Page 25 of A Long Con

Oh fuck me raw. Slapping his long, fat dick was in my top five wish list. Could I bring myself to do it without flashbacks of my evil father? I could try. “I could try, Royal. You definitely give me the motivation.”

He changed the subject just as my penis was threatening to sproing out of my towel wrap. “That piece of paper you nabbed from Pothole’s pants. I presume he had no cash?”

“Not a single dollar, which is weird, because yesterday I paid him sixty. But check this out.” I went to my leather jacket and took the bearer bond from the inside pocket. I handed it to Royal and he looked at it blankly. I explained, “It’s a bearer bond for two million, which I think that painting, even if fake, was worth a lot more. There’s no name on it, so whoever’s holding it gets paid the two mil. In this case, the issuer is Entrenadores de Caballos, the equestrian place owned by Rodriguez Jimenez, who I suspect is our buyer. It’s a way to avoid taxes for shady people.”

Royal gazed at the paper with renewed respect. “I think I’ve seen a few of these in my time, when I was guarding drug dealers.”

I nodded. “Probably.” It was too much to hope that we’d engage in sex, not with the big day ahead of us, and not with the big reveal of my identity. Still, with a sliver of hope clinging to my brain, I whipped off my towel and found a reason to stride back and forth across the room to my duffel bag a couple times. My rod was pleasantly plump like a half-filled hose lolling back and forth between my thighs as I paraded my stuff.

Hey. I worked out. I wasn’t nearly as shredded as that mastiff, but I didn’t have an ounce of fat on me and I boasted an eight-pack. I was a lean, mean, fighting machine. Well, maybe not a fighting machine. And that’s what Royal was complaining about. I wasn’t rough enough.

Royal held the paper out. “Keep this on your person, not in your bag.” It was a good excuse to walk right up to him, my hard-on waving him in the face, and take the paper. “If you think I don’t want to grab that big dick and gobble it up, you’re mistaken. The more I taste of you, the more I want. You broke da mouth.”

I nodded. That meant I was delicious. “But we have to get some sleep.”

“That. And you know what, fucker? I’m pissed at you. I’ve got a scrap with you. You knew that this was my livelihood, yet you chose to fuck with it by pretending that painting was an original Duchamp.”

Looking at the wall, I jammed my fists onto my hips and willed my dick to remain at half-mast. It was easy to imagine his juicy mouth, his stretched throat taking my entire length all the way past his tonsils. How the hell does he do that? “That’s understandable. But if you knew the feds were tracking me down, you’d never associate with me.”

“Rajah dat,” he agreed. “But now that I’ve tasted your delicious jizz, I can’t stop associating with you.”

I grinned down at him. He was looking thoughtfully at my erection. “True dat. You’re in one hell of a dilemma.”

Instead, he slapped my cock. He slapped me!

He gave me one giant open-handed smack, slipped his legs under the meager sheet and tissue-thin blanket, and turned off the light on his nightstand.

He left me to stand there like a moke. Once I got a grip on my senses, I did the same as him. Except my penis was stiff as a motherboard.

The slap had turned me on.

“Come on, come on, brah! Twinkletoes got intel for us!”

What the fuck? Hair flopping in my eyes, I jerked to a sit. “Twinkletoes? What?”

Royal sat on my bed with a bounce and showed me his phone. “This is where O’Bell’s phone pinged. I’ve got goosebumps!”

Even though I was groggy and still in the throes of a dream where I was flying over the Grand Canyon, I saw something on his phone’s map. “Balderrama,” I said, grabbing the cell.

“What?”

“Remember he said O’Bell was going to an area of Hermosillo that sounded like a character in That Seventies Show? Well, look at this district where he is. Balderrama. The guy who played Fez.”

Grabbing his phone back, Royal made a hmm sound. It wasn’t until much later I realized the guy’s name was really Valderrama, but it was close enough for everyone to make the same mistake. “Yeah, he pinged inside that zone. Now we just have to find his rental car.”

Leaping out of bed, I was glad that Royal eyeballed my morning wood. “If he’s pinging there, that must be where his hunting club is. Weird. Looks like the middle of the city.”

“Yeah.” Royal mused. “What would he be hunting inside the city?”

“Pigeons? But why come all this way for that?”

Royal said, “Maybe he’s still at his hotel or Airbnb or whatever. He just got here yesterday. Maybe he hasn’t even gone to the hunting club yet. Anyway, here’s a picture of the moke.”

Man, that picture was strange. It showed a shirtless guy in maybe his late twenties holding a fucking monitor lizard. I don’t mean one of those pet ones. This was obviously a wild one because it was squirming, trying to get away, all four feet of its heft causing O’Bell’s biceps to bulge. I was jealous.

“Talk about a fucking moke,” I said, handing the phone back to Royal. I stepped into fresh boxer briefs and the same pants from the day before.

Royal said, “You think that’s bad, look at this.”