Bad Juju: A Novel of Raw Terror (10 page)

    Joe Rob’s erection woke him. He
was lying on his belly, his stiff penis so engorged with blood that it throbbed
more with pain than with dream-inspired lust. He rolled onto his back, took his
cock in his hand and gave it a few good strokes, but nixed the idea of
finishing off the chore. His bladder was uncomfortably full, so he rolled out
of bed and went into the adjoining bathroom to take an urgent leak. His
“piss-hard” in hand, he pushed his stiff prick down in low aim so he wouldn’t
piss on the toilet tank or the wall, then cut loose with a strong stream of
concentrated urine. By the time he was done, his cock had shrunk to half its
full-alert size, but his free-floating lust had not abated. His thoughts turned
to Charlotte Claymore, the town whore. He had paid a visit to Charlotte the
Harlot the night of his graduation, but that transaction had been anything but
satisfying; he’d shot his wad on her bare belly before he’d had a chance to
sheath himself and slip inside her. To her credit, Charlotte hadn’t belittled
his premature expenditure; she had caressed his head and whispered sweetly into
his ear, telling him it was nothing to be ashamed of and that it happened all
the time with horny young studs like him. She kept his fifty dollars and sent
him on his way, sadder and maybe a little wiser in the ways of women of the
world.

He shook the last drops from his
cock, went to the sink and washed his face in cold water, brushed his teeth
with strong mouthwash, and then got dressed and slipped down the back steps to
his waiting Mustang. He backed out of the driveway, then drove up Main Street
to the Quick-Stop Mini-Mart for a cup of coffee and a couple of donuts. He ate
in his car, watching the sun rise and listening to a Stevie Ray Vaughan tape.
The Texas guitar player had been a favorite of Joe Rob’s father, and Joe Rob
had grown up idolizing Stevie Ray and memorizing the hottest licks of the blues
man’s nimble style. Now Vaughan was dead, and Joe Rob’s dad was long gone, but
Vaughan’s music still touched Joe Rob in a way no other music ever did. Every
time he listened to Stevie Ray’s songs, he felt a connection with his
father—even though he had no idea where in the world the old man was. Billy Joe
Campbell had been a talented musician with a jones for booze and dope. Joe Rob
often wondered how things would’ve been if his father’s addiction hadn’t ruined
his music career and his marriage. The old man had been a hell of a guitar
player. Not as good as Stevie Ray, but who was? Of course, if Joe Rob’s mom
hadn’t divorced Billy Joe and married a successful businessman, then Joe Rob
wouldn’t have inherited the money in his trust fund. What the hell? It did no
good now to imagine how things might have been. His father was gone, and
whether the old man was picking up gigs in Nashville or L.A., or panhandling
spare change for cheap wine, Joe Rob didn’t expect to see Billy Joe ever again.
And if somehow his father were to show up, he didn’t know if he would cold-cock
the junkie for deserting him or hug him for caring enough to come back. Fuck
it. Water under the dam.

He drained the last of the coffee, crushed
the empty Styrofoam cup in his hand and tossed it out the window, then drove
across town to Charlotte the Harlot’s seedy little house on Sixth Street. He
parked behind her old VW beetle, walked up to the door and rang the bell. She
came to the door in a threadbare housecoat. Her bottle-blonde hair was a nest
of teased tangles, and her smeared eye make-up gave her a raccoonish look. She
fixed him with angry eyes and said, “What the hell do you want this early in
the morning?”

“Uh, you know. The usual.” He stuck
his hands in his pockets.

“Listen, stud, I don’t keep fucking
banker’s hours. Come back tonight and maybe I’ll take your money.” She tried to
shut the door on him, but he stopped it with his foot.

“Hey! You want me to call the
cops?” Her face twisted into an angry mask, and she looked older than Joe Rob
had thought she was. Seeing her now, he figured she was pushing forty.

“You won’t call the cops,” he said.
“You’re a fucking whore.”

“Fuck you, sonny boy. The cops are
my best customers. Move your goddamn foot.”

“Come on, Charlotte,” he softened
his approach. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks. Please?”

She gave him a studied look, then
pulled the door open. “In advance,” she said. “And as soon as you’re done, you
leave.”

“Deal,” he said, and stepped
inside. He smelled stale cigarette smoke, perfume that reminded him of
insecticide, and the day-old scent of Italian cooking, heavy with garlic and
grease.   

