Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? By Jesse Rawlins

                                                                

Soon as I heard the knock I knew something wasn’t right—

Pretending the house sat empty seemed like a piss-poor plan. If I’d somehow made a mistake I might as well face the music.

“Is this The House of Cards? Are you Mistress Callie?”

I ran an Internet-only business. Whoever this woman was … she was trying much too hard to coyly make a statement. Rather than acknowledge either question I motioned her inside.

“I was expecting you,” I lied.

“Oh, I highly doubt that, sweetie.” She stared blatantly at my tits: where my braless nipples poked at a blue Lisa Simpson tee—and fought to hide a smirk.

But she didn’t fight long. Quite shocking, I must say, how fifty thousand volts affects a person’s nervous system. I knew a gal in Boston, who spent six months in jail—just for owning a Taser—that she hadn’t ever fired. Pepper spray in that commonwealth remains illegal, too.

But if your record’s clean? You can own all the guns you want.

Typical Massachusetts: that state is run by Massholes. Though I sure as hell miss the beaches.

And the lobster dinners.

***

I splashed some Booker’s over rocks. Sparked a Maverick menthol. And leaned into the porch rail to contemplate my sins. Most had been committed under the adolescent curse of being young and dumb.

These days I wasn’t either—

Or at least I wasn’t young. A fact that didn’t bother me. Like this Booker’s Kentucky Bourbon, age made me more refined. Though we pack a lot of heat—and kick a lot of ass.

My visitor likely worked for Nick … a thought that made me shiver—and at the same time made me quiver. Yeah, at least in my case there is a sharp distinction. Despite those countless beatings, I still crave that god-damn sex. And a tanker of Lanacane spray will never soothe that irksome itch.

I let the present and its problems gently draw me back to the view below my deck. This un-named mesa squats serenely over Crooked Canyon—which brushes the northern tip of New Mexico’s Brokeoff Mountains. Just thirty miles due east the treasured Carlsbad Caverns smugly hug their famous landscape.

The canyon also intersects with the sweeping Chihuahuan Dessert. Pronounced by some as chay-hojaun, our continent’s second largest desert scrapes southeast Arizona, envelopes neighboring West Texas—languishes further south, and then like mystical Ouroboros—the fabled snake of Alchemy, consumes itself in Mexico.

People call this place a wasteland.

For five years I’d called it Home. And turning from the canyon, I couldn’t help but think of Thelma and Louise. And they way those two reacted: when they found their asses against a wall.

***

Most of us have felt it. At least to some degree. That niggling sense of panic in our musty reptilian brain. I wanted her off-balance—and wagged the iPhone in her face: “What’s the password, sweetie?”

“I haven’t called your hubby—if that’s what you want to know.”

I walloped sweetie’s knee with a rusty but trusty lug wrench—followed by a blow that likely broke her ankle: “I don’t have time for foreplay. And I don’t make idle threats—”

I waved the Beretta she’d been carrying: way too many idiots watch Dog the Bounty Hunter. “So I’m asking you one last time … what’s this iPhone’s password?”

She couldn’t mask her pain. Or her rapt surprise—

But neither could I mask mine ….

To secure the data in that phone, the numbers she had picked—twelve; twenty-four; nineteen and seventy-five —didn’t just happen to be my birthday. And when I finally reached her Home Screen, I discovered my green eyes staring back at me; my bare shoulders like warm copper against my ivory wedding dress.

I dropped the lug wrench on a work bench, and kissed her on the forehead: “Thanks,” I said, and meant it. I’d tortured a dozen people in so-called duty to my country. I’d never enjoyed the work. But once again I tazed her; and reapplied her gag.

***

I returned an hour later. Removed the gag so we could talk.

“You gonna consult your Tarot, sweetie—and see what my future holds?”

Who wouldn’t admire her moxie? “I already have,” I countered, stripping off my clothes. Then manipulating hers … I gave her the only things I could.

I’d gone six years without sex, other than my own fingers. Yet choked the urge to moan when her tongue met my clit. I locked my hands on her blonde head, fingers arched around her temples.

If the bitch decided to bite me I’d poke her blue eyes out.

***

I poured us both a Booker’s.

“I had fantasies like this, Callie—but you were the one restrained.”

My turn to fight a smirk: “How long have you been looking?”

“I could say all my life. But since the moment Nicky hired me? Five years to-the-day.”

Soon as she swallowed her whiskey, I tazed Kat Colston one last time. And used the gag to strangle her. True she hadn’t called him: but she’d sent Nick-the-Prick a text bragging that she’d found me—though she hadn’t told him where—at least not in her text. According to her Call Logs, the two of them last talked at nearly ten last night. But Nick could own another phone that wasn’t listed in her contacts.

She’d photographed me this morning. I’d found the Nikon in her Jeep: a quarter-mile up the road, expertly well-hidden behind a sun-bleached bluff. No signs of any laptop—or any communications tools.

Once upon a time, she’d shown skills behind a lens: capturing me adeptly at a pine-planked window table. Sleepily slurping coffee over at Angie’s Diner. The gentle morning sun kissing every highlight in my burnt sienna hair … my lips pursed in concentration; staring deep beyond my Tarot cards—to what they might reveal.

Her photos looked like art—not surveillance pics. And far as I could tell, zealous-jealous Colston hadn’t shared her trophy photos with our rabid Alpha Nick. She’d likely hated men. And knowing narcissistic Nick, he probably bragged to Colston about our fucking sex life. Which fueled her crazed obsessions.

Colston had been like Nick: but with a cunt instead of a dick. Five years hunting me. With my photo on her screen. Talk about OCD. Not stalking me for Nick. She’d wanted me for herself. And she’d assumed that I would love her. If I’d let her live, she’d have stalked me once again. Perhaps intent on killing me if we met a second time.

I decided to keep the SIM card. Hoping like hell she hadn’t shared; though fairly sure the lovesick lesbian kept them to herself. Finally bolting from Nick’s life, I’d taken a measly half-mil with me—and stashed the dough in a Swiss account. Not much compensation for broken ribs, nose and jaw. But prior to settling here, a plastic surgeon slimmed my nose—as well as my cheeks and chin.

I needed to lose myself in Mexico before this sun kissed its horizon. Then quickly catch a charter plane. And descend deeper south—disappear in Nicaragua. I still had one I.D. I could safely afford to burn.

But torching the house came first: I had no time to wipe my prints—or ditch Kat Colston’s body.

***

She’s finally quit her howling—

Her tattoo on my left shoulder’s the only clue that she exists.

Head resting on her paws, she’s curled-up like a child beside my inner fire. I’m relieved by this reprieve: the clock just now struck midnight.

My soul’s a twisted wasteland ….

But for years we’ve called it Home.

Grabbing my encrypted sat-phone, I drop exhausted on the motel bed. So much water under the bridge. But former Sergeant Major Nicholas Thomas Owens refuses to treat our bygones as simple fucking bygones.

When my Seal brother Cobra answers, I strangle my meddlesome conscience.

“Kill him,” is all I say. Time to put this mess to rest. And give meaning to Colston’s death.

Besides killin’ off her characters, Jesse relishes her bourbon. Her tawdry tales appear in pubs like England’s Spelk Fiction, Canada’s Red Fez—American joints like Shotgun Honey—and right here at The Whiskey.

In the mood for a Virtual drink? You can visit her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jesse.rawlins.583

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