She wasn’t, however, expecting the door to be kicked open suddenly and being grabbed by the neck of her shirt. It happened as quickly as one blinding flash of light piercing through the dim, candle-lit bathroom. Samantha tried to shield her eyes; she could feel her face already swelling, her cheeks burning, gradually turning to a deep pink. She could feel tears well up in her eyes as she tried to open her mouth to scream. Yet not a sound emerged as the intruder dragged her, neither kicking nor screaming but mutely acquiescing, towards the now ruined living room. The stranger locked his powerful arm around her limp one; in the other, he brandished a snub nosed revolver.
“Alright, now you listen up. Everyone. Reg, you keep an eye on the kid here. You too, Dim,” he nodded at a slouching and rather bored looking mass of denim and long, stringy hair sitting silently on the cracked naugahyde sofa. “The bitch is taking a ride with me—”
“You can’t!” screamed an uncontrollable Jill, only to have her mouth clamped by the hand of Reg.
“If I don’t get what’s mine, she gets it. So I’m going to remind y’all… one last time… if I find out any of you are tricking me, her life is in my hands. You got it?”
Jill nodded silently.
The stranger edged his way to the door, glaring at all three gathered, smirking one last time and brandishing his gun to insinuate he was fully prepared to carry out his threat. He opened the door with a passive Samantha in tow, limply being dragged into the now umber hues of the Florence Park dusk.
As the front door opened, a dazed and heavily battered Clark Simmons came to, only to find himself hog-tied on Samantha’s bedroom floor.
CHAPTER FOUR
As the stranger dragged her helplessly shuffling along, Samantha tried to catch a peek of him underneath the crackling streetlights. He did seem vaguely familiar; not seem, she knew instinctively that she had seen him before. But she couldn’t place where exactly. Her adrenaline was curdling through her sleep-starved nerves, and she was in no place to trust her memory.
He finally led her to a bronze-colored Trans Am parked just a few houses down from hers. His beady eyes peered nervously into the night; but past 7, not even the drunks bothered to walk around Florence Park. His body seemed to exude a tautly wound anxiety, and she was almost moved to giggle by his chivalry as he opened the passenger door and buckled her seat belt for her.
Now, as he glared at her in the light of the car, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had not only seen him before, but had actually met him. Faces tended to blur into one another for Samantha, mirrors reflecting mirrors of congealing wax; but his stuck out like an open wound. It was a face that could be called handsome in only the most violent manner, a face hardened by cruelty, fear and cunning precision. It was a face of sharp angles that denoted a lake of shadows. His beak-like nose was crowned by deeply set, sunken eyes whose sensuality was only belied by the telltale signs of detachment, even of madness, all of which seemed to contrast to his broad, thin mouth bedecked by pursed, flesh-colored lips. A thick shock of dull black hair stood up an all ends, seeming to crackle with both anxiety and purpose. It was a face that could only be described as feverish in its intensity. Samantha wondered if he was Italian.
Finally, he spoke. “Now look here, honey. You don’t know me. But I sure as hell know you, you understand?”
Samantha nodded obligingly.
“Now, I know I may have thrown you for a bit of a scare back there. Didn’t mean to. Ain’t out to hurt you. All I want is my money, OK? You tell me where to find your boyfriend. So long as he gives me what he owes me, I’m out of both of your hair for good. Deal?”
Samantha nodded, this time even more nonchalantly. A silent pause seemed to envelop the Trans Am, which only served to exasperate the stranger.
“So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna tell me where he is or you just gonna play dumb all night?”
“Have… have you been by A’s Tavern on 15th Street?”
“That’s where he is?”
“Most nights. Well, can’t say most. But that’s the main place I know where he’s at.”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you two. I’m out over a grand and you mean to tell me your boyfriend is getting drunk and riding a mechanical fucking bull?”
“I’m not… I’m not his mother….”
“No, but I’ll assume you’re the one holding a job, aren’t you?”
Samantha shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah, but he helps out when he can—”
“You mean when he’s not getting drunk on other people’s money, is that it? Of all the…. OK, we’ll check there. Point me in the quickest direction. C’mon…” he muttered to himself as he sped away, fiddling with the radio. “Of all the fucking misplaced trust…”
“He’s good at heart… Sometimes.”
“Being good at heart doesn’t exactly pay me what he owes me. Jesus… ‘Sometimes.’ You don’t even sound too sure of your own fucking boyfriend. You two, I tell you… You two might be meant for each other, do you know that…”
“Look, just because he owes you money doesn’t mean you have to be insulting towards me—”
“If someone owes me close to $1100 don’t you think I might have every right to be upset?”
“How much?” Samantha asked, legitimately incredulous.
“$1100. You think dope just grows on trees?”
The way they bickered at one another, they could have passed for any other tourist couple trying to navigate the streets of Tulsa with no success. Except they were two total strangers, both of whom knew downtown Tulsa like the back of their hands. And one of those hands casually had a .38 snub-nose pointed at the stomach of the other.
“We’re not a couple of junkies if that’s what you think,” announced Samantha indignantly.
“Don’t know. Don’t care at this point. Right now, all I want’s my money. Your boyfriend gives me what’s mine, and the both of you can blow your brains out for all I care.”
“You’re a real charmer.”
“15th Street, right? Lemme make this quick left…” The Trans Am swerved the car ahead as it sped, running a red light to a cacophony of horns.
“Why the hell did you do that?” screamed Samantha.
“Just tryin’ to make time, honey. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I let you go.”
“And if Randy don’t have your money?”
“Well, I guess I just have to keep you as a little… consolation prize… until he pays me back in full.”
Samantha glared at him, her insides twitching with disgust. The stranger smirked, and continued.
“Now, now honey… It ain’t like that. I’m a married man, y’see. Besides… it’s not like I know where you been.”
