James Conway - In Cold Blonde

They lay in each other’s arms an hour later. Naked now, sated after another less frantic lovemaking session, Anne cuddled contentedly. She was surprised by the passion of their lovemaking. And she knew that something monumental had happened. She’d had a life changing epiphany. She loved Ryan.

Ryan.

Not his lottery money. Not the chance at a job running his foundation. But the flesh, blood, synapses and dimples of Ryan Magee.

She felt safe in his arms. Protected in his arms. At home in his arms.

This man, she realized, was her soul mate. She’d been a fool to leave him. The humiliating poverty of her childhood had skewed her priorities, and seven years ago, when she bolted from that cramped studio apartment, she made the biggest mistake of her life.

But now, somehow, she’d been given a second chance and she wasn’t going to blow it. She knew Ryan still loved her. She saw it in his eyes, the way he touched her, the way he made love to her. Now she needed him to realize what she now knew to be a cold hard fact; they belonged together.

Ryan propped himself up on an elbow, looked at Anne. “You lied to me,” Ryan said.

Fear rattled Anne. “I did?”

“You promised no funny business.”

Relief flooded Anne. “If I’m not mistaken, you kissed me. So, from a strictly legal point of view, you were the funny business instigator and I, the helpless victim.”

“There’s nothing helpless about you, baby,” he said kissing her.

Okay, Anne thought. Let’s see how he feels. “Regrets?” Anne asked.

No, more like a revelation Ryan thought. Wanting to be in love with Syd was different than actually being in love. Ryan cared deeply about Syd, knew how much she loved him and wanted to love her back because well, it would make Syd happy.

But the depth of his affection for Syd didn’t compare to the feelings suddenly unleashed in Ryan for Anne. A giddy, intoxicating, euphoria he forgot existed.

“No regrets.” Ryan said.

Okay, then here goes, thought Anne. “Leaving you was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I love you, Ryan. I’ve always loved and I’ll always love you. If this was a revenge fuck, fine, I deserve it. But if it was more, if you feel the way I do, then please, take me back.”

There they were, the words Ryan wanted so desperately to hear in those misery soaked months after Anne left him. He’d fantasized about a midnight phone call, a frantic knock on his door, an apology-filled email. He checked his cell phone obsessively hoping for the call.

Then, slowly, his heart healed. Albeit a cell at a time, the way the body heals itself, and it took a long time.

But deep down, Ryan realized, he never stopped hoping that one day he’d get that call, hear that knock, read that email. And now, finally, here it was.

Please, take me back.

He stared into Anne’s beautiful brown eyes, smiled “Welcome home.”

Anne squealed with delight, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said, punctuating each thank you with another kiss. Then her fingers slid down his chest to his understandably exhausted penis. “Got anything left down there, big boy?”

Ryan laughed. “Yeah, a full bladder.” He slipped off the king size bed. “Be right back.” He walked naked into the bathroom, closed the door.

Anne fell back on the pillow nearly dizzy with joy. Somehow she’d turned Rick’s financial disaster and her own career debacle into a gold-plated life with the only man she’d ever loved. Life, go figure.

She heard the muffled sound of a cell phone vibrating. She scrambled across the bed to her purse, but her cell phone was silent.

She heard another vibration from Ryan’s clothes piled on the floor. She climbed off the bed, dug through the clothes and found the phone in Ryan’s jacket pocket. She looked at the Caller ID, Syd.

Shit. Anne did not want Ryan talking to her now.

The phone vibrated again.

Anne turned the cell phone off, dropped it back into Ryan’s jacket then leapt back into the bed.

Uh oh, Syd thought as she picked her way through traffic on the northbound 405. Ryan always picks up his phone. Possible exceptions: One, he’s already on the phone, and even though his phone would beep and tell him he had an incoming call and identify it as Syd, he’s so engrossed in the conversation he can’t possible pick up; two, he’s fucking the shit out of that bitch; three, he’s dead.

Well, Syd thought. If it’s not one, and it is two, he’s going to wish it was three.

His message came on, “Hi, this is Ryan Magee, sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message.”

Syd thought about just hanging up, but there actually could be an innocent reason for the call not going through, so she said, “Hey Ryan, it’s me. Three boys raped Alice that night: Colin, Adam and a guy named Blake Hunter. He lives in Malibu, 22756 Pacific Coast Highway. It’s nine forty-five now, I should be there in less than an hour. Call me.”

She disconnected then refocused on her top priority. The Lady in Red.

The Vest Pocket Colt .25, with its miniscule two and a quarter inch barrel was designed to shoot at targets five to eight feet away. After that, luck has as much to do with hitting a target as skill.

This was only the second time Blake had ever fired a weapon; the first was high school when they took Adam’s father’s .44 Magnum to the city dump and shot at rats, so his skill level was low. But Blake’s luck was good and he hit his target.

Alice screamed as the bullet ripped into her shoulder, blood spurted as the slug shredded her deltoid muscle, just missed the cephatic vein before nicking her clavicle bone, tumbling through the trapezius muscle and bursting out of her shoulder before finally plowing into the living room wall.

The force of the bullet hitting Alice spun her around, and her brain was already calculating how she was going to survive a battle with a man with a gun when she’s just got a small scalpel.

So she instinctively let the spin knock her off her feet and she tumbled to the ground. There was no way for Blake to know exactly where he hit her, Syd realized, so she shuddered once and then went still.

Dead still.

Blake stared at the lifeless body. God damn her, he thought. He was counting on a lengthy interview to stitch together his documentary. And her murder trial would have been the icing on the cake. Fiery statements from the D.A. intercut with righteous indignation from the defense. Mix in a few shots of the beautiful defendant and you’ve got real drama. But now, all he’d have was a funeral.

Of course, a funeral makes for a much more definitive ending, and his own role in the story had been enhanced. Enhanced big time, he suddenly realized; he’s become the fucking star. After capturing the Lady in Red, he had to fight it out with the desperate serial murderer, finally killing her with her own weapon.

And then it hit him, documentary, hell! This should be a feature fucking film. Someone sexy but deadly would play the Lady in Red: Angelina Jolie, Scarlett Johansson, or maybe Keira Knightley. And an A-lister like Brad Pitt or Matt Damon would play Blake.

He’d write and direct, the first time ever a victim/hero told his own story on screen. What a publicity dream.

He looked at Alice’s body.

Did she just breathe?

He thought he saw some movement. He aimed the gun at her. He should put a couple of more shots into her to make sure, he decided. He centered the muzzle at the back of her head, tightened his finger on the trigger and squeezed.

Then stopped.

The cops would be able to figure out the trajectory of the bullets, determine that he was standing and she was on the ground. Realized he’d shot a defenseless victim.