Thrills

by K. T. Tomb

  “They deserve to die. They made a promise to God and they broke it. They’re liars and debauchers! They’re adulterers. They broke one of the Lord’s Ten Commandments, and I’m done with those bitches, and you put that pathetic, disgusting excuse for a man in his grave. I hope their souls burn in hell for it for all eternity.”

  Huh! Crazy ass, bitch. Anyway, her money had been green enough and just out of sequence enough as well. As she’d handed me the yellow envelope full of ten, twenty and fifty dollar notes that made up the fee, I couldn’t help but marvel at the speed with which she’d managed to put the money together. She didn’t dress like a rich bitch, but it was certain that she had all sorts of cash just lying around at her fingertips. My down payment of thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars had been like child’s play for her to pay… It was a sure deal that the second half would be waiting in the rented post box I’d given her the details for. Just as we had agreed.

  Of course, I wouldn’t know until I made the call and then the trip back home. But for now, all I could do was wait. And my favorite thing to do while waiting was to go to the shooting range.

  “I guess I am gonna need that rental car after all,” he mumbled under his breath after a quick Google search of the nearest range.

  He looked up at the retreating figure of River Ryans making its way down the busy street. He’d made his mark and found out his exact location all in a couple of hours. The guy was fucking clueless, which is exactly how he liked them to be.

  It was obvious, though, after the first few hours of surveillance, the job was definitely not going to be a ‘Wham, bam. Thank you ma’am’ type of deal. So he was gonna have to check into a motel and get a car so he could move around and maybe beat a hasty retreat out of town to the next available airport.

  ***

  The little group of women was as drunk as they could expect to get for the night—they’d each had a bottle and more.

  “Listen,” Sheila slurred slightly, “Erin, you need this. Not only do you need it, but we all want you to get it.”

  “I know, I know,” Erin replied drunkenly, “I just don’ know. I mean, he’s a stranger, is all. And Mike isn’t all that bad.” She’d gotten a bit defensive by then. “He’s a good husband,” she finished lamely.

  “A good husband doesn’t mean good in the sack.” Clare giggled. The rest of the women laughed at the joke too.

  “Call him,” they all argued.

  Erin looked to her left; she looked to her right. These were all women she trusted; since she met them, she’s trusted them.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m not saying I’ll call him, but give me his number, just in case.”

  Another one? Chelsea thought to herself, as she waited, silently praying the night would end sooner than later.

  Chapter Nine

  I met up with the young lady from the boutique precisely at seven-thirty.

  She wore a champagne-colored dress. It was obvious that the lovely garment had not been out of her closet in some time, but it was perfect for the occasion; not too short, not too long, low-cut in a classy way, showed off plenty and left even more to the imagination. It supported her breasts, made them look supple, yet firm, and hugged in tight into her waist and emphasized her hips. She was in shape and clearly took care of herself. Tall, with most of it in her legs, and they were well toned. Her ass was phenomenal and the dress could barely contain it. I imagined that she put a lot of effort into Pilates or some other workout class geared toward moms and wives. Her ass more than made up for her smaller chest. Perky C-cups—if my guess was right, and my guesses were usually right—and in the dress they looked like Ds. She had thick, long hair that fell in shimmering waves past her shoulder, and this evening it was curled but not scrunched, and I couldn’t wait to twine my fingers into it, twisting it around my hands into ropes. Her upper lip was thin, but her bottom lip was full and flush. She’d put on lipstick. I hate lipstick—it leaves too much evidence behind.

  Clearly, she put effort in on this outfit. Her heels brought her to the perfect height. I got the feeling that, if she were to take my arm, she would be able to rest her head on my shoulder. I finally asked her name, realizing I hadn’t asked her as such yet.

  “It’s Sara,” she said, “without an h,” and she giggled. I could tell that she was nervous. What she did not know is how, after this evening, there would not be a lot left that she did not know about me.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sara without an h,” I replied. “I’m River.”

  “Nice to meet you, River,” Sara said back. “You have an interesting name…” She finished the statement as if it were a question, and she was looking for an answer. One trick I’ve learned through my years doing what I do is to keep ‘em guessing.

  That’s what I did when I shot back, “Yes I do,” and offered no further explanation.

  I could see the effect my statement had. She was on edge at that moment. All curiosity and nerves and excitement, rolled into a bundle just for me. She moved a few steps closer, and I knew that she had no idea she had taken those steps. It set my nerves on fire, to know that this was not a client, to know this was someone that I was working on; someone I was attracted to.

  “So Sara,” I started, “do you do anything else besides work at the boutique?”

  “No,” she replied. “It’s been my life the last few years. This time of year, it’s really all that keeps me going. It’s my own little slice of heaven. I always thought that it would be really, you know, rewarding, I guess, to own my own shop. I love bohemian-chic and that’s what I try to put on the shelves for my customers.”

