Pistol

by Max Henry

  “Then what’s that bad you can’t tell me? I’ve shared some pretty fucked-up stories with you over the years.”

  Steph smiled at the point Ben made. They were close for siblings. If she had to choose anyone to be the least likely to judge her, it would be Ben. “I’m glad this is over the phone now, because damn it’s embarrassing.”

  “Spill,” Ben demanded with a hint of humour.

  “He likes, um, kinky sex.” Steph drew the phone from her ear as Ben let out a long whistle.

  “What’s the beef with that? Are you worried about it?”

  “Yes ... I mean, no ... I don’t know.”

  “It’s totally up to you what you do behind closed doors, sis. Unless ... has he forced you to do something you didn’t want?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Either yes or no, sis.”

  “I thought I didn’t want to, but I liked that he did it. So I guess I wanted it, didn’t I?”

  Ben sighed. “You sound rather cryptic. I think you need to go for a run, go to the shops, do whatever it is you girls do to clear your head. Try and have a day without thinking too much on it, and hopefully it’ll be clearer later.”

  Two solitary tears trickled from Steph’s left eye. “Thanks, bro. I love you to pieces.”

  “I know.” He laughed. “Love you too, sis. But tell me who I need to hunt if that fucker makes you sad again.”

  “Deal.”

  “Now go buy yourself a dress, or something.”

  Happy shoppers mingled with frazzled mothers who towed their demonic spawn through the food court. Steph sat with her hands wrapped about the mochaccino she had ordered, and watched the world go by. Ben’s suggestion of shopping hadn’t been a bad one; she’d brought two new skirts, a top, and a cute pair of high-waisted sailor-style shorts. Thoughts of Cass, and Pete were harder to ignore. More than once she had caught herself do a double take at a blonde woman with the thought Cass had decided on the same retail therapy. She could text her, tell Cass she wanted to talk, but Steph was afraid. Afraid of another rejection. Afraid that if Cass voiced her discord at Steph’s choice again, her resolve to try and patch things up with Pete would be shattered.

  Her phone sat dejected on the small table. The object stared at her, taunted her to phone him. What would she say though? Hi. I’m an over-emotional wreck. Want to still hang about? Men loved drama about as much as they loved clothes shopping. There would be no reason to call Pete until she could guarantee to herself that she would be able to present him with a level-headed, confident front. He had to see that she was capable of being sure of herself—capable of her own decisions.

  How could she express that though? Without the need to resort to their own style of sex? Confidence ... Steph tapped her fingers on the table-top. How could she show confidence?

  A plan started to form. She was slightly frightened at the thought of executing it, but the idea thrilled her none-the-less.

  With her coffee, and shopping in hand, she looped her bag over her shoulder and started down one of the wide corridors. Somewhere along there she had spotted a hairdresser in her travels. A dozen shop-fronts down, she found the brightly back-lit sign. Steph stopped before the reception desk, and patiently waited for an attendant. A young girl with bright red highlights in black hair, hop-skipped to the desk.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, a little too chipper.

  “I wondered if you had any time-slots available for a dye?” Steph shifted her coffee between her hands, and waited as the girl read through the appointment book.

  “We should be able to squeeze you in. What did you look to have done?”

  “I want to go lighter, then a bright shade over-top.”

  “Okay.” The girl tapped a pencil against her crimson lips. “How long is your hair?”

  Steph held her hand about nipple height to indicate. The girl nodded.

  “I can squeeze you in about a half hour from now. Will that be okay?”

  “Perfect,” Steph replied. Butterflies settled in her gut, both from nerves, and anticipation of the new look.

  “You’re welcome to wait in our lounge if you like.” The girl gestured to a couple of two-seaters which faced a coffee table.

  “Thank you,” Steph replied, and moved to take a seat. She lowered herself into a plush leather sofa, and groaned quietly at how much of a relief it was to take the weight off her feet. She always lost time when shopping, and paid no mind to how long she’d walked around until her feet were fried.

