To get out of this wedding.
Instead, the rooms were perfect. The bed, not even slept in yet, had a dozen pillows on it and fluffed to perfection. The toilet was clean and flushed nicely. The jacuzzi was big enough for three adults to sit comfortably. The mini-bar was stocked with top shelf whiskey and more Mogen David than Kevin knew what to do with.
A hangover was his latest idea. But that hadn’t worked out. He wasn’t one to drink much.
Kevin channel surfed, for lack of better things to do. He settled on a cooking show, where a pretty redhead was making chicken parmesan. His stomach growled, and he thought about ordering room service.
Actually, he had plenty to do.
His tuxedo still needed fitting, as did his best man’s. Gertrude wanted his opinion on the cake and flowers for some reason. Father Thomas, the old priest at Saint Michael’s, wanted to talk to him. Probably wanted a confession.
Kevin had more sins than he could count to get off his chest. Doing so before his wedding to the most wonderful woman he’d ever met, felt wrong. Like maybe that was something he should’ve done long ago.
These weren’t simple confessions for a priest. The real confessions needed to be heard by his bride.
Elsie thought so much of him, and did a lot for him. He loved the way her black, curly hair fell around her strong cheekbones, the way she doted on him and teased him when he was being lazy.
The sex had been wonderful, too. Beyond wonderful, the few times they’d been together. Mind blowing, especially in Paris. She was rough and gentle, quiet and submissive at times, loud when on top.
A smile involuntarily broke out on his lips. Kevin’s cock responded to the memories too. He’d been a little surprised when he woke up clean this morning. He hadn’t jerked off last night, thinking he might just be with Elsie one more time, and he wanted to save himself for her. Or perhaps they’d go through with the wedding after all.
He leaned forward and opened the laptop, trying to not touch himself on the way. The hotel had free wi-fi, and it’d be no big deal to find something besides a cooking show to watch.
Right?
Instead, he opened his email. His cock instantly went limp.
Biggins, or whatever his name really was, had replied.
“MONEY” was the subject line. The message itself was simple.
Bring it.
Too many sins to explain to a well intentioned, small town priest.
Elsie would never understand. He had to get rid of Biggins, the man who never could take a hint. Or forgive.
Kevin rolled off the couch and staggered to the bathroom. The plush carpet felt warm and soft under his feet. He flipped the too bright overhead light, the fan whizzing on at the same time. The tile floor was cold as ice.
He whipped it out and pissed. Mid-stream, somebody knocked at the door.
“In a minute,” he mumbled.
The knocker probably didn’t hear him. Kevin didn’t care. Most of the fluid in his system was water and ginger ale, sadly. He’d have made a pathetic alcoholic.
Kevin flicked the last drop off and flushed the toilet. The visitor knocked again, louder this time, quicker paced tapping. Kevin washed his hands and face and stumbled back to the living room.
Knock knock. Knock knock knock.
“Okay, okay,” He peered into the sight hole. Just Brad, his best man. Kevin unchained the door and flipped the deadbolt.
“Kev, dude, come on,” said Brad on the other side of the door. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
Kevin opened the door. Something about his best man wasn’t right. He was dressed in a blue Hawaiian shirt and tan cargo shorts. His long brown hair was slicked back and tied in a ponytail. The guy was fair skinned normally, today he was pasty, as if he’d seen a ghost.
Brad was a hacker, a damn good one, but not a spy. He couldn’t keep dirty laundry unless the secret was somewhere out on cyberspace. He looked about ready to burst with something.
“Hey sunshine,” said Kevin. “What’s wrong?”
“Dude,” said Brad. “Gertrude wants to see you.”
Go figure. Was it a law that your mother-in-law had to be a pain in the ass at the wrong moment? Likely, she wanted to visit the priest with him, as if she needed the excuse to go to the church.
“Can it wait?”
Brad shook his head rapidly, his eyes glancing to the left.
