Brian Keene - Kill Whitey

“You are in good shape. What do you do for living? You are not police. Maybe you are in the army, no? Or maybe you are under the cover police?”

I chuckled. Her hands glided up to my chest. It felt good. She toyed with my chest hair, twirling it in her fingers.

“No,” I said, “nothing like that. I’m a dock worker. I work for GPS—Globe Package Service, over in Lewisberry. Darryl and I both work there. That’s who he had to call a little while ago.”

“Oh.” There was a slight hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Why?” I asked. “Does it matter?”

“You seem like dangerous man. The good kind of dangerous. Not bad kind. Like you can protect, no?”

“I can protect you.”

“You can fight?”

“Sure. I can kick ass when I need to.”

And I meant it, too. I hadn’t been in a fight since the seventh grade, when I popped Glen Lehman in the mouth because he stole my Moon Knight comic and gave it to his little brother. The fight was a draw. I’d been in close calls since then—shoving matches and stare downs. But no fists. No beatings. Truth was, I didn’t know if I could stomp some ass or not, but lying there in Sondra’s arms, I felt like I could.

Sondra gently squeezed my nipples and I grew harder than I’d ever been in my life.

“Could you kill?” Her breath was hot on my neck.

I nodded. “Yeah. If I had to, I could kill.”

“You could kill Whitey?”

She slipped a hand into my pants and squeezed my cock. I groaned. Her pouting, glossy lips glistened in the dark. Her eyes were sad. So was her voice.

“Larry,” she pleaded, “you will kill Whitey?

“If he comes after us.”

“You can kill him?”

“Yes,” I said. “If he tries to hurt us, I can kill him.”

“Easy to say. Harder to do. Many have tried.”

“He’s just a man.”

Instead of responding, she kissed me a third time. Both hands cradled my erection, kneading it through my pants.

“Damn…” My breath hitched in my chest.

Sondra nuzzled my ear. “And speaking of hard…”

She slipped off her silken clothes and then slipped off mine. I stared at her in the light. The sight of her beauty took my breath away. I’d watched her all those times on stage, seen every private part of her, and pretended that she was dancing only for me, but this was different. She was here now. Not fantasy, but flesh. Sondra was sharing herself with me and me alone. No one else could be a part of this.

“You like?” she purred.

“Yeah,” I said. “I like.”

We made love then, and despite the fact that I’d been shot at, and we were hiding from the mob, and one of my best friends was in the other room, and my cat was scratching at the bedroom door, and that I didn’t know her and didn’t have any condoms and we both had coffee breath—despite all of that—it was absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had happen to me. It was tender and slow and passionate and fun. It wasn’t sex. Wasn’t fucking. This was something different. We took our time with each other, forgot about everything else and just surrendered. I didn’t know if she really liked me or expected to be paid when we were done or was just rewarding me for saving her life—and in truth, I didn’t give a shit. It was too perfect to ruin with thoughts and fears and misgivings.

Here’s a little fact about guys that you might not know. Men fantasize, too. We don’t just want porno movie sex. Yes, we may be primarily visual creatures, but we’ve got feelings, too. We want to love and be loved. We just don’t admit that shit out loud. But yeah, we want to be wanted. Loved. And lying there, holding Sondra in my arms as we moved together, our bodies touching, our mouths locked, our hearts beating—I felt loved. I’d never felt anything like it before and I didn’t want it to end.

Not ever.

And for that brief moment, it didn’t. Time stopped. The only two things in the universe were me and her. Nothing else mattered.

Until the gunshot.

Ecstasy.

Sensation.

Vibration.

That’s where we were at. If the bedsprings squeaked or the headboard thumped, I sure as hell didn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear Webster’s insistent clawing anymore either. The only sound was our breathing, and Sondra’s soft, passionate cries. We moved together as one, the perfect rhythm, the perfect timing, our hips grinding together at just the right spot with every stroke, gorging us, urging us both on. Our bodies were attuned, our nerves drawn out tight and hurtling towards that harmonious note that all lovers strive for.

In those moments, people often toss around bullshit clichés. ‘Did you feel the Earth move’ is a classic. ‘I might be having a heart attack’ has become popular. ‘Was it good for you’ is a popular stand-by.

These are common.

‘Was that a fucking gunshot’ is not one that easily comes to mind, however.

I was close to coming, trying to hold off just a little bit longer so that Sondra could get off first. I wanted us both to achieve that crescendo. I’d already figured out that it wasn’t going to happen without some clitoral stimulation. Propping myself up with one hand, I reached down with the other and gently rubbed her clit and pelvic bone. That sent her over the edge. Careful not to lose my rhythm, I softly cheered her on. Her stomach muscles clenched. Her thighs squeezed me.

And then Darryl shouted something. I couldn’t tell what. Grinding my teeth, I tried ignoring him, tuning him out. Sondra bucked against me, lost in orgasm. She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. That was enough for me. My muscles went taut. I surrendered, collapsing against her as all my blood rushed to my groin and I exploded.

While I was in mid-orgasm, Darryl yelled again. I couldn’t react, couldn’t speak. I was too spent. All I could do was lie on top of Sondra, flopping and gasping, feeling our sweat run together. I went limp. The strength drained from my body.

“Wow,” I gasped. “That was something.”

She started to speak and that was when we heard the gunshot.

I didn’t know that’s what it was at first. Just an unidentifiable boom—very loud, very jarring, and very unexpected. It didn’t sound like the shot in the Odessa’s parking lot. That had been muffled and short and sharp. This was more solid. I felt it in my chest. Heard the echoes in time with my heartbeat.

Sondra froze. So did I. Then I heard voices over the ringing in my ears.

Speaking Russian.

I clenched the sheets. “Shit!”

Sondra trembled. “Where is my clothing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Grab one of my shirts.”

I rolled off her and hit the floor in a crouch. Not bothering with my socks or underwear, I grabbed my jeans and yanked them on. While Sondra shrugged into one of my t-shirts, I reached under the bed and pulled out my baseball bat. I’d always meant to buy a gun. Something like a .357 or .45. I never had, though, and I cursed myself for it now. Fucking stupid. Facing down trouble without the proper firepower. Still, the weight of the bat in my hand made me feel better. I crept to the closed door. There was no sign of Darryl. If he was still out there, then he wasn’t speaking—or was unable to.

The voices drew closer, right on the other side of the door. I gripped the bat tighter. Webster, tough old cat that he was, bought us some time. He hissed. One of the intruders hissed back at him. Then I heard his paws running across the carpet. He’d obviously decided to retreat. While this was happening, I reached out and locked the door.

My bed sat in the middle of the tiny room, the headboard pushed up against the wall. On the far end of the bedroom was the bathroom door. On my side were the closet and the bedroom door. Someone entering the room would see the bed, bathroom door, dresser and nightstand, but they’d have to turn around to see the closet. Sondra crouched down between the dresser and the bed. I scurried into the closet. Keeping the closet door open, I raised the bat and held my breath. My heart thudded in my temples. I really needed to piss.