Heroin Chronicles Read Online Free PDF Page B

the two years they had known him or the three they had lived on shiny-shit-hole row. Five feet and scarcely an inch more, Brett was just tall enough to not be a midget. His face, and his disposition, gave you the sense that someone had started punching him when he was three, and just kept on hitting. Brett was always good for pills after a blowjob or a quick fuck. And this morning he was the only hope for her and bright-eyed Eli making it through the day’s obligations. Obligations that wouldn’t be met without chemical motivation, obligations necessary to get funding for things owed, and things hoped for, from Moses, their drug dealer—referred to as PRDD (Puerto Rican Drug Dealer) or the Biblical Bringer, depending on the day and their level of admiration for what he had to offer. Right now, all they had was her pussy, her mouth, and a pill-popping plumber to ensure they wouldn’t be shivering on a street corner.
    Eliza muttered as she walked to Brett’s. “It will be quick. It always is.” When she arrived she made small talk filled with innuendo: “Haven’t had my morning pounding. Eli’s wet as a noodle, scouring the place for something.”
    â€œUhuh.”
    â€œGod knows what he figures he’ll find. All I can think about is how I woke up with a need to be filled that’s still as empty as the bags he keeps checking through.”
    â€œUhuh.”
    She stopped chattering long enough to grab them both beers from the fridge. She sat on Brett’s lap, rubbing his cock through his pants, her mouth pressed to his ear. “You willing to help my greedy little cunt?”
    â€œYou’re too much.” A half-cocked grin on his face, Brett pulled her close and ran his tongue across her lips, parted them with it, and began to kiss her. He was gentle, in that way that lonely discarded men always are.
    Eliza unzipped his pants. Brett sucked in, his breath caught up by his need to fuck, to believe that she wanted him. She spat on her hand, lifted her dress, and stuck her lubricated fingers into her pussy. His hands followed hers. Fingers shoving into her well-trained holes. She moaned, and told him how badly she needed him to fuck her. He stood up and she laid on the dingy, cracked linoleum floor. She could feel the dirt rubbing into her skin. Her body called him down, no more need for words as she watched him remove his pants. Brett was short and the engagement would be shorter, but he was hung; God’s obscene joke to make a man equipped but inadequate. The initial entry pleased her, made her gasp even, but it was sure to leave her wanting more. Two minutes tops. He got up and went to the bathroom. He always had to take a shit after sex. She didn’t try or care to analyze it. The closing of the door was like a starter’s pistol. She moved quickly, making her way back to his room.
    His shelves didn’t contain knickknacks, or clothes, or books, just rows and rows of pill bottles with various names of patients and doctors. It was a fucking pharmacy, a pill junkie’s dream, an endless row of tiny tubs in varying states. She filled the deep pockets of her muumuu with Oxycontin, Vicodin, Percocet, Adderall, random barbiturates, and uppers whose names she’d never remember. She left while Brett was still launching shit rockets into the toilet.
    As she walked to the 7-Eleven a block away, Eliza wondered if Brett knew that she was ripping him off. Maybe he went to the bathroom so she wouldn’t have to beg, knowing his own fiendish propensities wouldn’t allow him to simply give her the pills. It was the sort of silly romantic notion she always tried to believe—soft, false truths.
    The guy behind the counter was the little brother of a friend from high school. A remainder from when she was headed toward success, he still reacted to her as if she were the key to hallway royalty. She wondered, did he want to fuck her or did he just feel a need