Chapter 29: Route 87 Gambit and Filthy Leverage

February 8, 1994, 9:00 AM

The Route 87 lead chewed at my fuckin’ soul like a rusted blade, a stinkin’ swamp of Leon’s rot just waitin’ to be purged. That whorehouse by the old mill, run by his cold-blooded bitch of a sister Maggie, stuffed with underage girls and blackmail tapes, was a powder keg I couldn’t light yet—not till I had the heavy artillery to back my play. But the warehouse drop Ricky “Sticky Fingers” Malone let slip, also squattin’ on Route 87, was my first punch. A raid there could bag me solid dirt—stolen goods, ledgers, maybe a thread straight to the whorehouse—without lettin’ Leon’s leftover scum smell that I knew their nastiest fuckin’ secret. As Lubbock’s sheriff, I had to play this sly, keep my hand buried deep, even from the crooked fucks I’d screwed into my pocket. My pussy burned under my uniform skirt, no panties to cage the heat, old cum from last night’s ranch filth still crusted on my thighs, clit screamin’ for a savage rub. But beneath the raw, gnawin’ lust, guilt ripped me raw—Laura Simmons and Nancy Wigan still had no full justice, and every goddamn play I made dangled Martin, Libra, and my twisted kin over the fuckin’ abyss. Could I carve out Leon’s empire before it carved us to pieces, or was I just diggin’ a filthier grave to swallow us whole?

First mark was the attorney, that greasy bastard Vernon Kline, a slimy fuck I’d broken down right after cagin’ Leon. He’d smoothed the edges on Rico’s case back then, and now I needed his legal bullshit to stamp a raid on the Route 87 warehouse without kickin’ up the wrong kind of dust. His downtown office reeked of dirty money and desperation, polished oak and stale coffee maskin’ the kinda filth I knew boiled under his skin, even if he played clean. “Sheriff Davis,” he muttered, adjustin’ his tie as I stormed in, badge flashin’ on my belt, skirt creepin’ up to tease bare thigh, nipples stabbin’ hard through my tight shirt as I bent over his desk, lettin’ him catch the deep, sweaty valley of my cleavage. My eyes flicked to a photo frame sittin’ pretty on his desk—a picture of his bountiful wife, a curvy woman with honey-blonde hair fallin’ in soft waves, her smile wide and warm, skin glowin’ with a pampered sheen, dressed in a floral sundress that hugged her full tits and hips. Flankin’ her were two kids, a boy and a girl, maybe eight and ten, both with her bright blue eyes and his sharp jaw, the boy sportin’ a gap-toothed grin in a baseball cap, the girl with pigtails and a frilly pink dress, all fuckin’ innocence and family pride starin’ back at me. I smirked, reachin’ over slow, turnin’ the frame flat on the desk with a deliberate thud, hidin’ their faces as I leaned closer, “Got a job for ya, Kline,” I hissed, voice thick with venom and honey, poppin’ a button on my shirt, barin’ more tit, “Need a raid cleared for a warehouse off Route 87. Stolen goods tied to Leon’s stragglers, hard fuckin’ dirt to bury ‘em with. No questions, just scribble your goddamn name.” I kept the whorehouse locked in my chest—fuck no, that was my kill shot, too damn lethal for even this sleaze to touch.

His face tightened, reluctance flashin’ as he straightened, hands fidgetin’ near the overturned frame, eyes dartin’ away from my exposed skin, “Teresa, I’m not sure about this. A raid’s messy, and I’ve got ... responsibilities. I can’t just sign off without details.” His voice was stiff, resistance clear, no hunger in his gaze like before, more like a man tryna hold onto some shred of decency. But I wasn’t havin’ that shit. I shifted, skirt ridin’ higher, flashin’ my bare, drippin’ pussy, lips swollen and parted, the musky stink of my heat fillin’ the room as I rounded the desk, closin’ in, “Don’t play the family man now, Kline, not with me,” I purred, voice low and dangerous, leanin’ so my tits were inches from his chest, hand slidin’ down to graze his thigh, feelin’ him tense under my touch, “Sign it, and I’ll fuck you till you forget that pretty wife and those sweet kids. Make that cock remember who owns it, even if you’re fightin’ me.” His breath hitched, conflict warrin’ in his eyes, hands clenchin’ as I pressed closer, unbuttonin’ more of my shirt, lettin’ my nipples peek out, hard and dark, darin’ him to crack, “I ain’t askin’, Vernon. You know I get what I want. Sign, or I make life real fuckin’ ugly for you.”

He swallowed hard, resistance crumblin’ slow as I dropped to my knees, yankin’ his pants down despite his weak protest, “Teresa, wait, I can’t—” but his words died as I freed his thick, veiny dick, half-hard despite his fight, head already weepin’ a bead of precum. I smirked, swallowin’ his shaft whole, lips stretched tight, tongue lashin’ the tip as I sucked hard, moanin’ low around him, my cunt clenchin’ empty under the skirt, wet and starvin’. His hands twitched, fightin’ not to grab my hair, but his hips bucked slight, fuckin’ my mouth against his will, spit droolin’ down my chin as I took him balls-deep, gaggin’ just enough to push him past the edge. Then I surged up, hikin’ my skirt to bare my soaked slit, straddlin’ him in his overpriced chair, sinkin’ down on his cock with a guttural moan, walls grippin’ tight as I rode him ruthless, hips crashin’, “Cum in me, you prick, seal this shit with your load, forget that family for five fuckin’ minutes,” I snarled, milkin’ him till he erupted, hot seed spurtin’ thick inside against his own goddamn conscience, overflowin’ down my thighs as my own climax tore through, screamin’ raw, juices mixin’ with his mess, soakin’ us both. Still gaspin’, guilt flashin’ in his eyes, he scratched his name on the raid approval, blind to the whorehouse shadow loomin’ uglier than the warehouse. “Good dog,” I growled, fixin’ my skirt, cum seepin’ down my legs as I strutted out, leavin’ him to flip that photo frame back up with tremblin’ hands, one fuckin’ step closer to strikin’ Route 87 without barin’ my full hand.