Bad decisions, p.1
Bad Decisions, page 1
Bad Decisions
Jon Athan
Copyright © 2020 Jon Athan
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Proofreading provided by Karen Bennett: kbennett4653@gmail.com
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WARNING
This book contains scenes of intense violence and some disturbing themes. Some parts of this book may be considered violent, cruel, disturbing, or unusual. This book is not intended for those easily offended or appalled. Please enjoy at your own discretion.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
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Dear Reader
1
Reality
Her gashed face came off the tire’s rim, sliced up like a Belgian waffle—a grid of deep, wide cuts on her cheeks. Dark blood oozed out of the lacerations. It flooded her eye sockets, cascaded down her face, and dripped from her jaw. Her dirty blonde hair, matted with mud and blood, stuck out of her head in every direction. She revealed her decaying, chipped teeth with each panicked gasp for air.
“He–Help,” she croaked out, voice hoarse from all her crying.
“Where’s my money, bitch?!” Joaquin Espinosa barked, spittle flying from his lips. He held the woman down between his legs, gripping a fistful of her hair like a dog’s leash. She was on her knees, but if Joaquin had released her hair, she would have hit the pavement face-first. He yelled, “The money, bitch! Where is it?!”
“I–I don’t got it. I swear, I don’t got the money. He–He didn’t… He didn’t pay. The–The John, he didn’t pay.”
“Oh, he didn’t pay? That’s what you’re saying? All right, I see. I get you. Yeah, I get you, girl,” Joaquin responded with a mocking sense of understanding in his voice. He tugged on the woman’s hair and tore a chunk of her scalp off her head, causing her to yip and flail her limbs. He bent forward, leaned in close to her ear, and through his clenched teeth, he hissed, “Then what the hell happened to all of last night’s money? You worked that corner all night. You met eight, nine, maybe ten customers, no? That’s a lot of dick, and I know you’re not out here sucking dick for free. So, let me ask you again, punk bitch: where is my money?”
The prostitute responded, “He–He didn’t pay and–and… Ow, ow!” She started yelping as Joaquin tightened his grip on her hair. She yelled, “He robbed me! He robbed me, baby! I swear, he robbed me!”
“You’re a fucking liar.”
“No, no, no! He took it all! Please, baby, believe me! He–He–He was driving a… a… a car.”
“A car?” Joaquin repeated, the side of his mouth rising in a smirk of disbelief.
“A–A fucking… What do you call it… A… A Jaguar! A black one! A co–con–convertible! You can find him! Please, baby, he has the money! He has–”
“You fucking liar.”
“No! He took two-hund–”
“I told you not to fuck with me! I said don’t fuck with me! Don’t fuck with my money! I said that, didn’t I? Why’d you have to fuck with me, huh? Why?!”
“Please, baby!”
Joaquin thrust her face at the rim again. Her left cheekbone shattered. It sounded like glass breaking in a pallet, a muffled but clear crunch. The pain from the fracture pulsed through her skull and emanated into her gums. The cuts on her face widened, too. Dark spurts of blood—almost black—leapt out of the gashes, like crude oil from a blowout. She let out a long, raspy whine, then she started hiccupping.
“Wa–Wa–Why?” she cried out.
Her eyes swiveled in their bloody sockets. She saw a ray of the sunset gleaming on the rim through her blurry, red vision. She heard children giggling and car engines humming. A homeless man collected cans from a dumpster at the other end of the alley. An elderly man’s shout came out a window from a tenth-story apartment above.
He yelled something like: Can you close that darn window already?!
Voice trembling, the prostitute mumbled, “Why… won’t… they help… help me?”
Joaquin slammed her face against the rim again. Three of her upper incisor teeth were ejected from her gums. She clenched her eyes shut and hacked as she swallowed them, the jagged edges scraping her esophagus. The remaining incisor tooth was cracked in half, leaving her bloody pulp hanging out. Her gums bled, too.
She didn’t take care of her teeth. She couldn’t remember the last time she brushed them, so she always tasted blood in her mouth, but this blood was different. It was fresh—pungent. For some reason, blood from violence tasted different compared to blood from an accident. The method of extraction changed the flavor, like cooking a burger on a stove compared to a grill.
Her face collided with the rim for the umpteenth time. A sharp edge split her right eye open horizontally. Gelatinous blood hung out of the socket. Her forehead and cheeks swelled, covering most of her eyes—what was left of them, anyway. The cut on the bridge of her nose became so wide that it looked like half of it was barely attached to her face.
With the next hit, the tip of her nose came off and fell to the floor. Blood came spilling out of what remained of her nostrils in a steady stream, like water from a weak water fountain. More blood splattered on her white threadbare t-shirt. Her denim jeans were stained with mud, much like her grubby feet. Her limbs went limp but kept twitching. There were track marks on her arms.
