by C. Gockel
Wyatt laughed. “Amber isn’t the cheerleader, pink, cutesy toy kind of girl. She’s more geeky– Goth wannabe.” He paused and grinned. “A gift certificate for body piercing and a tramp stamp?” he laughed. “Mom would kill me.”
In the end, he decided the gift card was the safest option.
I enlisted his help in giving Boomer a much needed bath, and then we brought the horses in from the heat and made sure water buckets were fresh and hay bags were full. Wyatt headed off, and Boomer and I ordered pizza and settled in to watch TV. Watching one show at a time was pretty boring, so I had installed four TVs next to each other on the wall in a square arrangement. Wyatt said it looked like something from A Clockwork Orange.
I watched each channel’s news simultaneously, but there was no report on a dead man found in his house in eastern Frederick County. The guy did look like a vagrant, so it could possibly be weeks or even months before anyone discovered his body. He didn’t look the type to have social commitments where his presence might be missed. I decided I should just forget about it and relax.
Chapter 7
My Monday morning always starts with the six o’clock Zumba class at the gym. It’s packed because the instructor looks like a Latin god. Everyone loves to get in their early–morning eye candy, and they desperately try to attract his attention with their spasmodic hip thrusts. I try to never miss the Zumba class since I believe comedy is a great way to start your week.
This class, I positioned myself amid a group of tittering soccer moms. It was great fun, although I had to hold myself back from turning it into a giant mosh pit slam dance. Last time I did that, they kicked me out for a month. Today, I enjoyed watching an eighty year old lady — with a cane no less — shimmy, her boobs flying like weapons around her waist.
After the class, while everyone else lined up to flutter their eyelashes and thank the hot instructor in rusty high school Spanish, I headed out and did my real workout. There was a flyer for a Judo class and I fantasized for a moment about taking it and beating everyone into a bloody mess. I’m so competitive though that I know I’d be sparring and lose control and pop someone’s head off. That would be a lot of fun, but it wouldn’t be a good thing for my continued life in this realm. No Judo for me.
I was joining Michelle for lunch and meeting her at an end–of–lease walk through, so I actually showered and pulled on the clean shorts and tank top from my bag. I just watched while she inspected the oven, fridge and carpet. I can’t remember the last time I did a walk through. Usually Michelle only called me in if she thought the tenant might get violent. This guy was harmless. Short skinny balding guy on government disability supplements. He was moving in with his daughter. His eyes flickered to me every few seconds, and if I moved, he jumped in alarm. It was kind of funny actually, so I made a point of moving a lot.
“The toilet paper holder came off the wall, but I put a new one on,” the tenant pointed out, practically shaking with anxiety. Did he think we were going to yank it off the wall and shove it up his ass? We just wanted a decent apartment and money, not his personal pain and suffering. Sheesh.
We ended up deducting a carpet cleaning and some dry wall repair from his security deposit. No one gets out for free. We’d find something to charge even Martha Stewart for. Hot glue mark or excess faux stained glass on the lighting fixtures. The guy didn’t argue, and in fact thanked Michelle and me profusely as Michelle handed him a check and collected the keys.
“Mexican?” Michelle asked as we locked up and walked toward the commercial area of downtown. This apartment was actually in a decent neighborhood close to the trendy eateries. I think I could get fifty more a month for it now.
“No way. I need a salad or I won’t be able to shit for a week,” I replied.
“Lovely visual there, Samantha.”
I got my salad. Michelle had a ruben and enough fries to feed a small nation. I don’t know where she put it. She always ate hearty, never seemed to work out, and was thin as an international model. I guess good genetics and height made all the difference. Michelle and I discussed work, as we usually did on our lunches. We debated trying a new plumbing contractor, talked about upcoming leases and who might renew versus who might move out. We commiserated about the tenant who was always losing his keys. We charged him for the copies at an exorbitant rate, but keeping spare sets and having someone run them over at very inconvenient hours was wearing on us. I wondered if one of those numerical locks would help. He’d probably forget the number, but at least we could just tell him over the phone rather than having to run over there in the middle of the night. Maybe we could still charge him each time he called for the code. Finally, as we were finishing up, I approached the topic I really wanted to discuss.
