Bryan Smith - The Killing Kind

She took another deep breath.

Then she knocked.

The door came open and Emily stood there smiling at her. “Changed your mind?”

Zoe forced a smile. “Yeah.”

Emily stepped aside and Zoe walked into the room. She felt a wild thrill of excitement when she saw Joe on the bed, just as Emily had described.

Jesus Christ. Holy shit. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

Joe stirred on the bed. “Who’s there, baby?” He sounded groggy.

“Don’t talk!” Emily snapped.

Joe opened his mouth again-then closed it, saying nothing.

Emily took Zoe by the hand and guided her over to a little table by the window. “Coke first, then fucking.”

Zoe sat and accepted the clipped straw Emily handed her. She gaped at the chopped lines of powder arranged on a tray. “I thought you said a little coke.”

Emily shrugged. “I lied. So what?”

“Whatever.” Zoe inserted the straw in a nostril and bent her head to the table, snorting up most of a line in one go. “Oh. Wow. Fuck.”

“Good, huh?”

Zoe grinned. “Hell, yeah.”

Emily stood and peeled the black dress off over her head. She went to the bed and climbed in next to Joe, curling one long, shapely leg over his groin. She flashed Zoe a naughty smile and reached over Joe to pat the other side of the bed. “Join us.”

Zoe finished the line of coke with a final snort. Feeling deliciously, wickedly debauched, she stood up and undressed.

Then she went to the bed and climbed in.

She didn’t see Chuck until the next morning.

March 22

The first one went down easy, the next one even easier. Tonight that normally harsh tequila burn tasted sweet. He welcomed the sting. Savored it. Reveled in it. He wasn’t normally the sort to wallow in pain or misery, but tonight felt like a good night for it. A good time to open up hidden recesses in his psyche and see what dark things lurked there.

Chuck rapped the empty shot glass on the bar and the bartender filled it again. He threw the shot back, screwing his eyes shut and wincing as the strong booze hit the back of his throat. It was cheap tequila. House brand. The place was too much of a dump to stock anything good.

Who cares? It’ll do the job.

The bottom of the glass hit the bar again and the burly barkeep-who hadn’t moved, and stood ready with the bottle-filled it to the rim again. The man had a bushy mustache, a receding hairline, and a ponytail. Faded jailhouse tattoos festooned his muscular forearms. A livid scar under one eye hinted at a violent past.

Chuck picked up the glass. “What’s with the scar? You get that in jail?”

“None of your business.”

Chuck laughed. “Yeah. You’re right.” He raised the glass again, but didn’t throw the shot back right away this time. He swiveled side to side on the stool, swaying, his head already buzzing pleasantly from the booze. “It always this fucking dead in here?”

The barkeep shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes not. Gets busy on the weekends.”

“Huh. Lots of weekend-warrior rednecks, right?”

“Yeah. You got something against rednecks?”

“No, man, not really. You know, other than just how fucking dumb they are. You know what I’m saying, right? Most of them don’t have more than two working brain cells to rub together.” He knocked the tequila back in one go again, whooped, and slammed the glass down. “Hit me again, Pedro.”

The big barkeep squinted at him. “My name’s not Pedro.”

No shit. Guy didn’t look even vaguely Hispanic. Where the hell had that come from? “Sorry about that, Hoss.”

“Name ain’t Hoss, either. It’s Joe Bob.”

It started as a snort. A helpless, reflexive expression of mirth. Then he thought about it again. Joe Bob! Another snort, followed by an almost girlish giggle. Fucking Joe Bob! It perfectly fit any number of country stereotypes, the kind of name that just screamed “lobotomized sack of backwoods monkey spunk.”

The barkeep didn’t look amused. “Something funny?”

The laughter boomed out of him then, making his whole body quake as the stool rattled beneath him. He laid his head on the bar and kept laughing until at last the fit began to release him, winding down to a last few quiet giggles and snorts. Then he raised his head and saw the murderous glare the barkeep was leveling at him.

“I think you’re done, son.”

Chuck reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off a hundred in twenties, placed the bills on the bar, and pushed them across. “I’m sorry, man. Seriously. I can behave. I’ve just had a rough night. That there’s a bonus on top of whatever booze I might buy from you tonight. Yours to keep. What do you say?”

The barkeep picked up the bills, leafed through them, and looked at Chuck again. His expression was a little less malevolent now. “One more.”

“Just for spite, right?”

A corner of the man’s mouth twitched, a near smile. “Yeah.”

Chuck pulled out the wad again and peeled off two more twenties. “You drive a hard bargain, man, but I’m willing to pay top dollar for the privilege of drinking myself blind in this fine establishment.”

He dropped the extra bills on the bar and the barkeep snatched them up. He filled the shot glass again and set the bottle in front of Chuck. “That one’s yours.”

Chuck grinned. “Appreciate it. Could you get me a pitcher of Bud, too? And maybe a plate of those nachos? But don’t spit in my food, bro.”

The barkeep shook his head. “You’re gonna feel like warmed-over shit in the morning, kid. And it won’t be ’cause of any spit in your nachos.”

Yet another shot of tequila hit the back of his throat and sizzled. “That’s sort of the idea, man. Wanna hurt so hard I can’t think.”

The barkeep chuckled. “Well…you’re on the right path, then. I may have to take your keys, though.”

Chuck squinted at him through bleary eyes. “Not necessary, bro.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m at the joint across the street. I’m a fucking pedestrian.”

The barkeep shrugged and served up the pitcher of draft Bud and a frosty pint glass. A plate of nachos showed up soon after. Chuck sat there and drank and ate the gloriously unhealthy food, which consisted of warm tortilla chips piled high with melted cheese and hot peppers. Time ticked by. He got woozier and woozier. He was aware of people coming into the bar and leaving again. He glanced at the clock on the wall now and again. It progressed from eleven p.m. to a shade beyond two a.m. in seemingly the blink of an eye.

He thought about Zoe a lot during that time. Thought about their years together and the impending end of their relationship. More than once tears welled in his eyes, but he never let them spill. Couldn’t let these redneck fucks see him as weak. But keeping the mask in place wasn’t easy. His feelings for Zoe were deeper and more complicated than he’d ever suspected. He didn’t want to lose her. Not even in light of the impromptu tryst with Emily.

And holy fucking Jesus, how fucked-up was that? The bitch was supposed to be Zoe’s best friend. He couldn’t figure her out at all. Until tonight she’d never shown anything but total contempt for him. Then all of a sudden, she’s practically raping him. Yeah, nothing that happened was against his will, but she was so aggressive, and so blatantly taking advantage of his vulnerable state. Thinking about it made him angry, but he had a hard time seeing how it could have turned out any other way. He’d been in need of comfort and there she was. And it’d been good. Very, very good. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking of the way she’d laughed as he cried in her arms.