She was unrecognizable—to her parents, to Joaquin, to herself.
Scoot McDonald leaned back against the driver’s seat door of his yellow taxi with the perfect view of the alley, a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth. The violence should have been nauseating, but it just didn’t affect him. Violence was normal. His face was devoid of emotion. His blue eyes were dim and vacant, as if he were watching a daydream unfold.
He stood six feet tall, a few inches taller than Joaquin. He was forty-five years old, his feathery black hair streaked with gray and his stubble grizzled.
He was older than the violent pimp, but he could have stopped him. Like the others in the area, however, he didn’t want to involve himself. He saw a middle-aged woman call the cops eight minutes earlier. The cops didn’t seem interested in racing towards that poor part of town, though—or perhaps they were preoccupied with the endless protests and counter-protests ravaging the country.
Would people care if this was happening in Times Square?
Would it change things if this was a normal mugging?
Is it because she’s a hooker and he’s a low-life pimp that no one cares?
He took a drag on his cigarette while pondering these questions.
Realizing she was unconscious, Joaquin pushed the prostitute to the floor and rolled her onto her back. He swiped his fingers across his slicked-back hair. He spotted the severed flap of the prostitute’s cheek hanging from the dented rim of his Lincoln Town Car.
“Look what you did to my fucking rim, bitch!” he shouted.
He punted her face, kicking and stomping. Dislodged teeth flew out of her mouth and clacked on the pavement. Splashes of blood jumped up at him. Her skull cracked and her jaw popped. Long, pained groans escaped her mouth. She sounded inhuman, like a dying animal. And each kick was worse than the last.
Scoot finally flinched from the discomfort. He took another puff of his cigarette, then he sighed and flicked it at the street. Just as he took a step towards the alley to aid the woman, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the notification.
RIDE REQUEST
Passenger: Terry Gray
Pick-up from: JFK Airport, Terminal 2
He glanced over at the alley again. He gave a slight shrug, as if to say: maybe next time. He got into his taxi and drove away.
The woman died that night. Joaquin’s vehicle was identified, but he wasn’t captured. The victim was just another nameless sex worker in a world full of nameless people.
2
Loneliness
Scoot stood in the bathroom doorway, the light pouring into the master bedroom from behind him. He was shirtless, hair damp from his shower. His stomach was flabby while his chest and arms were firm. Starting with a dark circular depression on top, a scar stretched from his shoulder down to his bicep. It resembled an upside-down exclamation point. It was a g unshot scar.
It complemented the scar on the right side of his face, which extended from the corner of his mouth to his ear—a Glasgow smile.
He watched his wife, Gina McDonald, sleeping in bed with her back to the bathroom. Her curly black hair was tied in a bun.
Without looking back at him, she said, “Turn off the light if you’re done.”
Scoot flicked the light switch, then he walked slowly to the bed, floorboards groaning under his bare feet. He crawled into bed and slid under the comforter.
He whispered, “Sorry I’m late. I had to pick a customer up from the airport. Solid fare, great tip. Thanks for leaving me a plate in the microwave. I, um… I really appreciated that.”
“It was just to keep up appearances.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“For the kids. I just want them to feel normal.”
“Yeah, well… I guess that’s good. You’re a good mother. A great mother.”
And you’re a great father. Scoot wanted to hear those words come out of her mouth. Instead, Gina adjusted her pillow and scooted farther away from him. He caressed her arm until his fingers slid off her elbow. Over her nightgown, he ran his fingers from her rib cage down to her hip. Then he touched her bare thigh. He kissed the nape of her neck as he slid his fingers up her nightgown. He rubbed his crotch gently against her soft, curvy ass.
Gina slapped his hand, slid to the edge of the bed, and sneered at him. Annoyed? No, she was absolutely furious.
“What?” Scoot asked.
“Your stubble, it’s… it’s too itchy.”
“Are you serious? You want me to… to shave?”
“Don’t bother.”
What she really wanted to say was: Don’t bother me.
She turned her back to him and fixed her pillow again. It was a king-size bed, plenty of room for two or even three, but she was most comfortable at the edge of it.
Sitting up in bed, Scoot laughed nervously and scratched the back of his head. There was a bewildered, embarrassed look on his face. There was nothing worse than getting rejected by a loved one.
In a hushed voice, he said, “Gina, honey… Listen, I’m sorry. Okay? I. Am. Sorry. It’s just that I… I love you and I miss you. I miss being intimate with you, you know? I miss… making love to you.”