  “Mardi Gras is that big around here?” I asked, knowing the answer, but asking anyway. I was trying to make small talk, which is something that I never thought I was bad at. And now that I needed it, for the very first time, I learned that I wasn’t very good at it. At all. It was different with paying customers. They didn’t expect me to converse, so I tried to keep in mind another old trick: open-ended questions like, ‘tell me more about…’ and ‘why…’. Soon, it started to work, and I realized that mostly, if I put her in the “client” category in my head, things got easier.

  “Yeah,” she said and went into a lengthy explanation of Mardi Gras economics.

  I was not listening, but I nodded along to her conversation, giving the appearance that I was deeply engaged in what she was saying. Instead, I noticed the tan line on her ring finger. She had taken off her wedding band and engagement ring. It surprised me, a little. It’s something that they’ve worn for years, and yet when they met with me, they either kept their rings on, as a statement, as if to say, “Yes, I’m married and I’m still with my husband, just out for the night with this guy,” or they took them off, hoping that everyone else didn’t notice.

  The other funny thing is that nobody cares whether or not women wear the band. People are too self-absorbed and too self-indulgent. Oh well, I suppose. I’d always wondered about married women. Something must be going exceptionally well; they’re still married after all, but why do they bother with me then? Was it the strangeness, the newness, or the lack of experience with other men? Or was it purely that they weren’t getting what they needed at home? Women made up a slew of excuses for meeting with me. They could just as easily tell their husbands what was missing at home. But for whatever reason, they never did. Maybe they felt like they were failing if they said anything? Maybe they were afraid that saying something would get them in trouble? Who knows. What I know is that, typically, they called me, got what they needed, and then they’d leave. Sometimes they became repeats.

  Repeats made me worry. I never worry about much, but the more often someone contacted me, the more likely they were to be caught. If they got caught, business usually took a downturn. It was good that I charged what I did; it became inhibiting for the women to partake of my services too often.

  Then there were instances when one of my clients would get caught, and since I operate on word of mouth
referrals only, when that happened, I usually ended up going months with a reduced pay. At least I had something to fall back on. It wasn’t the lost income that worried me—I figured I could make it eighteen months or so before I needed to start dipping into more than just my liquid funds. What worried me the most was the jealous husband that could come after me. If that happened, I couldn’t do much. I couldn’t go to the police and explain; I’d probably be the one in jail. It was a good thing my best friend Jake watched out for me the way he did. Jake was a Navy SEAL and he worried about my safety. He gave me a pistol the last time something crazy happened. I made a habit of carrying it everywhere I went. Sara finished her last sentence and looked at me expectantly. Her slate-blue-gray eyes radiated the type of heat that comes off of a rock that has been baking in the sun for days from beneath her curly locks.

  “Where do you want to eat?” I asked. Another turn on for some women was to just listen. By being a sponge, they believed that I was a really great listener. What they did not—ever—realize was that I was typically lost in my own train of thought while they spoke. Not that I would ever tell them I wasn’t listening, though. By ignoring what they said, I acknowledged that I heard them, and then chose to move on with the evening. It was a really useful trick because it took the pressure off of them. It enabled the night to progress more smoothly.

  “I know this really great place—it’s a couple of blocks from here,” she said shyly, clearly telling me that she was one of the ones who just wanted to be heard. “I think you’ll like it.”

  She took my hand, and we walked up the street. The simple, almost-innocent, almost-sweet intimacy of that motion struck a chord with me; I’m a sucker for romance. I didn’t get much of it in what I did for a living. The feeling of her fingers pressed into my hand, each one locked up next to one of mine, was a feeling unlike any other. It was a feeling I did not want more of. Too much of that feeling—especially if it was directed toward a married woman—could cause someone like me to retire. Do not get me wrong; I loved the feeling of a woman’s head on my chest, her sweaty hair splayed across my body. But if there was more than just a physical attraction, especially on my end, I would normally squash it. But New Orleans—Mardi Gras—this trip was about finding some healing. About finding an escape. The anticipation of what just simple sex with this woman would be like was racing through my veins, and I could begin to feel my battery winding up. She was in for a wild, wild night.

  Chapter Ten

  Erin left the bar with the phone number scribbled on a scrap of paper; her girlfriends’ advice ringing in her ears.

  Am I really going to call this guy? What kind of person does that make me?

  She got in her car, fumbled with the keys for a moment, and leaned her head back against the headrest.

  I’m too drunk to drive.

  The thought hit her like a tidal wave of Riesling. Sparkly, tasty, crisp and light Riesling. She wondered how she would get back home and decided that she had better take a cab. It wouldn’t be too expensive of a ride to get back to her place. I wish my husband spent more time at home, she thought wistfully as she got out of the car and hailed a yellow cab. She gave the cabbie her address, and he drove off. When they pulled up outside of her house, there wasn’t a light on at all. She gave the cab driver a handful of cash and drunkenly told him to keep the change.

