Highways to Hell

by Bryan Smith

  Angela grinned. “Alone at last.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the hooker. “Except for our toy here. Oh...” She put a finger to her red lips. “I almost forgot. Your surprise.”

  She took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet, then into the other bedroom and on through to a small anteroom.

  John gasped.

  He didn’t say anything for a long time, but Angela was beaming at him again.

  Then he began to smile, too.

  He walked toward her, bent at the waist to look into her eyes. “Hello, Linda. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you again.”

  Angela came forward, wound a length of Linda’s sweat-stained hair in her hand, and lifted her head up. “John, did Linda ever tell you about the thing she did as a teenager? The thing that Damned her?”

  “Probably not.”

  “She and some friends came across a young black child in their neighborhood. He was lost, wasn’t supposed to be there. They took him to an empty house and did nasty things to him, things she confessed to me last night after some hours on the rack. She laughed at his cries when she put a cigarette out in his eye.”

  John arched an eyebrow. “Huh. No. That’s news to me.”

  Linda tried to tell him something, but he couldn’t make it out. Her mouth had been sewn shut. She was locked in a pillory. Nude. Her pendulous breasts and sleek, lithe body shiny with fear-sweat. He unzipped his pants and stepped behind her, did the thing she’d told him he would never do with her again. And while he did it, he noted with pleasure the vast array of torture implements hanging from hooks on the walls. When he was done, he tried out a few of them on her.

  But he didn’t let himself go too far. Not this time. Not yet.

  He had plenty of time to creatively hurt her.

  Eternity, in fact.

  When he was done playing, he let Angela guide him back to the main room. There he swept Angela into his arms and kissed her with a romantic abandon he hadn’t felt since the early days of his courtship of Linda.

  She eased out of the embrace after a time and said, “You’ll be happy here.”

  John experienced one last pang of something like conscience, a final dying echo of remorse. Then he thought of Linda in the pillory. Licked his lips and savored the sweet taste of Angela’s lips. Looked at the bound hooker and thought of some things that might be fun.

  He looked into Angela’s sparkling eyes again. “Had a beer at that place. Something called Gein’s Mean Imperial Stout.”

  “You can have it perpetually on tap in your room, if you like.”

  “That singer. Bon Scott. Could he come over some time, maybe entertain us?”

  “He’ll have a standing invitation.”

  John’s smile was bemused. “I’ve been thinking I deserve to be here. You know what I mean.”

  She angled her body against his, slid against his crotch. “Yes. And you do deserve to be here. Right here. With me. With anything you want as yours for the asking.”

  He pulled her close, kissed her again, breathing the words into her mouth. “I think you’re right. I really do.”

  They kissed some more.

  Made love.

  Did some interesting things to the hooker.

  Did other, even more interesting things to Linda.

  And at some point in the festivities, John came to a conclusion. He was right where some secret part of his heart had always known was his destiny.

  His true home, the one that had waited for him with such patience.

  And possibly he was even falling in love.

  Hell, things couldn’t be better.