Gunslinger: A Sports Romance

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Ethan lowers himself back down and gently starts kissing the side of my neck. It feels relaxing, but as he starts to slowly poke and prod his way into my opening, the muscles in my neck and shoulders begin to tense up. I’m not sure why this hurts so much, like I said I’ve done this before, but I am seriously thinking about pushing him off and running the hell out of my own bedroom. I feel like a virgin all over again. Yet as soon as I go to open my mouth to say the word wait, he kisses me deeply and mutters in my mouth, “Hold on tight Bitsy.”

  So I do.

  As he pushes further inside me with several hard thrusts, I flinch from the unfamiliar fullness, but he doesn’t notice my discomfort because his head is burrowed so far into the side of my neck now. He groans while methodically pumping and pushing inside me for a few more minutes, then he speeds up for a few seconds, right before he completely collapses on top of me. He’s so frackin’ heavy.

  “Oh shit!” He cries out. “Bitsy you’re amaz–”

  Before I can even process whatever that anticlimactic moment was that just passed between us, we both jump at an unexpected loud crash. It sounds like someone has just rammed their head completely through one of my front windows. Ethan jerks his head up, leans his torso over the side of the bed, and reaches underneath for his phone.

  “Fuck!” He starts furiously texting someone.

  I’m frozen in place as quick, thunderous footsteps are moving towards our direction while Ethan quickly pulls up his sweatpants and fixes my dress. They’re moving so quickly down the hall, I know it’s just a matter of seconds before they reach us.

  “Hide in the closet!” Ethan frantically orders.

  My heart pounds with brute force from fear.

  They’re inside the room, before I have a chance to move.

  A man in an all black sweatsuit and wearing a Shrek Halloween face mask (of all cliché things) bellows the words, “Don’t fucking move.”

  I freeze in place and so does Ethan. There are two other men, also dressed in all black with black knit ski masks standing next to the one doing all the talking. They are silent, but the two of them are holding sleek metal gray handguns aimed at Ethan’s head.

  “Sit,” Shrek orders.

  I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but I immediately sit straight down on the edge of my bed with my mouth closed and my legs shut. I smell like latex and sex, and my body trembles with fear when I take a brief glance up at the intruder’s face. Even behind his mask, I can tell that Shrek is dead in the eyes. His cold glare makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and shiver.

  “Where is my shit?” Shrek asks Ethan.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies without enough fear in his voice in my opinion. Does he know who they are?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shrek parrots back in a singsong voice. “Oh yes the fuck you do know what I’m talking about. You’re high on my shit right fucking now, and if you don’t give me ALL my product and I do mean all of it in the next five minutes, I’m going to have to hurt your very pretty girlfriend over here. And I promise you that she won’t be pretty no more after I’m done. Then you’re next.”

  I’m silently crying at this point and paralyzed with fright. I strangely consider all of the crime and cop shows that I have mindlessly watched all my life and wonder what the victims would do in this situation. I’ve always thought that if I were to ever find myself in a compromised situation, that I would be smart enough to save myself. Yet now that the time is upon me, I’m not sure what the hell to do. Should I make a run for it? Should I beg for our lives? Where’s my cell phone? Hell, I’m really frightened, and I have no idea how to get us out of this. I’m just seriously praying that Ethan will give these guys whatever the hell it is they want so they’ll leave. I’m very much invested in living another day with my face intact.

  Ethan puffs his chest out. “Like I said man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Shrek grins sinisterly.

  “That was the wrong answer Aqua Man.”

  And that’s when a black leather covered fist cracks me square in the jaw.

  Then everything fades to black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ELIZABETH

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  VIBRATIONS OF BASS HEAVY TECHNO music pulse throughout my sweat covered body as I twirl and gyrate my body in the middle of the dance floor. I’m a pro at this, so I’m careful not to spill a drop of the merlot that swishes around in my wine glass as I get my groove on. I just hold the glass high and close to my ear while my hips and feet do all the work of keeping to the monotonous but primal beat that is driving all the demons right out of my soul. It’s been three weeks, give or take a day, since I woke up with the worst headache of my life and my life in shambles. For just one night though, I don’t want to think about any of that. For just one night, I want to dance.

