by Josie Brown
When I move, he wrenches my arm even more tightly.
“You didn’t come here to play Welcome Wagon. We’ve lived in enough new towns for me to know that.” He puts the gun under one of the halter straps of my dress. “And Welcome Wagon ladies don’t wear fuck-me dresses.”
I turn to face him. That puts the gun right between my eyes.
But I don’t stare at it. Crossed eyes is not a sexy look, so I look directly at him. I part my lips just wide enough to lick them. He rewards me with a ghost of a smile.
Finally, he lowers the gun, a Sig P320—
To my left breast.
He circles my nipple with the barrel of the gun.
I feign a shudder. “Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?”
“What do you think?”
“I think…it’s a turn-on.” I lick my lips. “They make a woman look sexy, and a man look strong.”
He relaxes the gun. “Can you shoot?”
“I wish,” I lie with a sigh. “Can you teach me?”
“Shooting a gun isn’t a game. War isn’t a game. Killing isn’t a high. It puts you in the gutter.” He frowns. “I know this first hand.”
“But you’re a war hero! At least, that’s what your wife and kids claim.”
“A hero…” His voice is so low that it sounds a million miles away. “Yeah, well, that depends on who you ask. Not when you miss the target. Not when you take innocent lives. They call it ‘collateral damage.’”
His gun is now on the side of my skull. He wants to wipe the smile off my face. He wants me to be scared.
“Bang, bang, Donna Craig. You’re dead.” He pulls the trigger.
Click.
“Empty.” He shrugs. “Rule Number One: you’ve got to clean a gun before you use it.”
I want to punch him in the throat. I want to gouge his eyes out.
Instead, I look up at him, doe-eyed, and smile. “So that’s a yes? You’ll teach me?”
The darkness leaves his face. His leer is back in full force as he gives me the once-over. “Sure, darling Donna—but it will cost you.”
That’s what I was afraid of, I think, as he flips me so that I’ve now got my back against the wall.
His mouth presses against mine. He forces my lips open with his tongue.
Yes, I know I could make my getaway now. I could bite down hard. He’d be in such pain that instinctively, he’d pull away from me—
Far enough away that all it would take is an elbow to the gut and then a fist to the neck to bring him to his knees. Ah, how nice it would be to put that gun against his crotch and listen to him beg for mercy—
Just like he’s waiting for me to do.
But, nah. I’ll survive this little tongue tango. I’m having too much fun seeing where James goes with this.
And, besides, I’ve got a job to do.
Oh, joy, he’s hardening against me. Time to get to work.
As my right hand cups the tent rising in his pants, my left hand inches toward his cell phone. I relieve him of it. With my free hand, I take out the scanner secreted in my belt and insert it into the phone. I slip both of them into my belt again, and pray he won’t hear the faint buzz when it’s done.
A hand slides under my dress and up toward my ass. The realization that James doesn’t feel panty, just skin, has him breathing heavier. His finger moves between my bum cheeks but stops when it hits my thong. “Ha, ha! A whore’s token attempt at modesty!”
The first yank takes it down around my thighs.
The second drops it to the floor around my heels.
To retrieve it, he lifts the left leg first, on the calf. He puts just enough pressure on it as if to warn me: Don’t try anything.
He drops that leg only to lift the other and collect his prize.
I steel myself from cringing as he holds it up and sniffs it like a dog.
“You know you aren’t going home with these, don’t you?” His right brow rises with his leer.
I shrug. “Why? Do you need a trophy to show the other husbands?”
“Now, that’s a thought.” His smile widens. Instead of answering, he reaches behind his back—
And the next thing I know, I’m being handcuffed.
Shit.
James laughs raucously as he goose-steps me toward the mysterious door.
When he opens it, at first, all I see is darkness. When my eyes adjust, a staircase beckons.
“Watch your step,” He whispers. He shoves me forward. To what, I can only imagine.