“I’ve got a relationship issue and want your advice,” I said.
Michelle stared. We seldom discussed personal stuff. I didn’t even know if Michelle had a steady boyfriend right now or not.
“What, like someone tried to spend the night? Or actually had the nerve to want more than a hook–up in a dark alley? You need to know my advice on where to dispose of the body?”
Okay, that was hitting a bit close to home.
“Wyatt and I made out Friday night, but I freaked him out and things didn’t end well. He’s still coming by my house and we seem to still be friends. Do you think I’ve ruined my chances and we’re only platonic now?” Crap, I sounded like one of those whiny, desperate letters women wrote to magazines.
Michelle squealed like a murdered rabbit.
“You guys made out? Finally? I want details. Details, girl, details!”
Great. Now I regretted saying anything at all. I imagined having this conversation with my foster brother, Dar. He’d laugh his head off, then advise me to haul Wyatt into my basement, tie him up, and do whatever I wanted until I got bored with him. He’d think my extended vacation was making me weak and vulnerable. There are no girlfriend talks at home, and this was making me kind of squirmy.
“We were kissing outside a bar, up against my car, and things got a bit intense. I really freaked him out. “
“Was he into it at first? What freaked him out? How did he react?”
Hmmm, how to explain this one.
“I was doing some stuff to him that he had never done before. He was into it at first, but then I got a little carried away and it was too much for him. I could tell he wanted to stop, so I did. After I stopped he didn’t seem as scared. He seemed angry, but not smash–my–head–against–the–car angry.” How was that for vague?
Michelle sighed. “You’re not going to give me the details, are you?”
“Nope,” I told her.
Michelle looked disappointed.
“Girl, I always figured you were into the really kinky stuff, but Wyatt seems to be more of a bread and butter guy if you know what I mean.” She wiggled her eyebrows. I wondered if Michelle was into the really kinky stuff. Probably not the same kinky stuff as I was.
“What happened after?” she prodded. “Before you guys left to go home. You said he’s still coming over?”
“We talked a few moments. I tried to explain things. I apologized over and over like a damned broken record and swore up and down it would never happen again. He called to wake me up Saturday morning and tell me to get my lazy rear down to the barn for our ride. He seemed cheerful, but cautious and nervous at times.”
“Have you guys talked about what happened since then?”
“No, but when something comes up that reminds him, he still gets that scared look. He’s starting to tease me a bit about it though. Is that a good sign?” I was pitiful. The other demons would never let me live this one down if they found out.
Michelle nodded thoughtfully.
“I think you should be a little flirty with him. Make a comment, then back off and don’t pursue it. Let him know you’re interested still, but let him make the move. But give him lots of openings where he can make a move, though. He needs to be the one to i
nitiate it, so he feels like he’s the man.”
I had no idea what the hell she was saying, but I smiled and nodded and swore to myself I’d never do this again. Be flirty, but not too flirty. Give him openings to initiate sex, but not too obvious. Fuck this. If I had to do all this crap just to have Wyatt, I might as well fall back on my traditional approach. The one Dar would advocate.
I ran a few errands and headed back home late afternoon to see Wyatt heading down my driveway. I pulled alongside and thought about incapacitating him, stuffing him in the Corvette’s tiny trunk and dragging him into my basement. I didn’t have any decent rope, but I did have a lot of duct tape.
“Hey,” I said to him, restraining my impulses.
He leaned into the car resting his forearms on the window edge. Seven inches away. I could lean over and kiss him. Or grab him. But I was supposed to let him make the moves per Michelle, the love doctor.
“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“Eating oatmeal. Reading the paper. Taking a shower. Naked. With a loofa sponge.”
