Her eyes are the color of broken emeralds and she throws back a shot of whiskey like it could cure cancer. I’ve been staring at her for nearly an hour and the span of four or five drinks of my own. She sits with legs crossed, two pale knives entwined with fishnet tights. She’s wearing big black boots and I imagine she could kick the shit out of me if I came within three feet of her.
I down another vodka tonic and pretend that I’m interested in the baseball game playing on the plasma television in the corner of the room. Blue and green light mixes with the dim halos of the bulbs above the bar and for all I know I could be dreaming. I make eye contact with her once more and this time she catches the glance and swallows it whole. Frost seeps up my legs and back and I swear the bartender has turned on the air conditioning. Hands are cold and the flimsy hair on my knuckles stands on end, surrounding the tattoo on my ring finger and reminding me that my intentions could break the heart of a woman that isn’t here.
She smiles and the surprise slaps me in the back of the skull. Before I realize it I’m walking over to her, drink in hand, with a stupid grin plastered on my tired face. She pats the padding on the stool next to hers and it takes me a full minute before I sit. The leather squishes under my jeans. Her hands are covered with black velvet gloves that are cut off beyond the wrists. I set my drink on the bar and inhale the scent of the most beautiful woman ever to cross my path. She smells like sugar cookies and desire. I motion for the bartender and he slouches over to us, his moustache sneaking over lips the color of raw sirloin.
Another vodka tonic for me and whatever the lady wants, I say.
Earlier in the night I imagined that she had the voice of a mouse, tiny echoes followed by sequential squeaks. She opens her mouth to speak and I couldn’t be more wrong.
Whiskey sour, she says.
I nod and the bartender fetches our drinks. I drop a twenty near the cash register and hand her a glass filled with amber liquid. She smiles and it scares the shit out of me. A Joy Division song hums in the background and I can’t tell if it’s in my head or playing on the jukebox. I could freeze this moment in the back of my mind, burn it into the movie screen behind my eyes. She takes a long sip of her drink and uncrosses her legs. I imagine that her pussy smells like roasted peaches. She unbuttons the top of her black cardigan blouse and reveals a freckled chest that’s bathed in the dark light of the bar. She points at my drink.
Are you having a good night, she says. I’ve seen you drink at least half a dozen of those.
I laugh. Not going too bad at all. How about you, I say.
What’s your deal, she says, rubbing a finger against my left hand, caressing the circle of thorns inked into my ring finger. Looks like you’re married.
I sigh and take a sip of my drink. The ice slips to the top of the glass and a cool wave of static hits my upper lip. I don’t think that matters, I say. Especially not here.
She giggles and it’s the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life. I can’t tell if she’s humoring or mocking me, and part of me doesn’t even care. Ten minutes ago I was alone and drunk and now I’m talking to my own fucked-up version of an angel. A swoop of blonde hair with slices of black hangs in front of her eyes and I find myself staring at her. She notices and looks away.
Both of our drinks finished, she slides her glass next to mine and asks if I’ll buy her another one. Sure, I say. Another whiskey sour, I assume.
The woman nods. Silence forces its way into the space between us before the bartender brings over another round. She gulps half of her drink while I tenderly sip on mine. When she’s done, she slams the glass to the bar and startles a row of drunks across from us. A man with the hair of a baboon scowls at her and grunts. She stands up, gray skirt stopping mid-thigh, small sliver of pale skin peeking from under her blouse. I’m aroused by only half an inch of skin and the smell of whiskey on her breath.
A velvet finger runs up and down my arm. You can buy me one more drink and then I’ll take you to my place, she says.
I close my eyes and expect the blood in my heart to pop and explode like red ice in a cheap snow globe.
I resist the urge to hold her hand while we drive to her apartment. She keeps one hand on the steering wheel and another under her left thigh. We stop at a red light and she shoves a cassette into the radio. Half of the moon dances in the night sky and I imagine the other half is hiding from what we’re about to do. Three or four old Misfits songs play and she hums along to a couple of them. We’ve been in the car for ten minutes and I haven’t said a single word to her. I could have died back at the bar but she probably wouldn’t have noticed. The car pulls into the driveway of a house off the main road. The night air caresses my body as I step out and follow the blonde and black hair in front of me. Her ass is shaped like a heart and sways back and forth in hypnotic motion. She slides a key into the doorknob and flips off her fuzzy jacket. She waits a moment before opening the door.
There’s only one rule, she says.
I lean against the red brick of the house and smile. Sure, I say. What is it.
She leans in and kisses me, a sharp bite following a quick slurp of her tongue. I’m in charge, she says.