The faint buzz of the scanner sounds all the louder in the stairwell. James halts. His hand tightens on my arm. “What was that?” he asks suspiciously.
“My watch,” I stammer. “I have to go pick up my youngest, Trisha, in a half hour.”
I can’t see his face, but I can hear his labored breathing. “A shame. Your lesson may not be over by then. She may have to wait a while.”
I think of all I know about his family: his wife’s submissiveness; his oldest daughter’s apprehensions; his sons’ surliness.
No, I don’t like the sound of that.
We are in the Garretts’ basement.
Or I should say, we’re in the Garretts’ indoor shooting range.
We entered through an air-locked corridor. The concrete walls have also been baffled for sound.
The range has four lanes, which, I’m guessing, are twenty-five yards in length. Every lane has a target tract system. A different kind of target—all human forms—is hooked onto each one.
From the smell of it, he was having target practice when I broke into his house. Not all of it has been cleared away by the humongous HVAC vent, which sits at the far end of the room so that the smoke and toxic lead particles from the discharged rounds are sucked out of the room.
Hate and fear are toxic too. If only it could be dissipated just as easily from the lives of the Garretts as well.
Against the closest wall is a vast collection of artillery and ammo. Semi-automatics fill the meticulously arranged rows: M-14, HK417, and Mod 0 rifles, to name a few. The bottom row is filled with handguns of all makes, including smaller ones: an S&W Shield 9mm, a couple of Glock 43’s.
James nods toward another wall, which is filled with used targets. Most have a cluster of bullet holes around the target’s hearts. A few have them in the head or neck. “Everyone in this family knows how to shoot. These are my kids’ latest kill shots. Pretty impressive, huh?”
I take a closer look. I nod. “I’ll say.”
“How about you?” he asks. “How’s your aim?”
I chuckle. “You’re kidding, right?” Wide-eyed, I take a step back.
My meekness emboldens him to place his hand on my waist and pull me toward him. His tongue darts around my molars. Seriously, if I had any gold fillings, I’d be wondering if he were pilfering them.
When James is done, he vows, “I don’t play games, remember?”
He strolls back to his wall of arms. “Time for your shooting lesson. Here’s how it goes: you choose a weapon. I’d suggest one of these little girly guns that my daughters like.” He points to the lower shelf. “I’ll help you position your luscious little body and your gun. You’ll get three practice shots. After that, any shot outside of the 7-ring and you lose.”
I purse my lips into a pout. “I lose what, exactly?”
“Like I said, I get to keep something of yours.” He holds up my thong. “Since your virginity is already a distant memory, I’ll take this instead. Sort of like strip poker.”
“Those are pretty high stakes. This happens to be one of my husband’s favorites.” In truth, Jack has never seen it—and I intend that he soon will.
“Is that so?” The thought has James salivating. “Well then, you better listen carefully. Otherwise, you’ll walk out of here without it. I don’t think you’ll want to explain to him how you lost it.”
I bat my eyes. “Yes, Teacher,” I whisper.
My submissiveness has him grinning ear
to ear. “Go ahead, choose your weapon.”
“Hmmm…” I saunter over to his munitions wall and feign fascination at all the choices, but I’ve already made up my mind. “Can’t we just use that one, in your hand? I already love the feel of it.”
My guess is that he’s the type of disciplinarian who times his children’s ability to lock and load their weapon of choice at every lesson, in which case the other weapons are empty. Works for me. I only want one weapon in play: his.
He takes a minute to think about it. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, okay, sure. No need to get you all worked up on how to load one of these killing machines when the objective is to get you shooting in the right direction.” He points to the target: a knee-to-head photo of a menacing man. He chuckles. “I bet you’d hate to tell ol’ Jack that you lost your panties to that fella.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer I said I lost them to you?”
He sobers up at the thought. “You better hope he doesn’t find out the hard way that there’s a new rooster in the henhouse. My guess is that he’s stupid enough to fight me for taking what’s his.”
