TORN: A Dark Romance Read online

  We were in Brent’s truck, a two-year-old Ford F-150 that he loved just a little less than he loved me. He was so proud of that truck. His dad had it now, though he never drove it. It just sat in the driveway, where Brent parked when he came home to visit. The bullet holes were still in the windshield and the back glass. His dad had duct-taped a piece of cardboard over the busted-out passenger side window. I think that he thought that having the truck repaired would somehow mean that he had accepted his only son’s death. Brent’s dad and I were a lot alike. Neither of us would ever let that happen.

  It was just after eight o’clock when we left Red Lobster. It was the middle of summer and even though the sun was just going down, the air was still sticky and hot. We had the windows up and the AC blasting. We were going back to our little apartment to consummate our anniversary.

  Sex with Brent was always quick and simple (there’s that word again). Even though he was twenty-six and good looking, he’d only been with one other girl before me, so his skills in the bedroom were somewhat awkward and a little bland. I’d had sex with four guys, one of them a lot older than me, and had done pretty much everything you could imagine, but I never suggested we do anything more than a little fingering foreplay and the quick missionary position to Brent. He was the sensitive type; deeply religious and wholesome. Telling him I wanted him to eat my pussy or that I wanted him to shove his cock into my mouth probably would have scared him to death. Brent was such a good guy, I could live with bland sex if it meant we would be together forever. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. If Brent couldn’t satisfy me, I could satisfy myself.

  I was fiddling with the radio when I felt the truck slow. I looked up to see that we were pulling into a convenience store parking lot.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “We’re out of milk,” he said with a wink. “I know how you have to have your Frosted Flakes in the morning.”

  “Am I really that big of a creature of habit?” I asked.

  “You are,” he said, putting the truck into gear. He left the engine running so I’d have air while he ran into the store.

  “Need anything else?” he asked.

  “Just you,” I said with a smile. “Hurry.”

  I watched him get out of the truck and go inside the store. From the corner of my eye, I saw a black car pull in and park a couple of spaces over. I didn’t pay the car much mind.

  I heard two doors slam but didn’t look up because my phone was buzzing. It was my sister sending a text: Mom wants to know if you and Brent want to come to Sunday dinner. My mom didn’t know how to text, so we often communicated through my sister. I settled back in the seat and started texting my reply.

  A loud bang coming from inside the convenience store jarred me. The phone slipped from my hands and tumbled to the floor. I dug my fingers into the dash and leaned in to stare through the windshield.

  I could see two men inside the store. One was in front of the counter, holding a gun, the other was behind the counter with his hand digging into the cash drawer. The man who I’d seen standing behind the counter a minute ago was gone. I assumed he was on the floor, wounded or maybe dead.

  “Oh my god, Brent,” I heard myself say. I started to reach for the door handle. Brent appeared at the end of the aisle next to the beer coolers. He was holding a gallon of milk in his left hand and a convenience store red rose in his right. When he saw the two men at the counter, he held up his hands and said something.

  He glanced my way.

  Our eyes met for just a second.

  The man with the gun aimed it at the jug of milk in Brent’s right hand and pulled the trigger. The plastic jug exploded and milk went everywhere. The two men looked at each other and laughed. Brent’s hand was bloody, injured. He clutched it to his chest and backed into the beer cooler. He shook his head and held out the hand clutching the rose.

  The man aimed the gun at Brent’s head and pulled the trigger.

  The glass cooler behind Brent splattered with blood.

  Brent crumbled to the floor.

  The two men laughed.

  I screamed Brent’s name.

  The men came out the door.

  They were dressed in all black.

  One was tall and thin.

  The other one, the one with the gun, was thick and muscular.

  They had ski masks over their heads, with cut-outs for their eyes, noses, and mouths.

  The one who had shot Brent looked into my eyes.

  He pointed the gun at the windshield and pulled the trigger.

  I heard the shot and the windshield pop at the same instant. I heard the bullet whiz through the cab as it passed within a few inches of my left ear and exited out the window behind my head.

  I screamed and jerked my head down.

  I scrunched down and covered my head with my hands.

  I was crying uncontrollably.

  My cellphone buzzed in the floor.

  My fingers reached for it.

  I heard a tap on the side window.

  I glanced up to see the man who had shot at me pressing his nose against the window. He stuck out his tongue and licked the glass. He grinned at me. He had a silver front tooth.

  The other guy was already in the black car, behind the wheel, yelling at the one who was grinning at me through the window.

  He pressed his lips to the window and gave me one more smile, then pulled back the hand holding the gun and smashed the butt of the gun into the window, showering me with shards of glass. I screamed again and covered my head.

  I heard him laugh; a deep, throaty, phlegmy-cigarette laugh that I still hear in my dreams.

  I waited until I heard them sped away, then I pushed open the truck door and ran inside the store.

  The man I’d seen behind the counter was slumped back against the cigarette display with a bullet hole at the center of his chest.

  Brent was on the floor in front of the beer coolers, lying on his back, eyes open and glazed, a hole the size of a nickel at the center of his forehead.

  He was still holding the red rose in his hand.