The blood froze in Kevin’s body. The warm carpet seemed less comfortable. He shifted to the right, just enough to see the shadows across the hall.
Not much to be seen. Too many bright overhead lights. He glanced to the red floral hallway carpet.
Brad’s shadow was next to another. One with an out-stretched arm.
“Whoever’s out there,” said Kevin. “Show yourself.”
A skinny, well manicured female hand grasped Brad on the shoulder and pushed him forward. She pointed a gold plated revolver to his head.
Gertrude!
“Get in,” she said. “Both of you. Jesus it’s dark in here. Are you a caveman?”
She kicked the door shut with her foot. The locking mechanism clicked. The lights flicked on a second later. Gertrude pointed the gun between the two men.
Kevin opened his mouth, hands held palms out. He didn’t get the opportunity to say anything.
“Can it,” said his future mother-in-law. Her voice fired like a gunshot. Her hair was braided and pinned in a tight bun, the same black as Elsie’s but flecked with silver. She wore a lovely purple sleeveless dress that came to her knees and six inch open-toed pumps. Over one shoulder was a Coach purse.
Brad held up a finger. “If I could intercede.”
“No,” said Gertrude. “You can’t. I want to know one thing.”
“What would that be?” said Kevin.
“What is your business with Biggins?”
Kevin’s arms went numb. His penis shriveled up inside him. Something about being in his underwear in front of his fiancee’s mother.
And now that not-so-sweet mother-in-law knew about Biggins, how was he going to explain it to Elsie?
Chapter Three
Elsie turned the blue Honda down on Summer Avenue, ten blocks from the university campus, down a street of nothing but ramblers and split-level houses. These weren’t the pretty, quaint little dollhouses common in the center of Wenakaga.
The old neighborhood had been built during a boom, and the city planners must’ve wanted the town to feel suburban. White picket fences, old oaks taller than the houses, and neatly trimmed yards completed the everyday American neighborhood feel.
A flood of memories washed up, making the saliva in Elsie’s mouth taste bitter. She squinted her eyes against the sting.
The corner where Elsie and Jane, her bestest friend at the precious age of seven, sold lemonade one summer. They made five dollars and closed shop after a week.
Dale Street, where Elsie walked to Hawthorne Elementary School. Wind, rain, snow, and sunny days. Uphill only one way.
The run-down rambler on the corner of Russet and Summer. When Elsie was young, the man who lived there was old and cranky and always alone. A real life Boo Radley, but without the heroic ending. Elsie wondered if he was still alive somewhere.
Driving though these streets while wearing only a thin sundress and no lingerie underneath felt profane. As if Elsie were disrespecting her past by being half naked.
Nothing to be done about it. And no time to be sentimental. She just needed a change of clothes before facing off with Zack.
Eighth house from the corner, on the left, was a split-level with a brick front and blue painted cedar on the sides and back. From the street, the faded sunshine yellow swing-set Elsie used to play on was visible. For whatever reason, Mother had never torn it down. Nor had she maintained it. Rust and age had corroded the metal parts, the wooden crossbeams were now haggard and rotten.
The cute rose and tulip garden in front, all the flowers perfectly spaced and at the same height, was flawlessly
tended. The lawn was cut a full half inch shorter than both neighbors.
A black Lincoln Towncar was parked out front, blocking the mailbox.
The plates were from New York.
Shit on a stick.
Elsie had insisted on a small wedding, with only relatives and the closest of friends. Not like she had many of the latter. Friendship was a luxury in the corporate spy world.
Mother, surprisingly but thankfully, hadn’t fought Elsie on that detail. She had dreaded telling Mom that she wanted a small church wedding, no frills, no big parties. Mom fought her on the frills, and over the parties. But less than two dozen or so invitations were sent out.
None of them to New York. The only people Elsie knew on the east coast were crooked investors and the politicians they bought. They did not count as friends. Not even worthy as close acquaintances, despite what the testosterone told the stuffed suits she seduced for information.