  I’m starting to think the deejay is my soul mate or a simply brilliant human being, because when my favorite part of the song comes on he performs a variety of scratches on his computerized turntables to extend that portion of the song, and I frackin’ love him for it. I throw back my wine glass and take a long final sip, placing the empty glass on the nearest littered high-top table; and then I begin to truly offer myself like a Santeria sacrifice over to the music. All I need is a long white flowing dress and a live chicken.

  Unlike some of my body thrashing counterparts who basically lose their minds when the computerized beat comes on, I close my eyes, raise my arms high above my head, and slowly sway my very pear shaped hips to the bottom of the song. The bass. As I do, I can feel the vino traveling intravenously through my veins relieving me of all my anxiety and insecurities. It feels good. No it feels great.

  Unfortunately my euphoria comes to a screeching halt, when I start to feel the large body of an intoxicated stranger slowly dancing up behind me. Initially my body tightens in fear, but because I don’t want to overreact in public, I decide not to respond immediately to his presence. Not every stranger is out to hurt me. I need to remember that if I’m going to live in the world.

  I consider the fact that in a club where most dancers are moving at the speed of a Zumba class, my dancing can appear more slow and sexual than the average person’s, and that’s why I make the decision to cut the drunk guy some slack. Plus this is the best part of the song. I want to finish enjoying it. Unfortunately the dickwad takes this as some sort of approval to move things a step further, and that’s when I feel the drunken stranger up on my ass.

  I know his hands are probably going to be next.

  Sure enough, I feel a hand firmly start to grip the left side of my hips, and can feel one of his sweaty fingers touching the exposed skin above my waistline (thanks to the halter top I’m wearing). So I stop dancing, turn around, and see the red-nosed face of a kid who probably isn’t even twenty-one yet and hasn’t quite learned when he’s reached his limit. I use my pointer finger to call him over even closer so he can hear me. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m annoyed, because he has a wide grin plastered across his face, when it’s blatantly obvious that I don’t.

  “Are you drunk?” I ask him like I’m his older sister.

  “Not yet gorgeous.” He says in a drunk, flirty voice.

  “Well listen junior, this is a solo gig,” I tell him in his ear. “I don’t need a partner.”

  The look on the kid’s face is priceless. He’s embarrassed, and I think he starts to look around to make sure that no one heard what I just said to him. As if someone could actually hear me over the high decibel level of the music or even see us in this dim lighting. He’s not a jerk about what I just said to him though. He gives me a slight head nod, turns, and walks off the dance floor. Confrontation averted.

  It’s at that exact moment that I consider just for a moment that maybe the kid had it right. Maybe someone was watching us, because I swear that I can feel the stare of a faceless shadow in a far corner of th
e club. To the left of the main bar. You would think that I wouldn’t notice a shadow based on the many moving bodies around me, but that’s the thing; people are dancing, laughing, talking, ordering drinks, walking around. Even people at the bar are fidgeting, adjusting their seats, talking to whoever is next to them or trying to grab the bartender’s attention. Everyone in the whole place is moving. Everyone but that one solitary faceless shape in the corner.

  A chill runs down my spine and I turn away. I’m a little freaked out, but I know that I need to shake it off. Ever since the attack I’ve been jumpy and on edge. What I need is another drink. That will calm me down.

  Now that I am entirely out of my zone and know that the deejay will be changing the song soon, I decide to head back over to the bar and straight towards the handsome bartender in the white tee. I spotted him earlier and liked the looks of him. He looks safe. I grab the last remaining stool and scan the crowd for my partner in crime, Sloan. I have no idea where she has wandered off to and while we’re both grown, I think it was breaking the girl code for her to just leave me to fend for myself inside a club. Especially after everything that I’ve been through over the last few weeks. I take another quick glance to look for the creep in the corner, but notice that whoever or whatever it was is no longer there. I’m relieved.