  With her bag settled next to her, she pulled her phone out, and flicked to the Facebook app. A dozen notifications filed down as she tapped the icon. The third on the list left her stomach on the ground next to her tired feet.

  ‘Cass Pratt has tagged you in a comment.’

  Steph tapped on the link and closed her eyes to will away the tears. Cass had officially severed any hope Steph may have had of reconciliation.

  ‘That moment where you realise your so-called best friend is fucked in the head. – with Stephanie Drake.’

  Words flew through her mind; multiple come-backs vied for attention. She wouldn’t feed the woman’s hate, though. Confidence. She needed to prove she was above petty arguments. As much as Cass would expect it, she wouldn’t reply.

  Mixed blessing that they now worked in a different office, wasn’t it?

  Steph shut her phone off, and jammed it back in her bag. Her fingers laced in her lap, and she rested her head on the back of the sofa. Calm breaths. In ... and out.

  Time to start again. Time to start with the things she needed in her life.

  ****

  She hadn’t tried to call him. Pistol threw his phone across the room; the back cover skittered away from the rest as it impacted with the carpet. Fuck! He wasn’t naive enough to assume she would have forgiven him, come to her senses, whatever the fuck it was she needed to do to come back to him, but could she at least pretend to give a shit? This radio-silence didn’t do a damn thing for his already filthy mood.

  Maybe he should head over to her house, and simply show her who is boss. Show her what ‘Sir’ thinks of her little tantrum this morning?

  Then you’d really be yer father.

  He beat his closed fists to the side of his head, and tried to quell the insistent little voice inside. What did it know? He had become his father a long time ago. All he’d done these past weeks was pretend he was what he wasn’t.

  Pretended he was Pete.

  You’re Pistol. Pete died off years ago.

  Finally. His inner monologue talked sense. Pete fell off the face of the earth the day Colin went in the ground. He fisted his hands into his eye-sockets, and pushed hard to distract from the images of his brother’s funeral. He never should have died. He never should have been taken away. That bitch should pay.

  She had to feel something? He never quite worked out how his mother—the woman who gave birth to each of them—could stand there, so cold, so remorseless at what she did. How could she not care that her little boy spent the last moments of his life in terror? That the last emotion he knew was betrayal? It made him sick, made him physically ill every time he thought about that day—which was exactly the reason why Pistol buried that part of himself the day he left Ireland.

  Exactly why he liked the kinky fucking shit he did to Steph, because he needed to replace his morbid association with pain, with an action more pleasurable. He wanted pain to be good in his mind—not a constant reminder of Colin’s distressed expression as he twitched his last breath.

  Make the pain good. Make yerself crave it.

  Pistol pushed out of the dining room chair he sat in, and collected the parts of his phone. He carefully, and methodically slotted the back cover on, then powered up to check the mobile still worked. Satisfied with the result, he pocketed it, and walked to the deep mahogany side-board. His fingers traced a line over the tacky side of the roll of tape. He picked it up, and slotted his index finger through the cardboard centre to hul
a-hoop it as he walked to the far side of the table.

  The toe of his boots touched the legs of the chair as he stopped before his final house-keeping chore. Wide, terror-filled eyes stared at him, unblinking. Pistol thumbed the end of the tape free, and pulled a fresh length off. He tore the tape with his teeth. Pained whimpers sounded before him, which only served to widen his playful smile. He grasped the ends of the torn length, and carefully held it out before him to make sure it would be one of the last things the guy saw. He pressed the tape tight over top of the previous artwork he had created to shut the man’s mouth. Steady thumbs pressed the sticky side into flared nostrils, before he carefully smoothed the ends around the side, and over the guy’s ears. Two more lengths of tape finished the final task. He wrapped his fingers over the back of another chair, and tugged it across the carpet to straddle the seat for the show.

  Richard struggled for the briefest of moments, before a lack of oxygen shut his body down into critical survival mode. Barely a dozen more breaths, and the guy was toast.