She led him into the bedroom, waved
him to the Queen-size bed, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He
sat on the bed and pulled off his boots and socks. He heard water running and
splashing in the bathroom, then he heard the woman gargle and spit. The toilet
flushed, and Charlotte came out of the bathroom as he was pulling off his jeans.

She had discarded the housecoat and
was wearing a short nightgown of diaphanous black and a skimpy pair of black
panties. “Cash up front,” she said, sashaying toward the bed.

Joe Rob took out his wallet, peeled
off two fifties, then slapped the bills down on the nightstand. “There you go,”
he said.

She nodded. “You’ve been here
before?” she asked.

“What, you don’t remember me?” He
put a hand over his heart. “I’m hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember you. You’re
the football hero. Right? The fastest man on the field—or off.” She flashed a
sly smile.

“Hey, so I was a little too quick.
Made your job easy, didn’t it? You didn’t even have to work for your money.”

“Listen, honey, I earn every
blessed cent.”

“Right.” He caught a whiff of her
mouthwash and grinned up at her. “I think you’ll have to work a little harder
this time.”

“Yeah?” She sat on the edge of the
bed and reached inside his boxer shorts. “Let’s see what you got.”

“Hey, your hands are cold.”

She pulled his semi-erect penis out
through the opening and gave it a firm squeeze, looking closely at its tip.

“What’re you doing?”

“Health check,” she said. “Rubbers
break, and I sure don’t need a dose of the clap. Okay, you’re clean. How do you
want it?”

He stroked his chin as if giving
the question serious consideration, then said, “Down and dirty. You can start
with your mouth. Then we’ll go from there.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “All
right. House rules. You don’t come in my mouth. I don’t do anal, and I ain’t
into rough stuff. If you do something I don’t like, I tell you to stop and you
damn well better stop. If you don’t, I’ve got a razor close by and I’ll cut
you. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am. But what if I happen
to like being cut?” He flashed her a wicked smile.

“If that’s your trip, you can take
your money and get out right now. I don’t do that sick shit.”

“Take it easy, Charlotte. I was
just pulling your leg.”

“Okay. Let’s do it. I’ve got a hair
appointment.” She was clearly bored, but Joe Rob figured she just wasn’t a
morning person and that he was lucky she was willing to haul his ashes during
her off hours.

“Wait. How about some music to set
the mood? Last time you had music.”

She reached over to the radio on
the nightstand and clicked it on. A country & western song was playing,
some chick singing through her nose.

“I don’t like country,” he said.

“That’s Lee Ann Womack. Everybody
likes her.”

“If she was here, I’d probably fuck
her, but I don’t want to hear her sing, okay? Find some rock ’n’ roll.”

She scowled and turned the dial
until she found a soft-Rock oldie. An Elton John classic. “There. That good
enough for you?”

“That’s fag music. Hell, just turn
it off. We’ll make our own music.”

“Okay, stud. It’s your dime.”

“Dime my ass.”

“You know? I liked you better when
you were half drunk. You’re a real pain in the ass, sober.”

That one hit him wrong and the
black snake writhed in his belly. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled
her head down to his crotch. “Suck it, cunt. Or I’ll give you a real pain in
the ass.”

Charlotte muttered something that
was muffled by his crotch. She stiffened her neck and tried to resist, but he
knotted her hair in his hand and kept the pressure on the back of her head. She
gave up her resistance and took his cock in her mouth and sucked until it was
rock-hard. Then she used her tongue on the sensitive underside of his penis,
whipping his lust right up to the edge of eruption. He came close to shooting
his wad in her mouth just because she’d told him not to, but backed off and
withdrew at the last second. This time he was going to fuck her like a man, not
like some fumbling punk-ass kid.

He stood, pushed down his shorts,
then lifted her gown off over her head. Her full breasts fell into view,
drooping onto the paunch of her belly. He rolled her onto her stomach, pulled
her panties off and lowered himself onto the twin pillows of her buttocks, his
cock falling into the soft crevice.

“Not in the ass,” she warned him.
Was there a note of fear in her voice?

Taking his cock in his hand, he ran
its swollen head along the crack of her ass, pausing at the puckered entrance
to her asshole, then pushing on down to the lips of her pussy.