Our eyes meet.
I drop mine meekly and nod.
He chuckles again, all smiles. The next thing I hear is the click of the handcuffs as they are unlocked.
As I rub the soreness from my wrists, he walks over to the munitions wall and opens one of the many ammo drawers that line it.
While he’s got his back to me, I take his phone from my belt. It takes a second for me to pull the scanner from its audio jack and tuck them both separately into my belt again. A bigger issue is how to put the phone back into his pocket without raising his attention.
I’ll figure it out when the time is right.
It better be soon because he’s turning around. He holds the gun low. “Face your target,” he commands me.
I saunter over to the shooting lane and turn in the right direction.
“Look straight ahead,” he demands.
James waits until I do so before walking over to me. He holds the P320 in his right arm, which is stiffened close to his side and downward: around the four-o’clock.
He stands behind me. I feel his hand on my calf, correcting my stance by positioning my right leg a few inches further away. Why he then feels the need to caress my ankle is beyond me.
Finally, he straightens up behind me again. Too close. And too hard. “Stretch out your right hand, thumb up.”
When I oblige him, he places the gun in my hand. “Grip it high on the strap—here.” I allow him to position it accurately: four fingers on the fore-grip, which allows my palm to butt up against the rear grip. My thumb is up, as if I’m stroking the barrel’s left side.
James takes my left hand and moves it into the support position: cradling my right hand even as it covers the rest of the grip. He takes a moment to place my left hand’s four fingers under the trigger guard. He presses the highest—my index finger—hard beneath it.
“Now, move your right hand’s index finger to the side of the gun so that it’s parallel to it.”
Feigning ignorance, I move my left one instead.
“I guess you’re as dumb as you are pretty,” he mutters.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I taunt him.
With his free hand, he grabs my hair. As he jerks my head back, he growls, “Guns are not toys. This is not a game.”
Seeing the anger in my eyes, he coils my hair even tighter and yanks it even harder. “Do you have a problem with that?”
I frown, but I drop my gaze to the gun. “No.”
“No, sir.”
I stay silent.
He tosses my hair away to shift his hand to his shoulder. But before he has a chance to backhand me, I reply adamantly, “No, sir!”
His hand stops just an inch from my face. “That’s better. But because you felt the need to sass me, you now get only two practice shots.”
“What do you mean by that?” I fake the tremor in my voice.
“I mean what I say. You’ve been a bad girl. I’m taking away your third one.” He scowls. “If you want to hold onto that little patch of heaven, you’d better behave yourself—and pray you can shoot straight.”
Soon he’ll be begging that I don’t. But for now, I nod meekly.
He moves my left thumb next to the right one. “See how your hands fit together? Like two pieces of a puzzle.” The leer is back. “Like when a woman is a tight fit—around the right man. How do you think we’d fit together?”
My blush is not faked. However, it is anger-induced.
Temper…temper…
“Okay, keep your eye on your target. I’ll give you a break by keeping him still on the track.”
“Thank you.” I sound so grateful that you’d think he just offered me a million dollars.
Feeling magnanimous, he gives me a pat on the ass.
Again, a blush (from anger). Temper…temper.
“Okay, now here’s the important part. When you’re ready to shoot, just squeeze the trigger—gently,” he warns me. To make his point, he strokes my nipple gently. “Just like this,” he whispers in my ear.
I’d like to make my point too—maybe not so gently.
Instead, I nod. “Yeah, I get it.”
“What did you say?” His militant bark comes with a grimace that is supposed to scare me.
Okay, I’ll play along. “Yes…yes, sir.” I think my quivering lower lip is a good touch.
He must think so too because he nods his approval. “Now, look at the target and take your first shot. Remember, aim for the heart.”
Don’t. Tempt. Me.
I frown as if the task is beyond me. No ring below eight, eh?
