Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (10 page)

“Can you at least give me a clue as to what I can expect?”

She sighed, finally turned and faced me. “Okay, Mr. Worry…geez. I’ve got some things I need to take care of right now. In the meantime, you eat your food and get some rest. I’ll be back for you later.”

“Later?
When
later?”

“
Later
.
”

I gave her a frustrated look. She ignored it and went back to the mirror.

“Well could you at least help me get back my car?” I asked.

“Where is it?”

“A bar.”

She applied some lip gloss, smacked her lips, turned from the mirror and said, “We’ll play it by ear. We’re going to be pretty busy tonight.”

She bent over me, kissed me, and then bit down hard on my lower lip. I jerked away and frowned, started sucking on my lip. The coppery taste of blood was instant.

She smirked and left.

“Dude—not a fucking vampire.”

The bartender holds up both hands and nods an apology. “Continue.”

(
Not each other. That’s my guess.
)

Yeah, okay. Then while we’re at it, why
does
she keep screwing my brains out? She’s already got me by the balls with that damn tape.

(
You saying you don’t like it?
)

Hell no.

(
Then sit back—or hop on—and enjoy it.
)

But why do it?

(
You mean does she like you?
)

No.

(
Yes.
)

I threw on a pair of boxers and a faded
Stooges
tee, then headed into the kitchen to reheat my Chinese food. Pele emerged from wherever the hell he was hiding when Angela was here—odd for him; he usually demands attention from any and all—and began circling my ankles, hinting at a taste of that delicious-smelling stuff I was heating up in the microwave, please and thank you.

When the timer beeped, I dumped the contents of the white carton onto a plate, then bent and flicked a piece into Pele’s bowl. He approached, sniffed, and then walked away.

“No, huh?” I said. “Just wanted to make sure I was still your slave?” I nudged him with my foot. He returned a swipe then disappeared.

I settled into my sofa and finished watching
The Omen
as I ate.

Angela, however, was dressed in the type of camouflaged attire hunters wear—jacket, pants, even a cap. It was odd.

I looked her up and down. “What’s with—?”

“
Hey, Moe!
” she squeaked, right before slapping my face.

I took a step back and rubbed my cheek. “What the hell?”

She gestured towards my tee. “I love
The Three Stooges.
”

I continued rubbing my cheek. “Maybe next time just tell me.”

“You big pussy.” Then, spotting something to her left: “Speaking of pussy.”

Pele made an appearance. He sauntered towards my ankles, yet kept a cautious distance from Angela.

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” she said. “Why didn’t I see him last time?”

“He was probably hiding. Cats can sense evil.”

“Funny,” she said, squatting down and holding a hand out to him. “What’s his name?”

“Pele.”

She glanced up at me. “Pele? Like the soccer player?”

“Yes and no.”

She stopped trying to win Pele’s affection and stood. “I don’t get it.”

“I named him after Jose ‘Pele’ Landi-Jons, my favorite fighter. Guy’s a legend in the sport of MMA. So much so that he was nicknamed ‘Pele’ in Brazil—after the soccer player.”

“MMA?”

“Mixed martial arts. Ever heard of the UFC?”

“Is that the stuff where they fight in the cage?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.” She began wandering around my apartment, stopped in front of my free-standing heavy bag, and started tapping her fist against it. “Well it looked more like soccer to
me
.”

“What did?”

“What you did to the guy outside the bar the other night. The guy I paid. You head-butted him then kicked him around like a soccer ball. Didn’t look like any martial art I’ve ever seen.”

“You watch too many movies. Street fights are ugly.”

She kept tapping her fist on the bag. “So you used to be a fighter then?”

“Me?
No way
. I just train whenever I’m not too lazy or hung-over.”

“Why
no way
?”

“I don’t have what it takes.”

“You seem to handle yourself okay.”

“I always hit first. No such thing as sportsmanship in a street fight. If a well-trained fighter got the jump on me, I’d be fucked.”

“Alex got the jump on you. One of your hands was even tied. You came out okay.”

“Your definition of okay must be vastly different than mine. And I’m guessing Alex wasn’t trained. I also had to use a fucking lamp and a baseball bat to beat him.”

“To
kill
him,” she said with a smirk.

I pretended her comment had no impact, merely continued with: “Like I said; no rules in a street fight—lamp, bat, whatever I gotta do.”

“Hmmm…” she hummed in thought, fist back to tapping my heavy bag. Her daze then snapped and she spun and faced me. “So you ready to go?”

“Go where?”

She did a sexy pirouette in her fatigues and said: “Hunting.”

“What’s going on? You promised no more surprises,” I said.

“Did I?”

“Angela, don’t fuck around.”

“So serious,” she said.

I glared at her profile.

“I told you; we’re going hunting,” she said.

I looked out my window. The safety of the suburbs was now a good twenty or so miles behind us. Ahead, we were entering an area of the city I would hesitate to wander through in the morning. For every functional building passed, a graffitied square of brick and decay was its neighbor. The street lamps seemed to operate in a similar pattern: one lit, one dead, one lit…

“What the hell would we hunt around here? Rats?”

She didn’t answer, just continued driving. I looked out my window again. The trash that littered the ground had changed. Candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and beer cans were now shopping carts, tires, and old appliances.