“Not without a condom, Goddammit,”
she told him. “There.” She pointed a manicured finger at the little goldfish
bowl filled with packs of Trojans on the nightstand by the radio.   “Fuck
that,” he said. “For a hundred bucks, I want to feel what I’m fucking.”

“No! Get off me, you bastard!” She
bucked beneath him. He held her down and tried to force himself inside her, but
she was too dry. He spit on his fingers and lubricated her with his saliva.
“I’ll have you arrested for rape,” she threatened.

“You took my money. This ain’t
rape.” He repositioned the head of his cock, then thrust his hips hard. With a
pleasant burn of friction, his cock slipped inside her, and he rammed in to the
hilt.  “I’ll kill you, you punk!” she shouted. “You’re fucking dead!”

He grabbed another handful of her
hair as if he were holding the reins of a horse, and pumped her with a
vengeance. Riding bareback. He slapped her fleshy hip. “Yee hah!”

“Stop it! Please stop! You’ll make
me pregnant.”

“No I won’t,” he said, panting with
exertion. “Your ass is mine.” And he pulled out of her vagina and jammed the
head of his slick penis into her anus. She grunted. He thrust harder, forcing
his rigid length deeper into the tight orifice. “I told you...I like it...down
and dirty,” he said. “Dark and nasty.”

Charlotte began to whimper, but Joe
Rob was oblivious to her whining protestations. He was riding a wave of dark
power, and that wave was about to crest and break in a thundering crash of
brutal lust.

He exploded inside her dark
passage, burying himself deep and howling with release. When he was done, he
rolled off her pillowing ass and collapsed onto his back. The room fell out of
focus. He floated on receding waves, returning to calmer seas. The black snake
in his belly was sated.

Charlotte sat up and slapped him
hard across the face. “You sonofabitch!” She slapped him again. “Fucking
bastard!” Again she slapped him.

Laughing, he grabbed her wrist and
held it immobile. “Chill out, Charlotte. It’s over. And I didn’t knock you up.
Unless you’re gonna have shit babies.”

“You white trash motherfucker,” she
hissed in his face. “I’ll put a contract out on your sorry ass. I know a guy
who’ll kill you for a hundred bucks. You stupid shit. The same hundred  you
paid to fuck me up the ass is gonna pay for your killing.”

Joe Rob cackled. “He’ll have to
stand in line, darling. You ain’t the only one who wants me dead.”

“Get out. Get your fucking clothes
and get out of my house.”

He let go of her wrist, stood up
and got dressed. “You know what, Charlotte? You need to find another line of
work. You’re whoring days are over. Fucking your worn-out pussy is like trying
to fuck an elephant. Your asshole is the only thing you got going for you. And
every Tom, Dick and Harry’s got one.”

She reached under a pillow and
pulled out a straight razor. She flicked it open and slashed at his face. He
jerked his head back but the blade caught his cheek and opened a small gash
just below his left eye. He drove his fist into her belly, and she doubled over
and dropped to her knees, gasping for breath. He took the razor from her hand,
pulled her head back and held the blade to her throat. Blood from his cheek
dripped onto the knuckles of his razor hand. As he was about to rake the blade
across her jugular, he saw Charlotte laid out on the gurney in the autopsy room
of Partain Funeral Home, and pulled the blade away. He bent down, slid the
razor’s blade under his boot and snapped it off.

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you,
darlin’,” he said. “You don’t want to push your luck with me again.”

***

As he drove home, he wondered what
the hell had possessed him to treat poor Charlotte the way he had. He had never
been violent with females before. It just wasn’t his way. He was one of the
good guys. Good guys didn’t ass-fuck a woman against her will. Good guys
probably didn’t ass-fuck at all. What the hell was
that
about? But he
knew the answer.
The dark thing.
Jessica A. Lowell was right. The dark thing
wanted him. The dark thing had wanted him to hurt Charlotte the Harlot, to
humiliate her. Degrade her. So he had. And he enjoyed it. That old black snake
had come out and fucked her up the ass. Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden,
the snake was demonic. Hell, it was Satanic. It had tempted him into darkness
and he had yielded to the temptation. And it all started with the runaway from
the nuthouse. It was as if she had passed it on to him, like a disease.
Infected
him with darkness. Then he had killed Odell and the dark thing
owned
him.