Elsie drove slow in front of the house. Nobody was following her. No lights were on inside the house, at least not in front. The screen door was closed shut, and the drapes were drawn tight.
She looked to the left and to the right, pretending to be a lost visitor, and drove on. Still bra-less and panty-less, and without her pistol, Elsie might as well have been naked. Now she had a decision.
Go inside to get underwear, even though she was defenseless against this stranger from New York.
Or confront Zack and get her gun now, even though she had no desire to do so without proper clothing. No telling what ideas he might have, seeing her breasts flopping around under her dress.
Elsie drove a block, turned around, and slowly came back. She sped up at the house, slammed on the brakes, and parked three houses down.
She stepped out. The street was new blacktop, and was blistering hot in the summer sun. Her skin baked. The little dress clung to her like an obsessive lover. She popped the trunk.
A sawed-off shotgun was hidden in a secret compartment and covered in blankets. Elsie wanted to take it with her. What if her mother was in danger? Too many unknowns. And carrying a firearm in small town Midwest was a good way to attract attention from the police.
No explosions this time.
And if Mom was in danger, the police were just as likely to hinder the rescue. Elsie had seen too many hostage incidents covered up by the “powers that be.”
She took out the mace from her clutch purse, and tossed the bag in the trunk before slamming the lid.
Elsie strolled down the street, arranging her keychain into a claw weapon, a key stuck out between each finger. Not like that would do much good in a fight, but it was enough to scare away a bad guy. Unless he really wanted to hurt her.
Wind blew her dress around her thighs. Walking quickly made the soft cotton material rise up her legs more.
Astute neighbors were about to get an eyeful. Elsie didn’t care. She had one priority now.
At the house, she snuck around the side. To the garage.
She lifted the trashcan lid, peering inside. Sure enough, Mom still kept the key in plain sight.
With Dad gone, and her living alone now, Elsie wished Mom would take better care of herself. She knew Mom was smarter than this.
Elsie opened the door, and threw the key on the workbench.
The yellow Mustang was gone.
Where the hell was her mother?
She kicked off her sandals. Walking barefoot across the cool cement floor, Elsie wondered what the hell she was doing.
Perhaps the Towncar parked out front had nothing to do with her. Maybe the owners of that car were visiting the neighbors.
Maybe Elsie had become paranoid of everything.
But she still didn’t know.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her heart beat faster, skin prickly and hot, all her senses in full gear.
The garage smelled like it always did. Gasoline, fresh cut grass, fertilizer.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness now. The lawnmower was still in the same corner. So was the workbench, with tools laying out. Hammer, screwdrivers, wire cutters.
Elsie tip-toed further inside. She pressed an ear against the metal door to the house.
Voices were coming from the kitchen!
A man. He had a deep, baritone voice. Elsie couldn’t make out the words.
He sounded agitated. On edge.
Good. She could use that against him.
Whoever he was.
Elsie quietly tested the doorknob. Unlocked.
She waited.
Another voice became clear. A woman’s. Calm, in control, a foreign accent hidden under the surface. Russian?
The voices moved from the kitchen to the dining room. Away from the garage, to the front of the house.
Elsie twisted the knob, hoping the door didn’t have a squeak.
Just ajar, Elsie peeped in. The kitchen was crystal clean. Copper pots hung over the island. No dishes were in the sink.
Muddy footprints marred the white linoleum. A man’s shoes. At least size fourteen.
She opened the door all the way. Thankfully, no squeak.
She tip-toed to the island. Quick.
And set her keys on the formica counter. Elsie reached up for the biggest pot.
Stretching on her toes, she unhooked it.
And the smaller sauce pan next to it!
The crash was less than dramatic. Still much too loud. The pan bounced on the island and clanged to the floor.
In the dining room, guns clicked and got loaded.
A blond haired woman with a big rack and a .357 revolver burst into the doorway.
“Darling,” she said in a Russian accent. “You must be Elsie. Call me Molly.”