‘No’ meant ‘no.’ But Scoot lived his life based off an ancient proverb: if you didn’t try twice, you didn’t try at all. So, to him, that first ‘no’ really meant ‘try again.’ Under the strap of her nightgown, he caressed the side of her large breast. He glided his finger around her areola, then he flicked her erect nipple.
“I love you so much, Gina,” he whispered into her ear.
She couldn’t say the same to him. He slid his hand into her underwear, her short pubic hair scratching his fingers. She felt his hard dick against her ass. She thought about letting him fuck her and moving on, but she didn’t want to reward him and she didn’t owe him a thing. She gritted her teeth upon feeling his finger near her clitoris. She felt no pleasure from it.
He wiggled his finger down there until he separated her labia. He was disappointed to find she wasn’t soaking wet, but he was determined to have sex. He forced his middle finger into her.
Ow!
Gina pushed his hand away and sat up at the edge of the bed. She adjusted her underwear and nightgown while muttering indistinctly.
Scoot said, “Shit, I’m sorry. I was just trying to make you feel good. I wanted to–”
“I’m not in the mood, Scoot.”
Scoot huffed and smiled. It was an irritated smile, like one a loser would give to a cocky competitor to hide his anger.
He asked, “When will you be in the ‘mood?’ Like… I mean, when was the last time you were even in the ‘mood,’ hun?”
“I’m going to sleep. You can stay on your side of the bed or go down to the living room.”
“It’s been two years, Gina. Almost three. I can’t remember the last time you actually kissed me and I felt anything. I know what I did was wrong. I know I fucked everything up. But I–”
“We’re not discussing this now,” Gina said, unemotional. She lay down and said, “Good night.”
Scoot rolled his eyes and shook his head. Her cold attitude shot him with a concoction of anger and sadness. He loved his wife and cared about his family. But there was a sex-starved monster inside him that he couldn’t feed. He couldn’t control his urges anymore. He grabbed his laptop and headphones from the nightstand, then he marched out of the room.
Gina didn’t spare a glance. She got comfortable, snuggling her pillow and tucking her feet under the comforter.
Scoot walked past a bathroom and a storage closet. He peeked into the room on his right. His ten-year-old son, Blake, slept under a Fortnite-branded comforter, his snore like a cat’s purr. He wanted to go in there and pat his messy black hair, but he knew it would only anger Gina if she found out. He peeked into the bedroom across the hall. Marissa, his fifteen-year-old daughter, sent text messages to her friends and listened to music under her blanket. He could hear the pop song’s melody and her snickering from the doorway.
A normal father would have told her to go to bed, but he didn’t have the best relationship with her. He blamed himself for her rebellious attitude. The damage was done.
Towards the center of the hallway, he opened the hatch on the ceiling and quietly unfolded the pull-down ladder. He climbed up into the attic, then he pulled the ladder up and closed the hatch. Over the last two years, he had spent dozens of hours in the attic. He knew every nook and cranny of the room, even in the dark.
The McDonald family stored old kitchen appliances and furniture, textbooks and novels, holiday decorations, and emergency supplies in cardboard boxes and plastic bins in the attic. Everything was organized, clean and labeled.
Scoot made his way to a rickety desk in the corner. He grabbed one of the folding chairs—which they had used during their backyard barbecues years ago—wedged behind a tower of cardboard boxes nearby, then he sat in front of the desk. It used to belong to Marissa when she was still in middle school, so it was a little small.
He opened his laptop and started an incognito window on his web browser. He knew he could still be traced by the authorities, he only wanted to hide his browsing history from his family. He visited his favorite porn sites in separate tabs—PornHub, XVideos, xHamster, RedTube. He searched through his favorite categories.
Amateur.
Asian.
Cuckold.
Incest.
Latina.
MILF.
Public.
Teen.
Cuckold porn had always fascinated him. It aroused him watching a man watch his wife or girlfriend fuck another man—or two or three or four. He didn’t understand his attraction to incest porn. He knew it wasn’t real, it wasn’t like he wanted it to be real anyway, but the mere idea turned him on. Real and fake, he loved the videos shot in public, too. There was something about having sex at a beach or a park or parking lot that aroused him.
He gravitated towards taboo pornography. His sexual explorations began with Sports Illustrated magazines as a kid, then his dad’s issues of Playboy, and then pornographic videotapes in the nineties when he was old enough to rent and buy them. The beautiful women with augmented breasts and toned figures were great—until they weren’t enough for him. By the time the internet had become ‘mainstream,’ he couldn’t get off watching a man and a woman have sex anymore.
So, he upgraded to gangbangs, then to the cuckold stuff, then to the public scenes, and then to the fake stepfamily videos. He needed more and more each time, like a drug addict itching for a stronger hit.