  That’ll teach the fucker for turnin’ on me.

  Nobody got away with putting Pistol, or anything he cared for in harm’s way.

  The stylist smiled above Steph’s reflection as she stared wide-eyed at the result. A smile nervously crept onto Steph’s lips, and then turned into a mega-watt grin as she turned her head side-to-side to check it all out. “I love it.”

  The stylist clapped her hands. “Yay. I’m so glad. When you first said you wanted it aquamarine-green, I was like ‘what?’, but now I’ve seen it ... wow.”

  “It’s perfect.” Steph ran the loose curls through her finger-tips. Stage one—complete. Her phone vibrated a message across the small counter before the mirror.

  “Come up to the front, and I’ll get you fixed up. Are you okay for products?” the stylist asked.

  Steph nodded as she opened the text. Her tattoo artist, Johnny, had replied to the query she sent while she waited for her colour to develop.

  I can always fit you in, sugar. See you when you’re done.

  She handed her card over to the lady who manned the front desk, and typed a quick reply.

  Finished up now. See you in ten.

  “Have a great rest of your day,” the woman crooned with a plastered smile.

  Steph smiled in thanks, and quickly turned to hot-foot it out of the mall as she placed her card back in her wallet. Johnny’s place was located over the main road from the shopping complex, so thankfully there would be no need to time another bus. Early afternoon sun dappled light through the branches of the giant pines that lined the outer edge of the car park. It struck her, as she pressed the button to cross the road, that she hadn’t had a singular thought of Pete, or Cass for the last half hour. Progress. The pain of betrayal stung like a monster-sized bee in her side, but only time could heal such wounds. Steph only hoped that the post Cass had made about her wouldn’t turn into a thorn that festered in her side.

  She crossed the road, much to the amused stares of a couple of motorists. She could only imagine how her new colour caught the sunlight. Johnny stood to greet her as she stepped through the door of his shop.

  “Hey, darlin’. I had a cancellation, so lucky for you, my seat is totally free.”

  Steph smiled at his eager body language as he swept through the parlour to clear his coffee, and bin the disposable paper that covered the arm of the leather chair. Johnny always had a kind of charm to the way he spoke, but it had never been an issue. The man was married, with two gorgeous kids that he shared photos of every time Steph came.

  “How’s the family?” She slipped onto the seat.

  “Great. Malina has my nuts in a jar on the mantle still, but we’re good.” He rolled his eyes for emphasis, but Steph wasn’t fooled. Malina sometimes helped in the shop, and the two of them were so in love still they could hardly keep their hands off each other. “What will you have today, Love?”

  An innocent comment from Johnny, but the moniker slapped Steph upside the face as Pete’s voice echoed the same thing through her head. Love. Thankfully, Johnny was oblivious to her almost-breakdown as he turned away to grab his sketch-pad, and pencils.

  “I was thinking of a phoenix.”

  “Hmm,” Johnny hummed. His hand flew across the paper. “Where about?”

  “Back, high between my shoulders. I’ll have to come back and get something else to blend it into the fairies.”

  “Not a problem.” His pencil scratched across the surface of his sketch-pad. He paused every so often to look at the design, and then started again with equal ferocity as before.

  Steph looked around the shop as he drew. She picked out photos on the wall which were new since the last time she visited.

  “Here.” Johnny spun the pad to face her. “What do you think?”

  She looked at the incredible image, and fought back tears. “It’s beautiful.” The phoenix’s tail flared under its body; flames licked off the tips of the feathers. The bird’s wings were spread so that the points would touch on her shoulders once drawn. Bright oranges, yellows, and reds made the image look too hot to touch.

  “I’m going to use some white shading to make it sing. Are you down with that? Because it’s going to be quite painful.”

  “Bring it,” Steph challenged, and burst into laughter.