Was that flirty? Or too flirty? Shit, I didn’t know how to do this thing. Wyatt did laugh though, so maybe it was the right thing to say.
“Come over to my place around nine. I want to teach you how to shoot.”
“With a gun?” I was a bit confused. I couldn’t imagine why I’d ever need to shoot a gun.
“Yes, with a gun,” he said.
“Because I clearly need some way to defend myself?” Did he think I was in need of human technology for protection of my person? After everything that happened between us?
Wyatt reached in the window and ruffled my hair. It was the first time that he’d touched me in an affectionate manner since our ‘incident’.
“No, I just thought it would be fun. “
“I didn’t even think you shot real guns. Just the computer game ones.” Maybe that was insulting, I though too late.
“How do you think I killed those groundhogs last fall? The ones you asked me to get rid of?” He laughed. “Did you think I stabbed them with a screwdriver, or caused them to spontaneously combust?”
I hadn’t considered how he killed them. They were there, putting big, horse–tripping holes in my pasture, and then they were gone. How they got gone never crossed my mind.
“Okay, I’ll be there” I told him. Didn’t Michelle say I should take an interest in his hobbies? At least this was more palatable than sitting on a couch, waving some little plastic thing around in front of the TV.
The next morning, I locked Boomer in the barn to be out of the way of any bullets that might loop around the house and whizz onto my property. Satisfied that he was safe, I proceeded to walk down to Wyatt’s.
Up close, the dilapidated Cape Cod looked like a damned shack. The paint was peeling, and the window sills and eaves showed signs of significant rot. One broken window had a plywood board nailed over it from the inside. Was Wyatt so poor that he couldn’t make even basic repairs to his house? He never complained about needing money, or doing without, but his house was in shambles. From the outside, it looked like he hadn’t done a thing in the two years since he’d bought it. Perhaps his home repairs had started on the inside? It would take a lot to fix this place up, so maybe he was just doing a little at a time? Either way, the place made me feel anxious inside, like I should find a way to sneak Wyatt more money, or arrange for a contractor to show up free of charge. How could I manage this without offending his pride, I wondered? Then I wondered why I gave a shit about Wyatt’s falling down house or his pride. That wasn’t like me at all.
It was just as bad in the back yard. There was a dangerously rickety deck off his kitchen, grey with age and full of splintered, bowed planks. He had an equally rickety card table set up on the ground in front of the deck with a target out in my back field. There were cigarette burns, and bottle rings on the card table. An assortment of guns was laid out like a flea market sale.
I’d seen guns in movies before but had limited experience with them up close. I remembered a huge long gun about two hundred years ago when I had popped over here for some fun. It was a stupid weapon. It took forever for the guy to get it ready, and then it was just as likely to explode in his face as fire. It never seemed to hit its mark either. I’d pretty much written them off after that. They looked awesome on TV, but I know the liberty producers take with reality.
Wyatt introduced me to the guns. No really, introduced me. Like we were at a cocktail party. I got to meet Mr. Shotgun. I learned about smooth–bore barrels, the difference between gauges and calibers. This particular one was a 12–gauge, which was supposed to be the most common and thus easier to find and purchase ammunition. It was also a pump action which, according to Wyatt, was more reliable than the semi–automatics, whatever they are. Evidently, I was going to get up close and personal with Mr. Shotgun (whose first name was Remington) before I got to meet the other weapons at the party this morning.
Wyatt handed me Remington and I just looked at him. The gun I mean, not Wyatt. I stuck the butt end under my arm and grabbed the barrel with my left hand, my right hand on the bottom of the gun holding the trigger.
“Here, let me show you,” Wyatt said moving behind me. “It’s not loaded.”
I think I stopped breathing when Wyatt put his arms around me. He moved the butt of the shotgun to the hollow in my shoulder, putting his left hand on mine and moving it back to the appropriate position. We stood there with his arms and hands against mine, the entire front length of his body pressed against my back and rear, and his lips so close to my ear that my hair moved with his breath. A slow warmth built low in my abdomen and eased down between my thighs. Maybe we could stay this way all morning.
