Chapter 5: Dirty Deals and Deadly Leads.

The Texas night was a steamy fuckin’ bitch, wrappin’ around me like a wet cunt as I gripped the steerin’ wheel of my sheriff’s rig, cum crustin’ my thighs from Kevin’s load, its sticky heat chafin’ my skin. My pussy ached under the tight skirt, no panties to soak the mess, clit twitchin’ with every gear shift, replayin’ that close call with his wife, her perfume burnin’ my nose. That ashtray emblem burned in my brain—a goddamn key to the casino heist, maybe Rico Vargas’ filthy trail to Laura’s broken body. But fuck, I needed somethin’ raw to shake the edge before chasin’ this lead. My mind flicked to Martin waitin’ at home, his young cock hard, and my snatch pulsed, drippin’ juice onto the seat, the musky scent of sex fillin’ the cab, bar lights bleedin’ red outside. First, a dirty deal to seal.

I pulled up to a sin-soaked dive on Lubbock’s ass-end, neon Lone Star flickered, jukebox wailin’ Strait, linoleum stickin’ to my boots, air thick with stale beer and cigarette haze. A warped pool table sagged under beer-soaked felt, roughnecks clackin’ balls, cursin’ over lost bets. A brassy waitress, cheap perfume cuttin’ through menthol smoke, scraped up empty Coors bottles, her scowl darin’ barflies to grope. Strait’s jukebox wail pierced the din, neon buzzin’ like a whore’s promise, while shadows hid deals in grimy booths. Inside, sticky counters reeked of sweaty balls, a shithole where secrets traded hands with a quick fuck in the alley. Bobby, Rico’s errand dog since spring, squirmed, nursin’ shitty whiskey, his eyes lightin’ up with sleazy lust as I strutted in, badge gleamin’, tits strainin’ my uniform shirt, nipples pokin’ through hard as bullets from the night’s heat. My skirt rode high, flashin’ my bare ass as I leaned beside him, lettin’ him smell the cum and pussy juice clingin’ to me, sharp like burnt sugar. “Sheriff Teresa, lookin’ like fuck-meat tonight,” he slurred, hand twitchin’ to grab my thigh, cock tentin’ his dirty jeans, a wet spot bloomin’.

“Cut the bullshit, Bobby,” I growled, leanin’ close, my breath hot on his ear, tit brushin’ his arm, makin’ his dick jump. “I’ve got your rap sheet. Spill or jail fucks you harder. Rico’s murder trail’s blazin’, and you’re tied.” My hand slid under the bar, grippin’ his bulge, squeezin’ till he hissed, feelin’ his hard-on pulse, my cunt soakin’ at the control, juice tricklin’ down my thigh.

He groaned, shiftin’, voice shakin’. “If Rico knows, I’m dead, bitch. Warehouse off Route 62, tapes and dope. That’s it—now suck me off?” His eyes begged, droolin’ over my cleavage as I smirked, thumb rubbin’ his cock’s head, teasin’ precum.

“Good boy,” I purred, standin’, skirt hikin’ higher, flashin’ my bare pussy lips, glistenin’ with wetness and Kevin’s dried cum, darin’ him to stare. “Jail’s worse, prick. Might ride you if this pans out.” My clit throbbed, but bigger cocks waited. I strutted out, hips swayin’, knowin’ he was jerkin’ off under the bar, the haze chokin’ my throat.

Back in the rig, I yanked tattered maps from the glovebox, squintin’ at Route 62’s creased lines, maps smelled of tobacco, AM radio buzzin’ Tejano through static, the thrill of closin’ in on Rico Vargas mixin’ with my cunt’s ache, beggin’ for a hard fuck. I radioed Zoe, voice rough. “Got Rico’s hideout, warehouse off 62. Meet me in thirty, bitch, and bring that tight pussy—I’ll need to eat somethin’ sweet before we bust this fucker.” Her laugh crackled, her VHS filth hauntin’ her, trackin’ Rico with me, promisin’ a sloppy reward. Zoe’s VHS scars bled raw, Malcolm Conner’s shadow—gone since ‘85, Peter just 7—clawin’ her soul. He ran dope through Route 62’s dusty sheds, cut deals in neon dives with barflies and Hank, Rico’s knife-happy enforcer, stashin’ cash under payphone grime. Likely gutted for skimmins’, his body lost to Lubbock’s mesquite wastes, leavin’ Zoe’s badge to hunt Rico’s murder trail. Her shame burned for Peter’s haunted eyes, for Alex and Lilly, trapped in Rico’s shadow, their scars and glow pushin’ me to gut him. Zoe Conner, born Harper, carried scars for Malcolm’s blood, her sister’s pain, Lilly’s fight, drivin’ my snatch to drip harder, wettin’ the seat.

I parked the rig off Route 62, dust chokin’ the air, my cunt still throbbin’ from Bobby’s leers. Rico’s trail burned hot, Alex and Lilly’s faces hauntin’ me. Thirty minutes crawled, then Zoe’s cruiser pulled up, her shadow movin’ fast.

Zoe slid in, badge clinkin’, slumpin’ beside me under the sputterin’ streetlight, Route 62’s dust smearin’ the windshield like a drunk’s promise. Tejano radio’s Selena croon choked in stale smoke and Lubbock’s sour heat, her perfume bitin’ through despair. Her face crumpled, tears like broken glass scaldin’ dust-caked cheeks, anguish guttin’ me sharper than mesquite thorns. “Teresa, Alex and Lilly—Rico’s closin’ in, chewin’ ‘em up,” she sobbed, voice shatterin’.

I clamped her shoulder, calluses scrapin’ her uniform, voice gravelly. “Zoe, what pulled Alex to Jimmy back then? How’d she end up this broken?” She choked, eyes drowned. “Alex—my sister—she was wild, barely 20 when she fell for Jimmy Collins, ‘round ‘82, his dope-runnin’ swagger reelin’ her in. Married young, Lilly born ‘77, Alex glowin’ despite the danger. Jimmy crossed Rico, ‘88 or ‘89, got knifed in an alley, blood poolin’ as Alex watched, Lilly 11, screamin’. Rico’s dogs left her widowed at 32, debts pilin’, trailer park swallowin’ ‘em—moldy walls, no heat, roaches eatin’ Lilly’s books. Alex slung beers at Rico’s dive, that shithole you hit, blonde locks catchin’ neon, curves strainin’ short skirts for tips. She’d sway through drunks, laugh hidin’ grief, dodgin’ Rico’s hands demandin’ ‘favors’ to clear Jimmy’s slate. She swapped Harper for Collins to hide, but ‘91, Lilly 14, it crushed her—pills, slashed wrists, grievin’ Jimmy, starvin’, Rico’s shadow. I found her, blood soakin’ the floor, Lilly wailin’. Scars mark her wrists, shame burnin’ for Lilly’s eyes. I tried pullin’ her out—money, my place—but she’s stuck, fightin’ for Lilly.” Her hands clawed her thighs, sobs heavin’.