

“Oh, that’s beautiful! Simply beautiful!” Divina cried. “You gon take good care of me, ain’t ya now?”

She reached down and parted the blacker-than-black muff that covered her mound, showing him the flower blooming hot-pink under the radiance of his hot stare. Frank couldn’t pretend he wasn’t aching to enter her.

Divina knelt on the mattress. As soon as he was within reach of the bed, her hand darted out to his prick. She took firm hold of it, but only moved her thumb, stroking him gently underneath his cockhead.

Frank ran his hands down her luscious body. He lingered on his breasts, giving them the massage their grand heft demanded, leaving her nipples stingingly erect. Then his palms scoured their way down to the sweet slopes of her hips. He pulled her against him, his erection between their bodies, throbbing against her belly. Soon, it would be on the other side of that satiny skin.

Divina wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. It was clear now that she didn’t intend to let go until she was sated. Frank obligingly moved to get on top of her, but she had a pole-dancer’s moves. She slipped around him as he lowered, whirling him around and ended up on top of him.

Then she was sinking down, into her own penetration, Frank groaning with undisguised delight while he felt her sheathing more and more of him. Finally, their bodies locked together—he couldn’t go any deeper. Divina took over, squeezing tightly with her inner muscles and circling her hips to slowly massage all of the length she’d taken inside her.

Frank lay back and let her do her thing. He enjoyed it—Divina was clearly getting everything she’d hoped for when she set out to seduce him—but something still didn’t add up. He was a handsome man, but not that handsome; he was too hard, too dark, too intense not to set off as many warning bells as he did wet panties. He didn’t have women falling over themselves to give over their number.

And she was overdoing it. Acting like she was being electrocuted with pleasure when he was just getting started. He’d been with too many women to be fooled. She wasn’t getting paid to whore, but she was acting like a whore. It was like something out of a cheap porno.

Then it hit him. The clean mirror. The tawdry seduction. What had they taken him for, an upwardly mobile stockbroker, a lonely computer millionaire, a rich college kid? No idea how to have fun with his own race, so he subcontracted to the party girls of another? They were recording him, turning out hoes for free in the hopes of acquiring blackmail material, hell, maybe even a paternity suit.

That was where the Haitians had extended themselves beyond being a shit neighborhood. It was where he could make the squeeze play.

Now totally ignoring Divina, Frank looked over the room. He spotted an overflowing ashtray on the nightstand. Even in this love nest, they couldn’t do without mommy’s little helper. He picked the ashtray up and fastballed it into the mirror. The glass shattered. As expected, two Haitians lurked in a hidden room, enjoying the free show as a camera on a tripod recorded.

In a heartbeat, Frank was up, Divina still vined around him, instinctively holding him inside her as he bull-rushed the hidden room. There was a crackle of his muddy shoes stomping the glass shards into splinters, then he was on them.

He plucked a shard of glass that was still clinging to the mirror frame and plunged it into the nearest Haitian’s throat. His pupils popped, going right from glazed dilation to a new high. His adrenaline was pumping, but it was all going out his carotid artery.

The other Haitian backpedaled, tripping over himself. Frank wasn’t sure if his baggy shorts were down because it was the fashion or because he’d been enjoying his watch a little too much. But it led to his gat slipping down his waistband, between his underwear and his pants.

Frank knocked over the tripod. Its legs leveled up as it fell; he caught two in either hand and jerked the fallen camera up so it uppercut the second Haitian. He went down, groaning when he fell on his pistol. Frank swung the camera down like a sledgehammer. The man’s head went crimson; the red light on the camera turned off.

“More, more!” Divina moaned, lost in the sex. “Don’t stop now! Fuck me to death!”

Frank couldn’t explain the change that had come over her, but he was in no position to resist it. He backed her into the wall, rutting her against the unyielding surface. His sheer size stretched her wide; she howled in delight. He couldn’t stop himself from giving her stroke after stroke, each one forcing her carnal passage a little wider. Mindless with wild ecstasy, Divina tried to match him.

Through the delirium that demanded his senses, Frank heard a gun cock. He knew without looking what was happening. The Haitian with the glass in his throat was still bleeding out, but he still had enough strength to retrieve a gun from wherever on his person it’d been stowed.

Frank whirled on him. The Haitian froze, his gun primed but the trigger finger unwilling to pull with Divina in the way. Frank thrust Divina’s head back; her skull smashed into the Haitian’s face. He went down, the shard of glass shifted in his throat to provoke a new gout of blood.

Frank stepped on his gunhand, holding it down, and as he stood there, Divina pumped herself against him at the insistence of her mounting rapture. Her blonde hair streamed over her face like a golden veil and she rocked herself against Frank until he felt her flow, hot and wet, around his buried cock. Then her powerful convulsions became weak little twitches; she was as limp as the man expiring under Frank’s foot.

He carried her back through the broken mirror and tossed her on the bed. She landed on her side, but quickly rolled onto her back, spreading her legs to offer her well-used and well-readied cunt for a second round.

“Again! Take me again! It’ll be even better now that the edge is off.”

Frank was tempted—he hadn’t come yet—but somehow, reason prevailed. He needed to go, even if he hadn’t come yet. And besides, now that the rush of combat had left him, he kept thinking of Bella. It was distracting, comparing this woman’s pleasure to how Bella had come for him, hating him and loving him, fucked from her anger into a welcome like Maria’s. He kept killing because he had lost a welcome like that.

Of course, Bella wasn’t anything like Maria. She was the enemy, at worst—unreliable intelligence at best. But he couldn’t have her in his head and lust for Divina and the mission, not all at once. Something had to go, and since he couldn’t seem to shake the thought of Bella,  he zipped himself up and picked up his shirt to shrug on.

“Find your boss. Tell them that the Beluccis know what they did and we’re not happy about it. The money better be worth it, because soon there’ll be a lot less of you to spend it.”