We drove on for another couple of minutes. Up until now, the presence of people had been pretty sparse, but as we approached the upcoming strip I noticed a greater congestion of men and women lining the curb. It was then that Angela banked left into an alley, away from onlookers. She stopped, and we sat idling.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “This…this is not smart. We’re ducks here.”

She leaned in close, spoke fast but concise. “We’re going to pick someone up. I want you to tell her that I’m your girlfriend and that I said you could have a threesome for your birthday. If she sees me, she should have no problem getting into the car.”

“We’re picking up a
prostitute
?”

Angela’s reply was a quick shift into reverse and backing out of the alley onto the main strip again. She rolled up to a cluster of women, about four in total.

“Angela, answer my question,” I said.

“Don’t be difficult, Calvin.” She slowed to a stop. “I’m doing you a favor by helping you with this one.”

“Helping me with
what
? What are—?”

She hit the horn, cutting me off. One of the four women approached. She stayed a cautious distance from the car, but close enough to bend forward and get a look through my window. In a different world she might have been pretty—her vocation looked as if it had tacked on a weathered ten to what I guessed was a nineteen or twenty year-old life. Still, she was by no means unattractive; I’d slept with lesser catches during past nights of shitfacedness.

I glanced over at Angela. Through clenched teeth she said: “
Do it.
”

I rolled the window down, tried to smile as I said hello.

“You want something, baby?” she asked.

My tongue felt huge and in the way. “My girlfriend and I were wondering if you wanted to hang out.”

She bent further at the waist, looking past me to see who was driving.

“You cops?” she asked.

“No, no,” I said quickly, trying to follow it with a friendly chuckle, only to have it sputter out like the nervous offerings of a man caught cheating at a card-table full of guns.

“What’d you have in mind?” she said.

I cleared my throat; it felt like the fucking Sahara. “It’s my birthday…my girl told me I could have a threesome.”

The girl looked past me again, studying Angela.

Angela leaned over my lap towards the open window, flashed a big smile. “Trust me, I’m not overly wild about the idea to begin with,” she said. “But I promised him.” She ended with a shrug and another smile.

“It’s gonna cost,” the prostitute said.

“Not a problem,” Angela said.

I watched the prostitute’s shoulders drop. Sold.

Angela hit the automatic locks for the back door. “Climb on in.”

She told us her name was Stephanie. A girl-next-door kind of name. I found that curious. Could it have actually been her real name? I can remember a night when a stripper slapped a friend of mine for daring to ask Candy or Cocoa or whatever she called herself her real name. My buddy had been just hammered enough to forget strip club etiquette. He’d insisted—sadly, like many men do—that this stripper actually liked him. He wanted to get to know the
real
her, find out her
real
name. A slap and a fuck you was his reply for bringing the real world inside those dark doors that parodied pride and coddled lust. And that was only a stripper. A prostitute? I imagine you’d get a knife in your balls for daring to dig. The real world had no place poking its nose around during work hours—and likely thereafter.

(
Look at you talking about
the real world
.
)

You don’t know any more than I do, so shut up.

(
Don’t I?
)

We’re the same person.

(
And yet I’ve been having you scratching your head these past few days. How does that work I wonder?
)

Maybe I’m crazy.

(
Ah yes—some kind of dual personality thing; the last refuge for desperate writers in need of a twist.
)

I don’t know what to do. I really do need help.

(
Sorry—doesn’t work that way.
)

Stephanie confirmed this when she said: “You look nervous. You nervous, sweetie?”

I think I smiled, think I nodded. Whatever I did, it was enough for Angela to get concerned and take matters into her own hands. She approached Stephanie, got in close, said, “He’ll come around,” and then began tracing her finger over Stephanie’s lips. “I think we may need to give him something to get him going first.”

They started to kiss. I watched Angela’s hands slide down Stephanie’s body, tracing her curves, cupping her ass, letting her fingers glide towards the front, Angela’s lips moving from Stephanie’s mouth to her neck, Stephanie arching her head back, seemingly enjoying it, moaning as Angela’s hand slid upward, circling the erect nipple with her fingertips, Stephanie’s moans graduating to longing exhales, Angela running her hand back down towards Stephanie’s ass…and then a sudden jerking movement, Stephanie crying out, pushing off, frowning, furiously rubbing a spot on her ass, demanding to know what had just happened.

And Angela said nothing. Only stared back, waiting.

Stephanie’s eyes rolled back, her body crumpling to the floor an instant later. Angela bent and checked her pulse. Satisfied, she then stood and looked at me. If my face appeared lost before, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it looked like now.

When Angela smirked and started twirling a small syringe between her fingers, I got it.

I didn’t think, only reacted.

(
Like watching a movie, isn’t it?
)

Stephanie was relatively light in my arms, making the trek upstairs bearable. I reached the top of the landing and banked right towards the infamous room.

“No,” Angela called out behind me, “we’re not going in there.”

I shifted Stephanie in my arms and looked over my shoulder. “Where then?”

“Left. Last room at the end of the hall.”

I followed her directions and found the room. The door was closed. Several locks were beneath the handle. One was a padlock. Angela, who was following close behind, nudged me to one side and went to work on the locks with a ring of keys like something a security guard might carry.

Stephanie was starting to feel heavy. As Angela finished with the last lock, I wondered if putting Stephanie down would be worth having to go inside the room and see—