  A large pool of dark red blood formed beneath his head.

  I dropped to the floor and cradled his head to my chest, even though in my heart I knew he was dead.

  I wailed and rocked him back and forth like a sleeping baby.

  I was still doing it when the police came.

  I was covered in blood.

  Alone.

  Devastated.

  And mad as hell.

  RICK

  I slapped Dottie’s plump ass so hard it left my handprint on her dimpled skin. She squealed and told me to slap her again, harder this time. I did as I was told. The sound of my palm hitting her flesh and her resultant squeal echoed off the thin walls.

  She was on the motel bed on all fours. I was behind her, digging my fingers into her fleshy hips and ramming my cock so hard into her hairy box that her big titties flounced beneath her. I slapped her again, so hard it hurt my hand. She buried her face in a pillow and squealed, then begged me to do it again.

  Dottie loved having her ass slapped when I was fucking her from behind, and her nipples pinched until they turned purple when I was fucking her from the front. It was fun at first, the doling out of pleasure and pain. Now, the cute was wearing thin. Fucking her was becoming a chore. I had hung in there, though. I’d only have to fuck her a couple more times, then we’d hit Crown and I’d never have to see her again.

  “Fuck me harder… Carl... harder…” she moaned, pushing her plump ass against me. “Harder… ram that big cock into me… harder…”

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed her hips. I dug my fingers in hard and pulled her backward into me as I thrust my cock into her. She took all ten inches of me like a trouper and begged for more.

  Eddie was right about one thing: Dottie was not my type, though I didn’t mind fucking her, at least at first. A little variety never hurt anyone.

  Personally, I liked my wo
men tall and thin, with big tits and a shaved cunt, although a little hair down there didn’t bother me so long as it didn’t get in my teeth or in my way.

  I loved to eat pussy, but I hated pussy hair. That was another thing about Dottie. She had a fucking bush that looked like a goddamn beaver down there.

  The first time I ate her out I was like Moses parting the Red Sea, only I was parting dark pubic hair trying to find her cunt. I gotta admit, it was worth the hunt. For a forty-something chunky girl, Dottie had a picture-perfect pussy and knew how to use it. It was pink and tight and smelled like strawberry douche. I’ve fucked worse cunts, though never by choice. Sex was just another of the tools of my trade. I didn’t do guys, but women, so long as they were clean and willing, I’d fuck them all if it helped get a job done.

  Dottie was getting close to cumming. I could tell because she always started moaning a minute before, like a siren ramping up to blast out a warning.

  “Fuck me… Carl… fuck me… I’m cumming… cum in me… Carl…”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said with a thankful sigh that it was almost over. I clenched my muscles and got on my toes to will the orgasm from deep in my balls. I started slamming into her like a jackhammer. The sound of my hips hitting her fat ass mixed with the squeal of her siren moan.

  She buried her face in the pillow and pushed back against me. I gripped her hips and thrust my cock all the way in and held it there as I came, filling her with my hot milky cum as she gushed her tangy juices over me. The air in the tiny motel room became hot and dense with the scent of our sex.

  Dottie moaned one last time and let herself go limp. I pulled my cock out her and wiped it on her ass. She giggled when I swirled the head around her asshole. Dottie loved getting it in the ass. Oh well, maybe next time.

  She rolled onto her back and put her hands on her big tits to give them a satisfied squeeze. They were like big white melons with dark areolas the size of softballs and plump nipples the size of thimbles. She kneaded her fingers into the flesh and sighed. She spread her legs. Her thick bush trailed down the sides of her cunt toward her asshole. The hair was soaked and matted with cum. The sight made me wince. Not sexy. Not to me.

  I went into the bathroom to take a piss and clean her off my cock. I glanced in the mirror, startling myself because I forgot that I was wearing the bad toupee. The clear glasses I wore as Carl were on the sink. I put them on and stared at myself in the mirror for a moment. I wore the bad toupee and glasses not as a disguise, but to convince Dottie that I was Carl from Reno, a salesman who wore a bad toupee and glasses. The best disguise is the one that doesn’t look like a disguise.

  “Can you bring me a towel, lover?” Dottie called. I washed my hands and dried them on a clean towel, then walked into the room and handed the towel to Dottie. She took the towel and mopped her cooch for a moment, then put the towel between her legs and clamped her thighs around it.

  I took a cigarette out of the pack on the nightstand and lit it for her. Handing her the cigarette, I casually asked, “So, busy day at the store?”

  “Oh, not too bad,” she said, holding the cigarette in the crux of two fingers and bringing it to her lips. She took a long puff and sighed happily as she blew smoke at the ceiling. “Fridays are always slow because that’s the day Mr. Crown gets the loose diamonds ready for shipment to other stores.”

  I sat cross-legged on the bed next to her and traced circles around her knees with my fingertips. “Yeah, you mentioned that before,” I said as if I was just making conversation between bouts of sex. Dottie wasn’t done with me yet. Not by a long shot. She always wanted to be fucked several times when we stole away together as if she was storing up orgasms until next time.