“Sam?”
Oh, crap. He’d been giving me some kind of directions and I was supposed to respond. I had no idea what he’d said.
“Yep. Okay.”
I hoped that would suffice. Wyatt gave a low chuckle against my ear.
“Should I go over that again?”
I said no. If we kept this up I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. I wished that I’d brought some duct tape.
Wyatt loaded the gun and commented that he was out of bird shot, so we were using slugs. I gleefully envisioned cramming slimy slugs into a shotgun and blowing them out the barrel. That would be so cool. Someone should invent that. Everyone would want one.
Carefully, I racked the gun and placed my left hand on the forearm and my right on the grip behind the trigger where Wyatt had positioned my hands before. Pointing it at the target, I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
“Take off the safety,” Wyatt said, pointing to the appropriate part when I looked at him blankly. “And don’t forget to seat the gun against your shoulder”.
I clicked off the safety and pulled the trigger. There was a roar, and a slam of pain, and I was on my ass sprawled into the dirt of Wyatt’s back yard.
“Ow, motherfucker!”
“It’s a 12–gauge,” Wyatt said, helping me to my feet. “And we’re using slug ammo. You need to get it positioned solidly on your shoulder, with your cheek against it to site it better. You’re strong, there’s no reason you can’t shoot this gun”.
I dusted my rump off and Wyatt assisted in cleaning me off, even licking a finger and wiping a smudge from my forehead.
“Let me see,” he said pulling aside my tank top and bra strap to look at my shoulder.
“Ouch. You’ll have a bruise.”
I was feeling anything but pain as he ran a finger across my collarbone.
“Are you okay to shoot it again? Do you want to fix your shoulder first?”
“I’m fine. It’s not bad.”
Mr. Remington Shotgun may have won this round, but I’d be damned if I let him get the best of me.
“Did I hit anything?” I asked Wyatt.
“No, and if we’re lucky you missed the neighbor’s cows.”
I really didn’t give a shit a
bout the neighbor’s cows, but I had Wyatt show me again how to position the shotgun properly. This time, I tried hard to concentrate on what he was saying and less about his body pressed to mine. I wasn’t entirely successful.
Five rounds later I was managing not to get knocked on my ass, but still didn’t seem to be shooting anywhere near the target. My shoulder was killing me, but there was no way I was going to give in. Wyatt finally threw in the towel for me and suggested we bypass the rifle and move on to the pistols instead.
There were three pistols at the table. Wyatt picked up the shiny one first and showed it to me.
“This is a 9mm, which refers to the ammo. It’s a Beretta. This is pretty much your standard, common–use pistol. It holds fifteen rounds in the clip, so you can get a good number of shots off before needing to put in a new clip.”
Wyatt showed me how to load the clip and the bullets inside it. Next up was what appeared to be a gun for a toddler. Wyatt called it a “pocket gun” and said it was a Colt Magnum Carry which was a six–shot revolver. It was evidently an ideal backup weapon that you could strap to your calf or carry in a purse and use if something happened to your larger pistol. I still liked the idea of preschoolers packing, but I could see this had its uses for adults too.
“I have another revolver, too. My father’s Colt Peacemaker. It was used in the army back in the late 1800’s and is what you would have expected to see gunslingers carry in the Wild West. It was mainly a cavalry gun, but it was very popular outside the military at the time. It’s a reliable gun, and even though it is single action, you can do that move you see in the westerns where the sheriff pulls the hammer back with his palm and lets it go to fire the gun rapidly without using the trigger. That’s called fanning. My father taught me to shoot with that gun.”
I quickly calculated human life expectancies.
“But your Dad wouldn’t have been alive when that gun was made and these new guns are so superior. Why would he have bought such a relic and used it?”