Wish You Hell

    The concept of good and evil is subjective. Children are taught from a young age the difference between bad and good but what’s tolerable to one parent could be abhorrent to another; see, subjective. I won’t tell you I’m the misunderstood good guy who has redeeming qualities because that would be a lie and if there’s one thing in life that I don’t tolerate it’s a lie. I’m not talking about white lies or half truths, my life is built around omission. You see the truth is only as good as the man whose lips it came from. I’m not a good man but I tell the truth, even when I shouldn’t. I realize the contradiction here but in my world, it makes sense. 

Chapter 1 

Bowen

  Wet lips wrap around the tip of my cock and I hoped with everything I had that getting some blood flowing below my shoulders would ease my mind from racing but it doesn’t. If anything this whole charade is pissing me off further, I want to grab a handful of her hair and shove my cock so far down her throat her eyes water and she has to hit my thighs to get me to pull back but I don’t act on it. Acting on it would make her think I actually cared about her when in fact, she's just another mouth in a line of women attached. I let her continue using my dick like a lollipop she isn’t sure she likes the flavor of and she exhales loudly. The stack of receipts I need to go through glares at me from the top of my desk, the bar order form is half done with my pen still sitting on top of it. I’ve never faked an orgasm, I don’t even know how but my mind runs scenarios of how I can get Chantel off her knees in front of me without hurting her feelings. Feelings, why the fuck am I worried about her feelings? Because sexual harassment is real and if she walks out of here with tears in her eyes and tells the other bartenders that I didn’t even finish it’s going to look bad on all fronts. I don’t need that kind of heat, The Fox Hole is an upstanding place and if people hear that I’m sexually harassing my waitresses and don’t even finish the job, I’ll be investigated and even worse, ridiculed mercilessly by the guys in my circle. A full roast session is not in the cards for me this month, or next. I don’t have the time. Like someone upstairs was listening, my phone rings on the desk and Chantel, bless her heart, keeps sucking like her daddy was Mr. Hoover himself. The vacuum guy, not the president. I grab the device off the desk much to Chantel’s dismay, she glares at me with my dick still in her mouth which shouldn’t be comical, but it is. I smirk down at her as my phone opens from facial recognition, a text from a number I don’t know appears in the notification bar and I open it. I scan the text quickly and sigh loudly before standing up. Chantel falls backward on her stilettos, her ass hitting the hardwood sounds throughout the room. Her mouth follows my cock like a baby bird in the nest waiting for its next meal. I’ll give her credit where credit is due, she’s determined. 

  “Sorry doll face, I’ve gotta go.” I say tucking my half hard dick back into my black jeans .

  “What?!” She squawks, “We were almost done.” 

  “No, no we weren’t.” I correct, leveling her with a stare as she stands up from the floor. 

  “Um, I think I know when a guy is getting close,” she jokes as I make my way towards the door, I turn the knob and open it before giving her the last piece of advice. 

  “And I think I know when I’m about to come. The finish line wasn’t even in the distance. You should really start practicing, try a cucumber or a carrot. I don’t give a fuck but the next guy you give a blow job to might not appreciate your tenth grade technique.”  I close the door behind me and the sound of what I assume is a shoe hits the door. I pop my head back in to check the damage, a hole sits in the door and I narrow my eyes at her. 

“That’s coming out of your pay, Chantel.” I tell her, my eyes bouncing from the stiletto sized hole to her mortified face. 

  “Asshole!” She screams but it’s muffled by the door closing again behind me. I smile briefly to myself as the wait staff stops what they’re doing to stare at me. “Bad review.” I say and they all nod like it’s a reasonable response to her calling me an asshole. I check my pockets for my car keys and realize they’re not in my pocket where I left them, dammit. I must have left them on the desk, looks like I’m taking my bike instead of the Chevelle tonight. Oh well, a good ride would probably be good for my head, there’s been a lot going on this past week and I can feel the tension headache coming in hot. 

   I grab my jacket off of the hook on the wall and head out the back door. Downtown Boston bustles around me as I throw a leg over my black Ducati, the summer crowd is waning and the fall crowd is coming back in full force. I love this time of year, the days are getting shorter and less humid and the nights are longer. I prefer the night, most of what I do is best cloaked under the shadow of darkness. People don’t like to think the world has darkness in it but that’s where I revel. My best paying customers bleed black and they have no qualms about it. They know what they are and I appreciate that, there’s nothing worse than a snake that doesn’t believe they’re a snake. The engine of my bike roars to life as I set my sights on the docks. Tonight is another job, tomorrow will be a different one, they’re never the same but the monotony of it all is starting to weigh on me.