Chapter 1 The Lustful Gateway (1)

Warning: The following story contains graphic sex, graphic misuse of convenience store inventory, profanity, unnecessary roughness, loud moans of feigned sexual ecstasy, multiple homicide, poor hairstyle choices, home invasion, sexual relations under false pretenses, illegal possession of firearms, prostitution, hypocrisy, helicopter parenting, invasion of privacy, pornography, bearers of false witness, bribery, grand theft auto, infidelity, police corruption, public indecency and of an adult, explicit, SEXUAL nature. Enjoy. All characters are over the age of 18. A single dirty magazine turns a nice guy's life upside down. ******* As much as Travis wanted to answer her naughty, beckoning gesture, he couldn't decide whether or not her smile touched her eyes. Temptation exuded from every aspect of her: the dark hair cascading down her bared shoulders, the tip of her tongue touching her full, red lips, the way one arm held the fabric of her bra to her chest while the other reached out for him... at least, he thought her bra was still partly on. The black plastic board in the magazine rack covered up the rest. It wasn't such a big deal to buy it. He was old enough to do it legally. Hell, he was very nearly old enough to drink legally. He'd tried that at parties, though, and found he didn't really care for the buzz. Or the vomiting. Or waking up on his friend's couch with any number of profane things drawn on his face in black Sharpee. Or explaining himself to his parents. No, drinking definitely wasn't his thing. Sex was another matter. He hadn't tried that. He wanted to, not that he had a partner, but even so there was so much stopping him: fear of rejection, fear of humiliating himself in his own ignorance, fear of shaming his parents... fear of God. Travis didn't believe the way his parents did. There were things that they preached he simply couldn't accept. But there was always the lingering worry that on some levels—not the homophobia, or the way they talked about other religions, but still—Travis worried that on some levels, his parents might be right. Temptation stared at him through clear plastic wrap from the other side of the store countertop. There were other eyes there, too, on other girls lurking under even more tawdry magazine titles. The girl under the Surrender to Lust banner held his attention, though, right until the guy behind the counter spoke. "Good evening. Can I help you, sir?" he asked. Travis blinked and stepped back, feeling his breath catch in his throat as he looked at the clerk. Dark-toned skin. An accent. A light beard. A strong nose. Dark hair, dark eyes. A curious expression. Something about him spoke of a kind disposition, a hard life and a terribly boring job. His nametag said "Ali." "Um. No," Travis answered when his naturally deep voice finally worked again. "No, sorry, I'm just thinking." "Then can I help the lady behind you?" asked Ali. Again, Travis blinked. He looked over his shoulder and down at the older Asian woman holding an armful of simple convenience store stock. He was a tall guy, and immediately felt like he was looming over her there in his black sweats and hoodie. "Oh, gosh, I'm sorry," he mumbled. Travis backed away, careful not to bump her with his gym bag. His wet sneakers squeaked awkwardly on the tile as he moved away into the candy aisle, where he perused colorful packages of chocolate and snacks as if he were interested in any of it. His old flip-phone told him it was fifteen after ten. By now, his mother had likely taken one of her sleeping pills. Dad would still be up. Travis would come home, finding Dad still in his slacks and sweater vest, working on the church booster club's financial statements or maybe organizing the next prayer group newsletter. Or scouring the home PC for signs of pornography or songs with profane lyrics. "Hi, Travis. How was karate class?" he would ask when Travis came in, with that slightly disdainful tone that he had ever since Travis gave up boxing in favor of kung fu, not that Dad could be bothered with the difference. Lord, the way Travis had to fight for the right to spend his own damn money however he wanted. It seemed to be the price he paid for living at home while going to school on Dad's dime. "Fine, Dad," he would say. "What kept you so late?" Dad would ask. Travis would have to decide whether or not to be honest and say he was out buying dirty magazines, or instead say something about sticking around to clean the dojo or the bus being late or any number of lies that would stain his soul forever on top of the magazine of dirty pictures that would be in his gym bag. Such a simple thing: just a magazine in his bag. But all Travis could think of was all the horrible ways it could be exposed. That, and all the horrible things that could happen to him once he started on this downhill slide of lust. Would he wind up addicted to it? Would he turn into a complete pig? Would God strike him down with misfortune as punishment for his sins? It was stupid. So stupid. He knew these things he'd been taught all his life couldn't possibly be the way the world really worked. People looked at porn all the time. They did much more sinful things and led happy, healthy lives. Travis knew that. His friends at school all knew that, and in fact did it all the time. But they didn't grow up in the home of Richard and Peggy Hennessy, and hadn't been reminded from birth that God was always watching. At that moment, God watched Travis stall. The lady paid for her odds and ends and shuffled out into the rain, leaving Travis in the convenience store with no one but Ali... and God, of course, but he never actually had anything to say. Stupid, Travis told himself. This is so stupid. I'm not gonna go to Hell because I want to look at naked women. I'm not gonna go to hell for jerking off. It's not going to destroy my life. It's just porn. He took a deep breath and pulled out his wallet. The ten dollar bill inside couldn't be traced by his father, who wouldn't see it on Travis's bank statements that he constantly read without Travis's permission. His face set in determination, Travis returned to the counter. Ali's back was turned as he rustled through a cabinet. "Um, excuse me?" Travis asked. Ali didn't answer. Travis realized he was speaking barely over a mumble. He inhaled again. "Excuse me?" "Yes?" Ali replied, turning around. "I'll have, um..." Travis blinked. He gestured to the magazine rack behind the counter. "Could I have a copy of Surrender to Lust, please?" Ali shrugged. "Sure," he said. Travis couldn't tell if there was judgment in his eyes or his tone. He seemed indifferent... didn't he? The clerk turned to pull the magazine out. Its plastic wrap caught awkwardly on the rack as he pulled on it, forcing Ali to fuss with it to get it out neatly. The "bing bong" tone of the door chimes rang out as the door opened. Travis's eyes snapped to his left to see two men and a young woman enter. The guys were both noticeably larger than the woman, dressed in clothes that were probably stylish in a fashion genre Travis had never understood. The largest looked like he might step right out of his baggy jeans at any moment, while the other walked with his shirt collar popped up and his ear glued to his phone. Excessive gold jewelry hung from their necks and rode their fingers. Neither seemed particularly pleasant. It was their companion, though, who instantly had Travis's complete attention. Her skin bore a smooth, flawless tan that spoke of Latina heritage. Her hair, lightly brown with subtle blonde highlights, spilled over to one side like a brown waterfall. The miniskirt and thin, tight top did a lot to show off her natural curves and flat belly, but it couldn't have been very warm. It was late September, and Seattle was already threatening to skip straight into late autumn temperatures. He only stared for a heartbeat, maybe three, before he turned his face back toward the counter. Yet the damage had been done; she had entered with a frown, but then smiled winningly at him as their eyes met. Travis realized he had seen her before, more than a few times, walking up and down the sidewalks of Aurora. His friends had a mocking game they called "Walking or Working," where players driving the north end of the major street guessed the activities of women on the sidewalks. This young woman, probably the same age as Travis, had been a "contestant" more than once. In a car, with nobody else hearing, it seemed harmless enough. It wasn't like they yelled at the pedestrians they passed by. But now, making eye contact and seeing that smile, Travis suddenly felt very guilty indeed. She was a human being.