Happy to See Me?
Better Homes and Crimes Scenes #6
Yes, I had a gun. But not in my pocket. No, I wasn’t happy to see her.
Nor does Jeune recognize me as I expected. Users forget everyone until they need them. And, yes, that was her name. Jeune de Laune. Hated by everyone in Bovane, Texas. Slept with them too.
Including the women.
Black hair. Carpet too. Black eyes. Ninety-five pounds, five-three. My mob buddies would call her a spinner. C-cup slope she dressed to emphasize every moment of every day. Sent home in high school at least every other week by the iron-jawed, cast-iron bosomed matrons who ruled our high school.
I saw her last the night of high school graduation. She pushed me back on the couch, straddled my chest, reached into my pants. I looked for the door.
“Show me what you’ve got, big fella.”
What did I have for her? Nothing. She must have worked me for five minutes. Nada. She even shoved my hand under her bra, held it in place over a breast that curved like a sculpted scoop of ice cream spilling from a freshly baked cone. Soft, molded into my hand. With 27 interceptions and a state championship ring on my finger, I’d squeezed more breasts than most guys in my class.
Hers?
Eleven on a scale of five.
Still no reaction.
She even shoved my hand under her bra, held it in place over a breast that curved like a sculpted scoop of ice cream spilling from a freshly baked cone.
She slapped my hand away and hopped off the couch like a cat you petted without permission. “What is this?” she demanded. “You queer.”
I knew she only climbed on me because she hated my girlfriend. But the minute she said it, I realized what I’d suspected for years. I prefer men. Which didn’t make my girlfriend happy when I confessed. “Two years fucking me and you don’t know it till she grabs your cock?”
Twelve years later, we’re on her couch again, her preparing to shove her hand into my pants, and me preparing to kill her. Not out of revenge. For fifty thousand dollars. Half my usual fee.
My clients? Her fourth husband Mitch. Stumbled across my name when he got caught in the middle of one of Jeune’s crooked deals. Our quarterback who wanted to run for mayor if she didn’t have too much dirt to expose. A former high school superintendent who believed she owned the land for the new high school and paid her three hundred thousand from district funds for a plot he’d never develop. The Baptist minister and Father Andrew, still in charge of their congregations but not if she leaked the photos of them riding her like a prize rodeo bull.
Two ex-wives whose husbands she stole and dumped as soon as they signed the divorce papers.
Mitch left town when I arrived. Smart move.
“She’s always at The Lazy Eye. Sitting at the bar waiting for someone to buy her a drink. Someone always does.” No surprise. If a loser finds his way to town, he finds his way to the Lazy Eye.
I used a black card to pay for my drink. To draw her attention. Twenty minutes later her hand rested on my thigh, her breath in my ear. “I drink Blood and Sand.”
I didn’t buy her a drink. Instead, I took a seat at the far end of the bar, nursed a Seven and Seven and pretended my wife refuses to answer the phone. Used a black card to pay for my drink. To draw her attention. Twenty minutes later her hand rested on my thigh, her breath in my ear. “I drink Blood and Sand.” I nodded to the barkeep, slipped my card across the counter. Another half hour and she took me home.
“You have a wedding ring,”
“So does he.” She pushed me back on her couch and straddled me. Killer déjà vu. “And he’s out of town.” She put a lowball glass to my lips. Early Times. Was Mitch that cheap, or was this the best he could buy on the budget she provided?
I shifted so she couldn’t find the HK tucked into my belt. In the small of my back. She covered my mouth with hers, her scent Guerlain. Huge contrast to Mitch’s scotch. One hand presses my chest, her knees at her breasts, the other hand reaches into my pants.
I’d prefer to not shoot her. I look around for a a lamp or vase I can borrow to make an accident. My vision blurs.
Her hand surrounds me, and, as with graduation night, nothing happens. She bites my ear. “Soft as ever. And I thought you’d be happy to see me.” She reaches behind me, takes my gun.
She bites my ear. “Soft as ever. And I thought you’d be happy to see me.” She reaches behind me, takes my gun.
I reach for the gun. My hand drops to the floor, my arm as limp as my cock.
“Chloral Hydrate. In your drink. Mitch has a big fucking mouth. Two drinks and he tells me everything.” She points the muzzle to my forehead, slides a shell into the chamber. “So do we negotiate or do I pull the trigger?
“Mitch bores me, and I‘m not paying another divorce lawyer.”
(From the Lit Up February Prompt: Movie Quotes)
Wry noir author Phillip T. Stephens wrote Cigerets, Guns & Beer, Raising Hell, and the Indie Book Award winning Seeing Jesus. Follow him @stephens_pt.
