five foot five.
Malic rang up Hassan.
“I’ll need a full blood workup on the girl ASAP. Drop everything else and hand-deliver it to Dr. Khalil. Now, Hassan . . . Then first thing in the morning,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll drive myself to work.”
Malic pushed back in his leather chair, stared wistfully at the Matisse, and said a silent prayer that he would have no problems this time. He would rather lose his wife, the mother of his only child, than the painting.
----
Raul Vargas walked through his father’s empty weekend home on the Malibu cliffs with a blazing hard-on. He had taken one hundred milligrams of Viagra, which was the only way he could get it up after his stint in prison. Better living through chemistry, he thought.
The repeated rape he’d endured had been shameful, painful, and nightmarish. The physical and psychic torture would haunt him to the grave.
He’d never go back in, Raul knew. He’d kill himself first. Or anybody else who got in his way. On that he was clear.
Malic had interceded when he needed help most. His gang offered protection in prison, and the rape had stopped. Instant relief. But like heroin, Malic was now controlling his life. Raul thought about killing the man, fantasized about it, but he wasn’t stupid. Greedy, okay, that went without saying. It was what turned him to drug dealing when his life had been handed to him on a golden platter. Raul knew that if Malic suddenly came to a violent end, his gang would connect the dots, and his own death would be savage.
Raul walked out onto the rear patio, which afforded him an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean and, directly south, Paradise Cove. Yet he didn’t see the waves lapping onto the beach below or the clouds that shadowed the dark horizon. All he saw was the fiery image of the crash in his mind’s eye.
Malic had called him moments before the fishing boat smashed into the rocks. Raul had stood in this exact spot as the young woman’s naked body was ejected from the boat like a mannequin and bled out on the black rock outcropping. He had held his breath as the splintered boat exploded into a roiling fireball. Malic did have a flair for the theatrical, Raul thought.
The violent image replayed again and again in Raul’s head like a needle stuck in the grooves of a vinyl record. A constant, nagging reminder of the intended warning. That warning now sent him back into the house. He needed a drink and he wanted to see the victim one last time, he told himself. He wanted to see the digital video that gave Malic the balance of power.
He poured himself a stiff cocktail, took a monster hit off a joint and slid the disc into the Blu-ray player. He dropped his sweatpants onto the slate floor before settling onto the couch in his father’s living room to find momentary relief. He took a deep sip of Grey Goose, hit Play on the remote, and watched his recorded demise.
Raul’s erect phallus was partially obscured as he thrust himself slowly between the painted lips of a beautiful woman’s mouth. She had perfect skin and blond hair, and her eyes were closed. When Raul’s hands entered the frame and he tilted the woman’s face toward the camera, it became clear that the young woman was unconscious. Better living through chemistry, he thought again, and laughed this time.
The images on the television jumped as he pulled out before climax, knocking into the camera, until it refocused on a full-body shot of the woman. Raul’s hands reached into frame and deftly snapped metal clips onto the woman’s nipples. Then the camera panned down and pushed in close on the clear red dildo that had been partially inserted into her vagina. Raul’s hand started manipulating the latex toy with one hand and himself with the other. Slowly in and then slowly out at first, and then with increased tempo and building ferocity. There was no sound emanating from the television set but heavy breathing, and then choked gasps filled the living room
Malic rang up Hassan.
“I’ll need a full blood workup on the girl ASAP. Drop everything else and hand-deliver it to Dr. Khalil. Now, Hassan . . . Then first thing in the morning,” he said, frustrated. “I’ll drive myself to work.”
Malic pushed back in his leather chair, stared wistfully at the Matisse, and said a silent prayer that he would have no problems this time. He would rather lose his wife, the mother of his only child, than the painting.
----
Raul Vargas walked through his father’s empty weekend home on the Malibu cliffs with a blazing hard-on. He had taken one hundred milligrams of Viagra, which was the only way he could get it up after his stint in prison. Better living through chemistry, he thought.
The repeated rape he’d endured had been shameful, painful, and nightmarish. The physical and psychic torture would haunt him to the grave.
He’d never go back in, Raul knew. He’d kill himself first. Or anybody else who got in his way. On that he was clear.
Malic had interceded when he needed help most. His gang offered protection in prison, and the rape had stopped. Instant relief. But like heroin, Malic was now controlling his life. Raul thought about killing the man, fantasized about it, but he wasn’t stupid. Greedy, okay, that went without saying. It was what turned him to drug dealing when his life had been handed to him on a golden platter. Raul knew that if Malic suddenly came to a violent end, his gang would connect the dots, and his own death would be savage.
Raul walked out onto the rear patio, which afforded him an unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean and, directly south, Paradise Cove. Yet he didn’t see the waves lapping onto the beach below or the clouds that shadowed the dark horizon. All he saw was the fiery image of the crash in his mind’s eye.
Malic had called him moments before the fishing boat smashed into the rocks. Raul had stood in this exact spot as the young woman’s naked body was ejected from the boat like a mannequin and bled out on the black rock outcropping. He had held his breath as the splintered boat exploded into a roiling fireball. Malic did have a flair for the theatrical, Raul thought.
The violent image replayed again and again in Raul’s head like a needle stuck in the grooves of a vinyl record. A constant, nagging reminder of the intended warning. That warning now sent him back into the house. He needed a drink and he wanted to see the victim one last time, he told himself. He wanted to see the digital video that gave Malic the balance of power.
He poured himself a stiff cocktail, took a monster hit off a joint and slid the disc into the Blu-ray player. He dropped his sweatpants onto the slate floor before settling onto the couch in his father’s living room to find momentary relief. He took a deep sip of Grey Goose, hit Play on the remote, and watched his recorded demise.
Raul’s erect phallus was partially obscured as he thrust himself slowly between the painted lips of a beautiful woman’s mouth. She had perfect skin and blond hair, and her eyes were closed. When Raul’s hands entered the frame and he tilted the woman’s face toward the camera, it became clear that the young woman was unconscious. Better living through chemistry, he thought again, and laughed this time.
The images on the television jumped as he pulled out before climax, knocking into the camera, until it refocused on a full-body shot of the woman. Raul’s hands reached into frame and deftly snapped metal clips onto the woman’s nipples. Then the camera panned down and pushed in close on the clear red dildo that had been partially inserted into her vagina. Raul’s hand started manipulating the latex toy with one hand and himself with the other. Slowly in and then slowly out at first, and then with increased tempo and building ferocity. There was no sound emanating from the television set but heavy breathing, and then choked gasps filled the living room
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