I nod and she pulls me by the belt buckle into the house. She slams the door behind me and it sounds like a coffin lid falling and trapping the dead. The living room reeks of wine and lust and it’s a strangely familiar scent. She kicks off her boots and I want to drool at the sight of her legs. I plop onto the loveseat against the wall while she pours drinks in the kitchen. The entire house is wrapped in a coverlet of maroon light and my legs twitch with anticipation.
She brings over two glasses of bright green fluid and sets them on the crystal coffee table a few inches away from legs. She passes one to me and I take a sip, my cheeks immediately radiating with a flush of sour apple. Her hand finds its way to my crotch and before long she’s touching the tip of my erection through a thick layer of denim. She stops and swings herself onto me, pushing into my crotch while my hands slither against her stockings.
Her hair is in my face and I can’t tell if I’m tasting hairspray or the sharp tip of her tongue. She unbuttons the rest of her blouse and a black lacy bra houses two cups of pale flesh. A vineyard of veins is a map under her skin and my tongue follows its trail, sliding against the rim of her bra and up into a mess of freckles the color of autumn. She lets out a tiny moan and it drives me to slip off her skirt. She pushes off me and lands on her back, eyes staring above as if already bored with me. Take off your pants, she says.
I unbuckle my belt and my jeans slide off my legs, crumpling into a mess underneath the coffee table. She finishes her drink with one hand and slips gloved fingers into my briefs with the other. Velvet massages my cock and blood starts to boil in a euphoric wave. Time stops and all the stars in the night sky waltz in a beautiful display of exploding glitter.
Her bra falls to the floor and her breasts are pallid clouds of flesh. My tongue attacks one nipple and the tips of my fingers tweeze the other. One of her hands tugs at the back of my head, crushed velvet frantically grabbing at my hair and pulling with each of her groans. The thin lace of her panties slides down her legs with the ease of a Sunday afternoon. A slender strip of brown pubic hair stands out amidst tender skin and she shoves my cock into her wetness. I grip her sides and let her pounce until a white hot flutter of pain fills my chest. Blood seeps from a new wound and I never saw her slice me with the small knife in her hand. It feels too good to let go and before long my abdomen is drenched with a sticky crimson glow.
Don’t stop, she says.
A flash of gold and black and I’m standing after pulling her off me. She lays on the couch, legs high in the air and a bloody finger gliding over her clit. I told you not to stop, she says in between minute bursts of pleasure. I back away slightly and my vision blurs, like I’m drugged and underwater. A few minutes or hours pass and all I can hear are the empty sounds of a gun pressing against my temple, a single velvet finger resting gently against the trigger.
I’ll tell you when to stop, she says. Now fucking finish.
Fingers sneak between us and wrap around her throat. I push her to the couch and she falls under me. She holds the gun to my head while I slide my cock into the blood-stained pastels below her navel. I’m pumping as hard as I can and at any point I don’t know if she’s pulled the trigger. This could be a mix of heaven and hell and oh my God am I not sorry for everything I’ve done.
The moon explodes and I finish inside of her, heavy beads of sweat dripping from our foreheads, the remnants of sexual delight. Her eyes gleam with the jade blush of satisfaction. Gun still in her hand, she points at me and smiles. My first instinct is to close my eyes and think of my parents, my brothers and sisters. The cold air of the apartment filters into my lungs and coats them with an apathetic frost. My breaths are panicked and at any moment my heart will give out. A single bullet will find its way into my skull and a small flap of bone will give way to a stream of gray matter and blood. Eyes open and all I see are pale breasts hanging from a woman that’s wearing black velvet gloves. Both of her hands are wrapped around the gun and I look through her clutter of black and golden hair before making my move. I duck down and throw an arm into the air, knocking the gun to floor before grabbing a fistful of hair and clenching my teeth.
Pumpkin, she says, eyes wide and frightened.
I let go and smile. We both take deep breaths, our chests heaving in and out with the soft motions of a flickering candle. Time forwards to its normal speed and supple strands of moonlight creep in through the living room windows. She grins and pulls my arm over her shoulder. Her skin is sticky and we both need a shower. The stench of dried blood and sex is more than enough to end my night. She slides off her gloves and tosses them to floor. They land next to my jeans and the rest of her clothes. Black fingernails pinch the skin above my belly and the tribal tattoo around her ring finger tells me I’m back home.
I figured I’d be the one to break out the safe word tonight, I say.
Her leg drifts over mine and she embraces me in a kiss, bits of hair sticking to her forehead. Me too, she says.
I look outside and soon enough my eyes close in a perfect chasm of slumber.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christopher J. Dwyer is Dogmatika’s staff writer. He writes horror and noir. His work has appeared in publications such as Twisted Tongue, Gold Dust magazine, and numerous fiction anthologies. He can be reached through his official website: www.christopherdwyer.com.