  I asked, “So, he’s like a broker for other stores?”

  She puffed on the cigarette and nodded with her head against the pillow. “Something like that. He gets shipments of loose diamonds from some contact in South Africa somewhere, then he fills orders for other jewelers up and down the coast.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’d never know it by looking at the place, but he keeps a couple million dollars in diamonds in the safe built into the floor under his desk at any given time.”

  “Who would have ever thought,” I said, shaking my head. “So, he ships the diamonds out on Friday? Every week?”

  She nodded again. “Yes. An armored car delivers them on Monday morning and picks them up on Friday afternoon. They take the packaged diamonds and ship them to Mr. Crown’s customers.”

  “That’s just crazy,” I said, rolling my eyes. My fingers had drifted up from her knees and were now walking their way up her meaty thighs toward her cunt.

  She closed her eyes and hummed.

  My fingers settled in her thick curls. I gave them a little scratch. I said, “Hey, I’ve been thinking. What if we got away next weekend?”

  She opened her eyes to frown at me through the smoke. “Get away?”

  “Yeah. Just you and me, alone, out of town. Do you think you could take off work one Friday so we could head to Vegas for a long weekend?”

  “Ooh, I’d like that,” she said, wiggling her cunt against my fingers. She tugged the soiled towel from her cunt and tossed it aside. She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and started massaging her breasts again. She spread her legs and cooed at me.

  She asked, “When could we go? Where?”

  “Next week or two maybe?” I shrugged, like I was just coming up with the idea. “I’ll be back in town Thursday. We could leave Thursday night, be in Vegas in a few hours, spend the weekend drinking, eating, gambling, and fucking.”

  “That sounds awesome,” she said, sucking in a deep breath as my fingers slid into her. I pushed in three fingers to the knuckle, then pulled them out slowly. Her soaked cunt closed around my fingers.

  I asked, “Think you can get off? Work, I mean?”

  “Yessss, I can get off…” she sighed, her hands assaulting her big tits again. “I’ll ask on Monday.”

  “Awesome,” I said, pushing my hand inside her with my thumb rubbing against her clit. She reached down to find my cock rock hard between my legs.

  It wasn’t because of her.

  The thought of a big score always made my cock hard.

  SANDY

  My plan to exact revenge on Rick Wright and his gang started two months ago, even though at that moment I didn’t even know who he was.

  Brent was dead in my arms.

  The police came.

  An ambulance.

  A forensics team.

  The coroner.

  More cops.

  A female detective who said her name was Cochran pulled me away from Brent’s lifeless body so a photographer could take pictures of the scene and the forensics guy could gather evidence.

  I was in shock, she said, covered in Brent’s blood.

  An EMT wrapped a blanket around me and sat me on the back of his van and shined a light in my eyes. I’m fine, I muttered. Help Brent. Help Brent.

  Detective Cochran was taking notes. She asked me to tell her everything I could remember.

  Did I see their faces?

  No, they wore masks.

  Did they say anything to me?

  No, nothing.

  Would I recognize them again if I saw them?

  Probably not.

  Could I pick them out of a lineup?

  No, I told you, they wore masks.

  Did they have any distinguishing marks that might help identify them?

  I thought of the silver tooth but said no.

  She asked if she could call someone to come get me.

  I asked her to call my dad.

  He came immediately to take me home.

  Mom and April were waiting at the door for me.

  They were horrified by what had happened.

  When mom saw my blood-soaked clothes and hands, she looked like she was going to puke.

  I took a shower and went to bed, where I stayed for six straight days and nights.

>   I was totally numb, barely aware of what was going on around me. My mom brought me food that I didn’t touch and offered words of comfort that I didn’t hear.

  I cried until there wasn’t a single drop of moisture left in my body.

  * * *

  We buried Brent seven days after he was killed. It was a small service at his dad’s church. His parents made all the decisions. I had no legal claim on him. I sat on the first church pew next to his parents, staring at the walnut coffin they had chosen for him. I watch them lower him into the ground in their family plot.

  I didn’t cry at all that day. I was all cried out.

  I went back to work the next week. I thanked everyone for their condolences. I tried to smile when I greeted customers, tried to be chatty as I cut hair.

  I don’t remember much about that time.

  I was numb, just going through the motions.

  Then, as it had in the split-second the bullet went through Brent’s skull, my life instantly changed again.

  A man from the Banner Life & Casualty Insurance Company showed up at CostClippers.

  He needed to speak privately with me.

  He had something very important to give me.

  * * *

  “Miss Duval, I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said after I led him into the small break room in the back of the shop and closed the door. He was a short, fat man in a brown suit and skinny black tie. He had a round, kind face with pinkish cheeks. Like Brent, his eyes closed when he smiled. His name was Mr. Ray. He set his business card on the table and slid it toward me.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Ray?”

  “I hope to do something for you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket to pull out an envelope. He tapped the edge of the envelope lightly on the table. “I know that money can’t ease your pain, but you need to know that Brent had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy through his work. He also recently started paying additional premiums to increase that payout amount.”

  I blinked at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  He held out the envelope and nodded for me to take it.