Bryan Smith: Soultaker

She heard the dim noise of a television as she moved down the short hallway toward her bedroom. Alarm surged through her until she realized she’d probably forgotten to turn it off before leaving this morning. She’d been in a mental fog, so it was a reasonable explanation-but when she entered the bedroom, she saw that she was wrong.

Bridget Flanagan was on her side in Jordan’s bed, her head propped in the upturned palm of her right hand. Her other hand aimed the remote control at Jordan’s television. A white comforter was pulled up over her breasts. Her bare shoulders made it clear she was nude beneath the comforter. Jordan gaped at her a moment before her gaze went to the small pile of clothing at the foot of the bed-Bridget’s skirt, blouse, and panties.

Jordan cursed herself for being so stupid. The door to her apartment had been unlocked when she came home. She’d been too tired to notice. Probably she’d left it unlocked this morning, too.

Bridget dropped the remote and sat up in the bed, holding the comforter up over her breasts. “There you are! I was hoping you weren’t at work today.”

Jordan felt numb as she said, “I was. I got fired. What are you doing in my bed, Bridget? What are you doing in my apartment at all?”

Bridget pouted. “I’m here to see you, silly.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she tried to fake emotion. “I feel real bad about last night. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Bullshit. Put your clothes on and get out of here.”

Bridget pouted some more. “I was just afraid. Please don’t be mad at me, Jordan. You made me think about a part of myself, my sexuality, that I just wasn’t ready to deal with.”

Jordan smirked. “And now you are?”

Bridget nodded. “Yes. I…I want you, Jordan.”

Jordan couldn’t believe it. There was just no end to this chick’s head games. She hated that she’d been so blind to Brid-get’s true nature for so long. She was a user. A manipulator. An emotional sadist. “You make me sick, Bridget. Get out of here before I throw you out.”

Bridget smiled. “You don’t want to do that…” She let the comforter fall away, exposing her breasts. “Do you?”

Jordan knew she should say something. Keep focused. But she stared at Bridget’s full, firm breasts and imagined touching them. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes fluttered. Christ, she was too tired to think straight. She imagined how she must look to Bridget and felt a fresh surge of anger, directed both at herself and the evil bitch in her bed. “Get out!”

Bridget laughed. She threw the comforter back and stretched out on Jordan’s bed, her long, lean body aglow in the morning sunlight slanting in through the window blinds. She lifted her legs off the bed, stretched her feet to their fullest extent, and wiggled her toes. She lightly trailed the fingertips of one hand over her smooth, concave belly, the glint of pink nail polish a sensual contrast to tanned flesh. She met Jordan’s gaze and winked.

“I don’t feel like leaving just now, Jordan.” She pinched one of her nipples. “Why don’t you come over here and put your mouth on this?”

Jordan wavered for just a moment. She saw herself caving in, submitting to this degradation. Although it would be the fulfillment of a fantasy, it would absolutely be a degradation. And knowing this strengthened her resolve.

She went to the bed and Bridget sat up, puckering her lips, anticipating a kiss. She yelped when Jordan grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her out of the bed. Bridget shrieked and struggled until Jordan drove a fist hard into her stomach, and then she was gasping for air. Still holding her by the wrist, Jordan scooped up Bridget’s clothes and pulled her former friend out of the bedroom.

“What are you doing, you bitch!?”

Jordan dragged the struggling girl down the hallway. “Throwing out the trash.”

Bridget tried to twist out of Jordan’s grip, but to no avail. They arrived at the front door moments later. Jordan pulled it open and shoved Bridget through it. Then she threw the skimpy, silky clothes-which felt so nice to the touch-out after her. She threw the door shut, turned the lock, and leaned against it. Bridget screamed and pounded her fists against the door.

“You’ll pay for this, you fucking whore!” came the muffled voice from outside. “I’ll kill you! You’re gonna die, Jordan! Die!”

Jordan closed her eyes and tuned out the rest of it.

So she didn’t realize that Bridget’s screams had turned to cruel laughter.

Jake stopped at a convenience store on the way back to Washington Heights. He picked up a copy of the Rockville Times and got in line behind a woman who reminded him a little too much of his mother. Bottle-blonde hair. A skimpy white tank top. Tattoo depicting a coiled snake visible on her left shoulder blade. Denim cutoffs that clung like a second skin to her shapely ass. She caught him looking at her and winked.

Jake’s stomach clenched.

It was as if his mom had caught him leering at her. He was mortified. The woman’s face had that haggard quality common to middle-aged women from the Zone. Too many years of hard drinking and hard living. She could’ve been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty.

She smiled at him. “I know you, sweetie?”

His face flushed. “Ah…no. You look like somebody I know.”

Her red-rimmed eyes almost twinkled. “Well, want to get to know me better?”

Jake forced a laugh. “Yeah, I’m flattered, but I’m…married.”

He tried to conceal his lack of a ring by shifting his grip on the newspaper, but the lady had an eagle eye and didn’t miss the lame attempt at subterfuge.

Her smile vanished. “Oh, fuck off.”

She turned away from him and set her twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee on the counter. Embarrassed, Jake wandered to the rear of the store, where he grabbed a six-pack of Heineken from the beer cooler. The flirtatious woman hurled a final curse his way as she banged the door open on her way out. Jake paid the clerk and left the store. Back in the car, he pried the top off a Heineken, wedged the bottle between his legs, and wheeled out of the parking lot.

The Heineken was empty by the time he pulled into Stu’s driveway. His hand moved to toss the empty into the Camry’s backseat, but he stopped and frowned at the bottle.

He sighed. “You’re on a slippery slope here, man.”

But fuck it, it was done.

He chucked the empty into the back and got out of the car. He went around the side of the house and let himself in through the back door, then stepped into the kitchen and hit the light switch. The overhead fluorescent lights flickered for a bit before coming all the way on. He put the rest of the Heineken in the fridge and poured Coca-Cola into an ice-filled glass from a two-liter bottle. Then he grabbed his paper and headed to the living room.

He was in an old leather recliner and looking at the newspaper before he noticed the girl. She was curled up asleep on the blue sofa on the other side of the coffee table. She was small, with a pale face and straight, lustrous black hair tucked behind her ears. She wore a dark gray hoodie, ratty blue jeans, and striped orange-and-black socks with holes in the toes.

Jake had no idea who she was.

Stu hadn’t mentioned anything about a girlfriend or a roommate. It bothered him. She didn’t look like a criminal. But that didn’t mean much. She could be an intruder, what did he know? He thought about calling Stu. Maybe even the cops. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. What kind of criminal breaks into a place just to sack out on the sofa?

But hell, he knew the answer to that.

The mentally unbalanced kind.

Then Jake saw the small handbag and the key ring on the coffee table. An idea occurred to him. It was an invasion of privacy, but the idea’s allure was strong. Oh, the hell with it. He folded the paper and set it aside, then got up and moved cautiously to the other side of the coffee table. The hardwood floor creaked beneath his hiking boots. He searched the girl’s face for any indication of imminent wakefulness. She kept on snoring. Jake reached into the handbag, rooted through a jumble of lipsticks, pill bottles, and other ephemera, and finally extracted a lime green wallet. He undid the snap and looked at the girl’s plastic-encased driver’s license.