Sweeney straddled the girl and she spit in his face so he punched her in the throat. “Last time,” he said, raising his fist, “where’s Doc?”
The girl bucked her hips and clawed at Sweeney’s face. “Go to hell you fat fuck.” Her throat felt like she’d swallowed a dozen hornets. Sweeney slapped her, then backhanded her, then slapped her again. She wanted to cry, but Doc hated a crybaby. She bit her bottom lip. Doc would be back soon—she just had to hold out.
Sweeney dug a knuckle in her eye, grinding away until he couldn’t feel it anymore and she stopped bucking.
Sweeney pushed on her face while getting up, looked around the room. A pay-by-the-hour place with mirrors on every wall.
“Got news for you little girl. Doc’s not coming back.” Doc and Sweeney went on an East Texas robbing spree that ended when Doc shot Sweeney in the back six months ago. Now Sweeney was looking for Doc. Tracked him down to Galveston. Wasn’t hard, just had to follow the trail of ass he’d left behind.
Sweeney found Doc’s gun taped to the underside of the shitter top.
The girl moaned, rolled on her stomach.
Sweeney stepped on her hand, put all 300 pounds into it. She looked at him with her one good eye. “Doc. Told me,” she coughed, turned her head, hacked up something thick and bloody. “Told me. You would. Hurt me.” She spit out more blood.
“Yeah well he’s not here is he? Never is when you need him. He’s gone, your money’s gone, and your face looks like a used tampon. Hope he was worth it.” Sweeney kicked her in the ribs on the way out.
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Doc took a last drag on his cigarette, and then flicked it to the ground. He watched as Sweeny stepped out into the motel parking lot. Twenty minutes ago Doc had been sitting in the bar across the street, saw Sweeney knock on the motel door and Tara, like the dumb cunt she was, let the fat bastard in the room. She was a sweet piece of ass—maybe the best he’d ever had. He’d promised to take her with him to Vegas. Of course he’d made the promise with her legs spread and the taste of her pussy still on his tongue. Three days later she’d had his name tattooed on her ass. In Doc’s experience, when a girl you’ve known three days tattoos your name on her ass she’s on the wrong side of psycho.
Doc waited for Sweeney to get in his car, waited until his car disappeared around the corner, then headed across the street to his room.
Tara looked a mess. He stepped over her and headed to the bathroom, removed the gun from the toilet and stuck it behind the waistband of his Levi’s. He crossed the room and gave one final look at Tara. He couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive. Not that it mattered. He stopped at the door, ran his fingers through his long blonde hair, took a deep breath and opened the door.
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Sweeney drove around the block. He knew Doc wasn’t going anywhere without his gun. He parked the car down the street. Climbed out, opened the trunk, and grabbed the tire iron. Then stood outside the door like a batter waiting on a 3-2 pitch with the bases loaded.
When Doc stepped outside Sweeney swung from his heels.
Doc fell to the ground like he never had legs.
Sweeney tossed the tire iron aside, flipped Doc onto his stomach with his boot. He pulled the gun from Doc’s jeans, pointed it at his back, said, “You shoulda got yer ass outta here while it was still hairy.”
Doc turned his head, looked over his shoulder with a bloody smile that became a laughing fit.
Sweeney said, “You think this is funny?”
Doc said, “Not yet,” just before Tara crushed the back of Sweeney’s skull with the tire iron.
Doc said, “Thanks for saving my ass, baby.”
“I knew you’d come back,” she said.