Chapter Four
Clutching his hands in front of his genitals, Kevin’s life flashed before his eyes. Kind of.
Gertrude held the gold plated revolver in both hands. Straight at his head.
Mostly he thought about how he met and fell in love with Elsie. Her sweet, easy going manner and her lovely smile. About last Valentine’s Day when they’d stayed up until five in the morning rumpling the sheets off the bed.
Eyes still on him and Brad, Gertrude thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. The bridal suite turned a few degrees colder, yet hotter at the same time. A shiver left goosebumps down his arms. Sweat beaded from his armpits. His body odor smelled like an over-ripe melon bursting in the hot sun, and he wished he’d taken a shower earlier.
He hadn’t even noticed while watching TV.
Kevin never imagined being in this situation. In his undies, with his potentially future mother-in-law holding a gold plated gun at his head and asking a tough question.
He’d been in terrible situations, with life and death in the balance. Or with big money at stake. Never half naked. Never threatened by the mother of the woman of his dreams.
Brad was being no help at all. He stood behind Gertrude like a kicked puppy, head down, hands clasped behind his back, teetering from one foot to the other.
But this was Elsie’s mother. The woman wasn’t a saint, certainly not in Kevin’s limited experience. She was a tough cookie when he first met her, squeezing his hand too hard, staring him down with narrow, piercing eyes.
Would she kill him in cold blood?
Was the revolver even loaded?
Palms out, Kevin stepped forward. Gertrude swallowed, narrowing her eyes. He held his ground.
And tried his best to ignore the sweat prickling on his spine.
“I owe Biggins money,” he said, keeping his voice calm and even, not quite succeeding. All the practice and experience in negotiating with bad guys hadn’t prepared him.
Gertrude kept a quiet poker face behind her gun, as if she had two aces in her handbag. For all he knew, she had all the cards.
“Bullshit,” Gertrude said. “How do you even know Biggins?”
Well. That was complicated. Kevin opened his mouth, and decided not to spill all the beans just yet.
He had to pee
badly all of sudden. Again.
Gertrude stepped forward, hot breath in his face, pressing the muzzle to his chest.
“You won’t believe me,” said Kevin.
“Try me,” she said.
“I’m a spy.”
“Government?” Her expression softened a bit. She was a beautiful woman, with a classy profile and a well trimmed figure. Like Elsie, Gertrude had a sharp nose, and a way of staring down people. Like a bird of prey, hunting small animals.
“Corporate. I work for a New York hedge-fund, stealing secrets from their competitors.”
The woman’s brows tightened again. “Oh? I do love a good spy story.”
“It’s deadly dull. I swear. I’m trying to get out of the business. Really. Before I marry your daughter.”
Okay, Kevin. Keep it cool, man. Easier said than done. A lump formed in his throat, as if somebody had jammed a rock down there and his gag reflexes weren’t working right.
“How are you not already dead?” said Gertrude.
Good question. What was into him? He stood up to bigger foes than Gertrude. Men who did horrible things to innocent people. But she was larger than life, even if her pumps made her a inch shorter than Kevin.
But wow, her hawk face pierced straight through him. Gertrude’s eyes were steely blue, in contrast to Elsie’s green.
Icy cold.
Everything else—the high cheekbones, the strong chin, the pointed brows—reminded him of Elsie. The mother and daughter were carbon copies of each other.
Kevin needed to come clean, one way or the other. With Elsie, for sure, even if it meant losing her. He couldn’t live with himself any longer, not with this burning secret.
“Please,” he said. “Put the gun down.”
“Why?” Gertrude lowered the weapon slightly, so instead of pointing at his chest, it was angled at his privates. Her expression relaxed, and she sighed. “Do you even know Biggins’s first name?”
He raised his hands in the air, shrugging. “My best sources say Mark or Martin. Others claim his name is Marvin.”
She lowered the gun all the way, and released the hammer.
Siren's Garter: Issue One August 2016 Page 3