  “He took you out of your groove huh?”

  I raise a curious eyebrow, because I mistakenly think the bartender is talking about the shadow in the corner, but soon realize that he’s referring to the beer boy from the dance floor.

  “Here you go. Another glass of red on the house. I don’t know where these club virgins are coming from all of a sudden. They’re ruining the vibe in here. The doorman isn’t doing his job. That kid doesn’t even look old enough to be in here.”

  Another glass of wine? Oh I am definitely headed into hangover territory, but I smile, accept the drink, and start slurping it down as if it were my first of the night.

  “Thank you umm–”

  “The name’s Marco and you are?” He asks showcasing a set of pearly white teeth while wiping down the bar top. Was he flirting? Hell, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I’m sure he’s just being friendly like most bartenders. Men are completely off the menu for me now.

  “Elizabeth.”

  “You’re not here alone are you?”

  “No, I came with a friend.”

  Some friend. Where the hell is she?

  During the cab ride here, my best friend Sloan bragged for twenty minutes that she was bringing me to the uber-exclusive Club Lotus. Per her words, it was, “beyond the red velvet rope.” There was no rope. In fact there was only an inconspicuous looking gray metal door that you knocked on, which was then answered by a very unhappy looking man who asked very gruffly for your ID. Three minutes later the man either let you in the door or he told you to scram. Sloan’s ID must have checked out, so we were permitted inside once he jotted down my driver’s license information inside a red, leather covered journal. Another thing that gives me the jitters, but which Sloan assures me is totally safe. Once past the forgettable gray door, I couldn’t believe the unforgettable and intoxicating world that we stepped into.

  Club Lotus is a beautifully designed dance club, housed in a hundred-year-old but expertly renovated center city bank, with broad, polished mahogany bars, massive pillars, and intricately carved high ceilings bathed in soft champagne colored chandelier lighting. It is everything that I imagined it to be. The grandness. The sexiness. The exclusivity of it. While there are definitely cozy little seating areas and an elevated VIP section, it doesn’t seem like an overly pretentious club, although I know that most of the people in here probably make at least six figures or better. I’m fascinated watching many of the high-powered corporate women enter through the metal door and walk straight back to a large locker room, where they hang their very expensive designer suits and change into their very small, body conscious dresses for the night. Most of the men look like new money as well. Powerful but definitely not uptight.

  Sloan fits right in. She’s on the fast track as a pharmaceutical sales rep for one of the biggest companies in the country and makes a great living. I don’t fit in as much, but I strive to one day. I can’t wait to blend into the shiny and slick fabric of the city and it’s people, and to be able to afford to buy five dollar lattes everyday, although it feels like nothing is clicking into place for me these days.

  I continue looking for Sloan as I take several more sips of wine, but she is still M.I.A. Fortunately the deejay is doing a fantastic job of keeping me distracted and begins interplaying two songs that are calling me back to the dance floor, but I have an off feeling that I just can’t shake, so I decide to stay put and flirt with the sun-kissed bartender. After about ten minutes of polite conversation between us he asks me, “So you’re not going back out there gorgeous?”

  I grin. “Nah, I’d rather sit here and enjoy the music.”

  “Hard day at work?”

  “Not exactly … more like a hard week. A bad break up.”

  Marco nods in understanding and then a text comes in from my mother. I don’t feel like reading it, but I figure I have to because well, it’s from my mom.

  Mom: Where are you?

  Me: I’m out with Sloan.

  Mom: That means you’re dancing very inappropriately somewhere.

  Me: That’s very possible:)

  Mom: I’ve come up with a solution to your situation.

  Me: Really?

  Mom: I called your aunt.

