KING(5)

Life wasn’t just good. Life was f*cking great. I was on top of the f*cking world and no one f*cked with me or mine.

No one.

And then it all changed and I got spent three years in a tiny windowless cell, studying the changing cracks in the concrete block walls.

When I was done with the purple cartoon cat, I applied salve, covered it with wrap, and disposed of my gloves. Did this girl think that guys would be turned on by this thing? It was good work, especially since I’d been out of commission for three years, but it was covering up my favorite part of a woman. If I undressed her and saw it, I would flip her over.

Which sounded like a good idea. Getting laid would help shake this post prison haze and I could get back to the things that used to be important to me without this lingering sense of dread looming in my conscious.

Instead of sending the girl back out to the party I roughly grabbed her and yanked her down the table toward me. I stood, flipping her over onto her stomach. With one hand on the back of her neck, I pushed her head down onto the table, releasing my belt buckle with the other. I grabbed a condom from the open drawer.

She knew beforehand that money wasn’t the type of currency I was looking for, and I didn’t do free. So I lined up the head of my cock and took her * as payment for her new tattoo. Of a *.

Fuck my life.

The girl had a great body, but after a few minutes of irritating over-the-top moaning, she wasn’t doing anything for me. I could feel my cock going soft inside her. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, especially not even after years of my right hand and my imagination being my only sexual partners.

What the f*ck is wrong with me?

I grabbed her throat with both hands and squeezed, picking up my pace, taking out my frustrations with each rough thrust in rhythm with the heavy beat from the other room.

Nothing.

I was about to pull out and give up.

I almost didn’t notice the door opening.

Almost.

Staring up from my doorway was a vacant pair of doll-like blue eyes framed by long icy-blonde hair, a small dimple in the middle of her chin, a frown on her full pink lips. A girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen, a bit skinny.

A bit haunted.

My cock stirred to life, dragging my attention back to the fact that I was still pumping into the brunette. My orgasm hit me hard, spiraling up my spine and taking me by complete surprise. I closed my eyes, blowing my load into * tattoo, collapsing onto her back.

What the f*ck?

By the time I opened my eyes again, the door was closed and girl with the sad eyes was gone.

I’m f*cking losing my mind.

I rolled out of and off the brunette who was luckily still breathing, although unconscious from either strangulation or the dope that had made her pupils as big as her f*cking eye sockets.

I sat back on my rolling stool and dropped my head into my hands.

I had a massive f*cking headache.

Preppy had organized this party for me, and the pre-prison me would’ve already been snorting blow off the tits of strippers. But post-prison me just wanted some food, a good night’s sleep, and these f*cking people to get the hell out of my house.

“You okay, boss-man?” Preppy asked, peeking his head into the room.

I pointed to the unconscious girl in the chair. “Come get this bitch out of here.” I ran my hand through my hair, the pulsing of the music making the pounding in my head grow stronger. “And for f*cks sake, turn that shit down!” Preppy didn’t deserve my rage, but I was too f*cked up in the head to dial down my orders.

“You got it,” he said, without hesitation.

Preppy slid past me and didn’t question the half-naked girl on the table. He hoisted her limp body over his shoulder in one easy movement. The unconscious girl’s arms flailed around on his back, smacking against his back with each step. Before he could get too far, he turned back to me.

“You done with this?” he asked. I could barely hear him over the music. He gestured with his chin to the brunette on his shoulder, a child-like grin on his face.

I nodded, and Preppy smiled like I’d just told him he could have a puppy.

Sick f*ck.

I loved that kid.

I closed the door, grabbing my gun and knife from the bottom drawer of the tool box I kept my tattoo equipment in. I sheathed my knife in my boot, and my gun in the waistband of my jeans.

I shook my head from side to side to clear away the haze. Prison will do that to you. Three f*cking years sleeping with one eye open in a prison full of people with whom I’ve made both friends and enemies.