I shoot just wild enough that I hit the 2-ring.
James clucks his tongue. “Shame, shame, shame. If you want to hold on to your thatch patch, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
I nod meekly. “Yes…sir. I know.” I eye him coquettishly. “Listen, as bad as I am, can’t you give me that third practice shot back?”
He draws me close to lick my face. Ewwww.
“Let’s say I thought about it, but sorry, no can do,” he replies. “In this man’s army, there is no leniency.”
I may take him up on that policy.
“Now, take that second shot. That’s an order.”
So that he thinks he’s scaring me, I nod frantically, take a couple of anxious breaths, center myself—
Oops, the shot goes wild and bores the target in the shoulder.
“I…I…missed again.” I make sure my eyes open wide. “Please? Can’t you be lenient—just this once?”
“Sorry, you know the rules.” He points to the target again. “Go ahead, take the shot that counts.”
“But…but…sir…”
He stares at me with dead eyes but raises his palm to within a few inches of my face. “Donna, do not ask me again. That is an order.”
I nod silently. I take a deep breath. I position myself again.
This time, the shot misses the target completely.
James’s hand holds up his prize: my thong.
“No…please! No…” I’m whimpering as I back away. “This was a mistake! I…I just came to tease you—you know for the show.”
“No. You really like me.” One way or another, he wants his fantasy to be a reality. “You want me.”
“Okay…yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” I’m now nodding emphatically. “I…want you.”
“Even though you know your husband will never forgive you?”
I whisper, “Yes, sir.”
“Your ‘friendly little Fraulein’ act here: have you pulled this on any of the other men?”
“What?” I shake my head emphatically. “No!”
“What did you say?” he shouts. We are now nose to nose.
“No, sir!” I scream back.
He stares down at me. “Good. They wouldn’t know how to keep you in line like
I do. Hell, it’s obvious that ol’ Jack doesn’t know what to do with you either! I suppose he’s too soft on you.” He smiles at the double entendre. “Say it! ‘Jack is too soft.’”
“Jack…is too soft.” And you are soooo lucky we cut the video feed on this.
“This asshole is a fucking sadist,” Arnie says in my earbud. “Seriously, you deserve an Academy Award.”
Oops! I forgot that we’re not really alone. I smother a smile, but in my head, I’m taking a bow. Okay, now time for the finale:
“James! ...I mean sir, all I ask is that you”—I drop my voice to a whisper—“that you…reconsider.” I cast my eyes downward.
“You’re begging.” He tries to turn his grin into a frown and fails miserably at it. “When you do that, you look pathetic, Donna. I have no sympathy for pathetic women.”
“I…can’t go home without it! Jack is sure to be home by now. If he sees me in this dress…well, he’ll know what I was wearing under it.” My lip trembles. “Perhaps we can come to some other sort of understanding?”
I can’t see his face, but I hear the delight in his voice. “I’m not opposed to some negotiation.”
“Okay…um, how’s this? If this next shot is better, I can leave with it?”
“And if it isn’t?”
I take a deep breath. “I’ll…we can…”
“Fuck. Say it.”
“Yes, sir. Fuck.” —you, asshole.
He pretends to ponder this. I squirm as if my life depends on it.
If only he knew whose life is really at stake.
“Sure, okay. One more shot. And if it hits the eight-ring or better, you’re free to go with your ass floss.”
I nod. “Thank you!” I show my gratitude with a fervent kiss—
And by brushing against his boner.
His arms are all over me. Tit for tat: mine are all over him, too—
Which gives me the opportunity to replace his phone.
By the time I pull away and take my stance, he’s almost bent in half at the thought of collecting on my promise.
I raise the gun, but I don’t need a second hand to steady the shot that goes cleanly through the target’s heart.
“Tah-tah.” I head for the door.
He’s so stunned at the shot that he stands there long enough for me to make it to the door before he runs after me. When he grabs for me, I duck just out of reach—