  Me: Aunt who???

  This topic really deserves a phone conversation, but there is no way I could have a meaningful conversation with my mother, half-drunk, in a noisy club. I’m surprised she’s actually this good at texting. They’re coming in fast and grammatically correct.

  Mom: You know who I’m talking about smarty. Aunt Juliette. The aunt I told you to give a call three weeks ago when you decided to stay in that godforsaken city after almost being murdered.

  Me: When did u learn to txt like this mom? I’m impressed.

  Mom: I didn’t. I speak into the phone and it translates what I say into a text for me.

  Aaah, of course.

  Me: Very nice mom.

  Mom: Her number is 215-555-7890. Call her tomorrow. She has room for you until whenever.

  Whenever I come to my senses and move home she means.

  Me: It won’t be long. I’m figuring things out and will have a place soon.

  Mom: Is business doing better?

  Me: Yep.

  Mom: Are you really okay Bitsy?

  Me: Yes mom. Don’t worry.

  Lies.

  First of all there is no way on God’s green earth that I’m going to admit to my mother that I am scared shitless after being brutally assaulted by my boyfriend’s frackin’ drug dealers. She doesn’t even know everything that happened. She’d literally drive down to Philly, pack up my stuff, and force me to come home if she did.

  When I woke up in my bedroom three weeks ago, Ethan and the assailants were gone; my head hurt like hell, and my apartment had been completely ransacked and robbed. I’d been saving tip money for over two years from my part-time job at The Tavern and storing it all in two empty tampon boxes under the bathroom sink. (I’ve got an issue with paying bank fees.) It was over seventeen thousand dollars, and my plan was to use that money to live on while I worked on building my business full time; but now that money is gone and I need a Plan B.

  I was too frightened to call the police when I finally woke up, so the only person I called was Sloan, who promptly took me to the emergency room. Physically I had only suffered a minor concussion, but emotionally I was ruined. My home had been violated, I couldn’t concentrate on work, I was scared to be alone, and my boyfriend’s phone was going straight to voicemail. His father, who I had only met once before, finally called me a few days later and told me that Ethan was fine and resting in a drug rehab in Arizona.

  When I told him eve
rything that transpired that night, then asked him (politely) why his son saw fit to leave me unconscious on the floor of my bedroom without even a 911 call, his father totally sidestepped my question and blatantly offered me twenty-five hundred dollars if I remained quiet about everything. To add insult to injury, he also said there was another twenty-five hundred in it for me if I refused any and all of Ethan’s calls. Something about codependency, blah, blah, blah. Needless to say, I turned down his highly offensive offer and told him to go fuck himself. I didn’t need to be paid off to avoid having any contact with Ethan, considering that he had been ignoring all of my calls and texts for days anyway.

  Assholes.

  Both of them.

  And as far as my business is concerned, that is laughable at best. About eighteen months ago, I built and launched a smartphone application that helps connect college students with scholarship money. I named the application School Bucks, and I charge ninety-nine cents per download for it. The app generates about three hundred dollars a month, which is a pretty decent start, but it doesn’t pay the bills. I need to make some major improvements to the app and develop a marketing plan to make some traction in the marketplace, but now that my entire frackin’ savings is completely gone, I’m going to have to come up with a Plan B.

  All of this on my brain is what has brought me here tonight. I’m trying to forget about how I can’t get a decent night’s sleep in my own home, because I’m too afraid to close my eyes. I am also trying to forget how any little bit of money I earn now has to go to bills, not savings, and that I don’t have enough money to put down a security deposit and first month’s rent on a new place. So I guess living at my aunt’s house would be a great way to feel safe for a moment and stack some money while I figure things out. Work on my Plan B. Maybe I do need to bite the bullet and accept some help, regardless of the source. It’s not like I have a lot have options. It’s either this or go home to my parents and start all over again.

  Oh hell no.

  Me: What would she charge me to stay there?