Page 34 of Jagged Line Paradise

I push her down over the arm of the couch again and fuck her hard, until she screams out her pussy’s dramatic approval of the rough orgasm I’ve given her. Another couple of thrusts and I come, but not nearly as dramatically and not nearly as satisfied as she is.

Still, I feel sated for now—relieved that I’ve managed to fuck a woman and come without leaving any marks or bruises or worse.

I’m capable of worse.

I pull out and remove the condom, holding my pants up with one hand and leaving her there on the couch to fend for herself. The barrier isn’t really necessary for birth control since I chose to get a vasectomy when I was twenty-five. I’m not interested in passing on this fucked-up gene pool after everything my father unleashed upon the world. I only use the condom at Julia’s insistence, which is fine by me. It dulls the sensation and helps me tame the animal inside me.

I tie it off and drop it into the trash bin in the half bath just a few steps away. I wash my hands and buckle up. I can practically hear Julia roll her eyes at me. She hates how quickly I disconnect after sex, but she knows she’s never getting more from me. I’ve given her an out more times than I can count, and she’s always refused.

My cell phone starts to ring as I come back out and I pull my phone from my back pocket. “You good?” I ask Julia as she bends to pick up her thong from the floor.

She freezes for a second, looking up at me from beneath her eyelashes. “I’m good,” she says, then stands up straight. “Are you good?”

I give her a tight smile and a nod before pressing the button to answer the call. She heads for the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.

Routine.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Hernandez, this is Brittany Jane fromWickedWays: True Crimes Productions. I just wanted to call and follow-up on our conversation yesterday about the documentary.”

“Yes, hello, Ms. Jane.”

“So, the producers are one hundred percent on board with the angle you proposed. We totally understand the need to keep the focus on the victims and the lives they lived. We’ve already done the leg work and contacted their families. Four of the five deceased victims’ families are on board, contracts signed, ready to go with filming next week.”

“And you’ve spoken with them personally? You know I’m not willing to move forward with this unless they have a clear understanding that they will not be exploited for gain. It must be clear that this documentary is meant to give them a voice, not provide yet another play-by-play of the horrid acts my father had committed.”

I may be an asshole, but I’m a charitable one. Victim advocacy and rehabilitation has become my life’s work. I started a non-profit company out of my aunt’s humble home here in LA when I graduated from college. It got traction while I was completing my MBA.

I shamelessly capitalized on my lineage, claiming an overwhelming need to pay reparations to victims of violent crimes on my father’s behalf. The overwhelming need was real—it still is—and I’ve used that need to manipulate grants in my favor since I started the business.Vindication Non-Profit for Victim Advocacyand Rehabilitationreceived massive amounts of state and federal funding to aid my work with survivors and the families of victims.

I started it out of guilt and my obsession has kept it going.

“Yes,” Brittany assures me, “I’ve spoken with them personally. I made certain that a provision to stop filming at any time was listed in their contracts.”

“Perfect.”

“One other thing we haven’t addressed and would really like to before we make the trip to Sunrise Valley next week for filming…”

“What’s that?”

She clears her throat and pauses, hesitates. “Avalon Briar?”

“Did you get in touch with her?”

“Well, we tried. We really did. I left her four messages myself. On the last call, she answered, told me to, and I quote,‘Gosuck a turkey leg,’ and hung up on me. I’ve gotta admit, that one hurt.” She chuckles.

It sounds characteristically like the eighteen-year-old version of Avalon Briar I remember—she couldn’t just tell them tofuckofflike a normal person. Her insult had to be just a little more creative. And somehow, oddly, a little more painful.

“I appreciate you trying,” I tell her half-heartedly.

I was really hoping that Avalon would be more responsive to someone other than myself. I can count the number of times over the last ten years that she’s returned a message from me on one hand.

Once by phone.

Twice by text.

Another time or two through social media.

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