  It’s so dark in here. No one to meet me—even the dog is gone. Coming home to an empty bed. This isn’t what marriage is supposed to be, she thought to herself forlornly. She knew what the other women would say if she called one of them for support in her emotional—if drunken—moment. She could almost hear them in her head, in chorus, telling her to call the number she was given. That’s why that number was given to her in the first place. She needed it. She wanted it. She would have such a good time. It would be one of the best decisions she ever made. But she loathed the idea. She was terrified of being caught. And she hated the thought of a stranger’s hands on her.

  Chapter Eleven

  We ordered fresh oysters at the bar, and a bottle of champagne.

  Both were supposedly complete aphrodisiacs. My breath caught in my throat as I watched Sara slowly suck the oyster meat out of a shell. I wanted her and she knew it.

  I don’t typically give the game up this easily. Typically, I was a hard nut to crack. Sometimes, though, I would take a client—and always a new one—and there would be more than just a client meeting a person that would supply them with a desired service. That was a dangerous situation for me because the more of myself I gave to these women, the less of it I retained. Sometimes, two people come together at the right moment—whether because of a poor personal life, unhappiness, whatever it may be—but for me, there was no long-term. With any one of them. And though it does not happen often, when those clients left, not only did they stay away, they took a part of me with them. I did have one client, though, that was a regular. Every time, it made me nervous because I could feel myself slipping more and more into something with her that could never end well for either of us. If I wasn’t careful, I knew, that could happen here.

  “Mmm,” she said, closing her eyes as she savored a sip of the champagne. “This is good.”

  Her eyes stayed closed for a moment and then opened. Her pupils dilated—so much so that there was almost no iris left—and I knew the hairs on her arm weren’t standing up because she was cold. The tension, her pent-up frustration, showed in every line of her body. I knew what she wanted, and she knew what I wanted. But I would play the game a little longer yet. I looked her straight in the eye, and as seductively as I could, I slurped another oyster and sipped my champagne before I said anything. It was an expensive bottle and the fruity, forward floral notes complemented the spicy oysters perfectly. I had no idea if it would work or not—I always worried about taking clients for seafood. It’s too easy for some jumped-up fry-cook to get an order wrong, or forget to wash his hands, or to leave the fish out too long, and end up with somebody being sick later in the evening.

  “Yes, it really is… exquisite.” I placed a lot of emphasis on the word ‘exquisite’ to let her know that in no uncertain terms was I talking about either the appetizers or the wine. The hitch in her breath was noticeable before she replied.

  “What are you going to order?”

  “I was thinking I might order the crawfish etouffee. It looks divine.”

  She smiled, knowledge and anticipation written across her face. I saw her throat constrict, and at that moment, I wanted to run my fingers up and down her neck; feel her pulse in her throat; kiss her and her long, shapely throat from the base of her chin down her cleavage and toward her navel before working my way lower. I thought she knew exactly what I was thinking—she must have—because she replied in a husky voice, “It certainly does.”

  ***

  The men packed everything into their trucks. The dogs were still running around in the reeds. The men had fed them and set them loose for a run, but none of them had had any luck wrangling them back in. After a while of calling and cooing, they’d decided to let them run it up for a bit… at least until they were ready to leave. It was a long drive back and the dogs would be lying on their bellies in the kennels in the back of the truck all the way home.

  The waders went in first, some still not all the way dry from when their owner’s decided to go for a swim, five-gallon buckets used as storage containers for empty shells, retrieved birds and stools were next, then shotguns and duffel bags of clothes—some muddy, some wet, some rained on—and the dogs went into their kennels. Then they started their trucks and headed for home. It was like this every year. Come out for the last weekend of the duck season. Most of the guys lived close by, but a couple of them lived further out and this was man-land for them especially. Music blared from the stereos of the trucks as they each made their separate way home, anticipating sharing stories with their wives, giving the dogs a bath and putting their feet up in their favorite recliners, as each of them would the
n promptly fall asleep—those who had a dog knew with undeniable certainty that they would have to share their recliner with their wife and their canine, but after a long, cold, wet week, that was okay with them.

  Each of them carried home bags of meat as well and thought about how they would process their harvest. Some of them would make jerky; some of them would roast each bird whole. Mike particularly liked smoking his ducks until they were medium rare and serving the meat with squash or broccoli, pairing the roasted fowl with good red wine. Erin would typically make some kind of a late-year pie to serve as dessert and the leftovers would be packed as sandwiches in lunch bags or boiled down further into soup that was then frozen. And on the worst of the California winter nights—which were not nearly as bad as the winter nights in Mike’s home state of Wisconsin—they would pull out a frozen bag of soup, dump it into a crockpot, and warm their bellies with that.

  Mike’s ride home was a couple of hours. He packed a can of chew with his left hand as he turned up his favorite country radio station. Mike didn’t chew all the time, only when he had a long drive, or when he was hunting or fishing. He’d been trying to quit for a while, but there was just something he enjoyed about the spitting. He knew it was disgusting; he also couldn’t help it. He put in what he fondly referred to as a dapper, and sucked his bottom lip against his gums, spitting into an empty Gatorade bottle. He lost himself in the drive, enjoying the way the overcast sky looked as he drove and watched the painted lines of the road go by, mile after mile.