  ****

  Pistol idled up outside Steph’s old office. Monday mornings were always such a bitch—and today was no exception. He downed the last of his wake-me-up, and threw the empty hip-flask onto the passenger seat. Passers-by eyed him as he parked the rat rod outside the structure which sported a big, bold, in-your-face sign over the doors. He climbed out of the car, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt as he shut the door, and engaged the alarm.

  The old bat he made acquaintance with last time, eyed him with as much love as a Nazi to a Jew. “She doesn’t work here anymore,” the hag spat at him.

  “I know. I’m not here for her.”

  Her nose lifted another two inches as she regarded him through her glasses. “Who is it you want then?”

  “Cass.”

  No polite ‘wait a moment’, or ‘sit over there’. No. The old hag punched her phone with venomous hate, and never dropped her gaze from him as she barked into the receiver. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  The door to the offices flew open seconds later—Cass must have literally run to greet him. Her gaze fell on him as he stood—hands in pockets—and her tone headed arctic. “You.”

  “The one and only.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Jesus. Everyone here is so fuckin’ welcomin’.”

  Cass crossed her arms, and drew her lips into a grimace.

  “I want ya to retract the post ya put up about Steph.” The old hag perked up at the gossip. “That’s not how ya treat yer friends, is it Cassandra?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits reminiscent of a tigress about to strike. “What business is it of yours? I thought degrading her would get your package jingling, seeing you treat her like trash.” She smirked—cocky.

  “It doesn’t get me off as much as shovin’ yer own fuckin’ words in yer smart-lipped mouth will.” He slipped a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and opened it so that her post glared back at her from the printed sheet.

  Her arms tightened, and her nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t dare hurt me, not with a witness in the room.” Cass pointed to the old bag.

  He shrugged. “Collateral damage. I’m sure nobody would miss a gossipin’ old bitch like her.”

  The receptionist gasped. He smirked her way, and then blew a kiss.

  “You’re all smoke. You don’t have it in you, you gutless pig.” Cass’s voice rose with her apprehension. “Why else would you go about taking advantage of girls like Steph? You don’t have the guts to get your kicks off like a real man.”

  He dropped his head to the side, and cocked an eyebrow. “It’s interestin’ how ya decide now to defend her. Make up yer mind.
What is it, Love? Do ya despise her for what she chooses ...” he swept his hands the length of himself “... or applaud her?”

  “Keep dreaming, you psycho. You’re lucky she even likes you. Well ... until she wakes up and realises what a loser she’s picked.”

  “Better than wakin’ up in a gang-house, the bosses whore, not knowin’ who you’re pregnant to.”

  All colour drained from the blonde’s face. She clamped her hands to her mouth as tears sprung forth. He’d hit low, but shit it felt good.

  “You asshole,” she stammered. “How do you know that?”

  “Boys talk too, honey.”

  Her nostrils flared faster, and harder. “He wouldn’t. Gary wouldn’t ...”

  “Why not? Even guys have to check if the girl they want to fuck is worth the trouble. Why not phone a friend for a bit of a chin-wag?”

  Cass’s heels clicked rapidly across the tiles, and she lay a hard slap across his face. He swallowed, and relished the burn.

  “I wouldn’t push too hard if I were you, Love.”

  “Why the fuck not, you bastard?” she choked out through her tears.

  Pistol leant in so his nose was inches from hers. “I know where ya live. Pretty pink bedspread ya have.”

  Cass turned and ran from the reception area; her sobs echoed through the sterile room. Pistol turned for the door, and pointed to the old bag who held the phone in her hand. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  He chuckled as she slowly replaced the receiver.

  His day improved already.

  ****

  Steph tapped her pen against the side of her keyboard while she waited on the page to load. So much for ultra-fast broadband. Her tattoo itched, and she would need to go apply more Bepanthen shortly. The dark recesses of her wardrobe had revealed the perfect top for the day; a dressy-tee with a low cut back that sat below the raw flesh. The attire was a bit of a double-edged sword however, when people took it as an open invitation to ask about her art ... and then expect her to show off the rest like some kind of exhibitionist.