“You’re disgusting, you know that? Who in their right mind would marry someone like you?”
“Someone out there for everyone. Even ol’ Randy, looks like. Next left and I’m pullin’ in…”
A beaten, white brick building with a rusty metal sign announcing cold beer and live entertainment belied the savage melancholy that was A’s Tavern. A single window was left open at all times, day or night, to ventilate the haze of perpetual smoke and regret that served in lieu of wallpaper at A’s. Only the mechanical bull—a frequently temperamental and forlorn fixture—prominently displayed in the corner served as diversion from the endless stream of 25 cent draft beers and surreptitiously sold bourbon that flowed through the collective bloodstream. The aura of patently male umbrage was so thick, so impenetrable, that an unwritten rule allowed a maximum of three females per week to step foot on its premises; and their presence better be damned well there for (as one patron artfully put it) “commercial transactions only.”
Samantha Linder was now the fourth.
The stranger walked arm in arm with Samantha, nodding discretely at the crowd of oblivious faces mulling over steins of lukewarm beer. Finding two empty stools at the end of the bar, he bade Samantha to sit down. He beckoned to the bartender, who waddled hi
s 300 lb. girth to their end, his frown indicating he was none too pleased to be serving a stranger tonight, or his old lady, for that matter.
“What can I do for ya tonight, son?”
“Two beers if you could. And maybe you can help me out. I’m lookin’ for an old buddy of mine named Randy Cox. He been in here tonight?”
“Never heard of him,” snapped the bartender, pulling the tap back for the order. When he returned, he saw that the stranger had left a ten-dollar bill on the stained Formica top.
“That help?”
“Now that you mention it… What did you say your friend’s name was?”
“Randy. Randy Cox.”
“Was in here earlier, but left about an hour ago. No idea where he went, but maybe one of his buddies can help you out. Hey Wayne,” the bartender screamed above the din to the other end of the bar towards a hulking brute with greasy hair hanging below his shoulders and a full beard practically down to his chest. “This here fella wants to know where Randy took off to.”
“That so?” said the behemoth, slowly skulking off his seat and marching towards the inquirer in practiced aggression that even to Samantha’s young eye seemed summoned up out of the bad B-movies she had caught at the Admiral Drive-In. Still, there was no denying that given his sheer size alone, Wayne had likely inflicted legitimate damage to more than a few bodies in his life. “Who wantsta know, friend?” he growled, emphasizing the last syllable bitterly, looking down from a vantage point of 6’6” as he made his way to their end of the bar.
“I’m an old friend of Randy’s,” the wiry interrogator asked, sarcastically sneering in response.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your name, friend?”
“John. John Mud.”
“Cute, there, uh… John Mud. Where you know Randy from?” The mammoth was all but two feet away from the both of them, and already the scent of gasoline and pique was all but intolerable.
“Let’s just say…. the coast.”
“Oh, yeah? Which coast is that?”
The questioner slunk to his feet, slowly addressing the lurching mass with his own studied machismo. He reached into the pocket of his denim coat and pulled out the revolver. “The same goddamned coast you’re gonna find yourself clear on the other side of if you don’t answer my question, friend.”
“Look out!” screamed Samantha. The stranger turned and ducked underneath a nearby table just in time as the bartender ran buckshot with a twelve-gauge shotgun in his immediate vicinity. Unfortunately, he was too slow on the draw, for the stranger returned his shot with lightning reflex, hitting the portly bartender straight above his chest and knocking out the dusty mirrors behind him. The bartender fell to his knees, his shotgun now discarded as if it had been a child’s teddy bear.
The stranger saw a flare of blinding light from the corner of his eye and heard another pang of bullets, this time from another .38. He shot wildly in their direction. He was unable to hit their target, but did succeed in shooting out the sole window of the bar, forcing its heavy pane to shatter on impact. Another hail of bullets just barely grazed his left temple, before he jumped, once again shooting wildly in their direction. This time, he was successful; his would be assailant collapsed to the ground, having been struck twice. The first hit him square in the throat, while the other stuck him right in the stomach. The girth of Wayne toppled to the ground in shock, leaving behind the scent of failure and waste. Which was just as well for the stranger; he was now out of ammunition.
He pulled Samantha off her stool and ran out of the tavern, leaving behind the smell of spent casings and soured ambitions. They ran to the car, jumping in and gunning the engine for all it was worth. The few stragglers who weren’t left altogether speechless by the crossfire struggled in vain to take down the license plate of the Trans Am, but were unable to do so. The sedan’s wheels had kicked up a cloud of impervious dust as it sped out of the parking lot. Within minutes, they were heading north on to the Cherokee Expressway; and within seconds, they were heading east onto Rte. 66, heading east towards a sun that wouldn’t rise for hours.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is the matter with you?!?” screamed Samantha as the car zoomed past at 70 mph on the highway. Samantha, who not even two hours ago was immersed with her eyes closed in a grimy, calcified bathtub was now inconsolable as her speeding abductor laughed maniacally, his cackle serving to fray her nerves even more. “What the fuck are you laughing for? You likely killed someone back there! You could have gotten us killed!”
“Ah—but the point is I didn’t,” laughed the stranger. “Besides, what are you frightened for? This is one of those stories you’ll likely tell your grandkids about one day…” The Trans Am swerved to cut off a pick-up in front of it, receiving a volley of horns and inaudible curses in thanks for its efforts.
“So what are we gonna do now?” asked Samantha.
“Well… first things first,” the stranger lit a cigarette before graciously handing it to her. “First things first, we gotta square out of Tulsa altogether. No turning ‘round, as much as I’d love to drop you straight off back where you belong—”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Well, you’re a witness now. A potential accomplice. You know what that means?”
“I picked the wrong night to come home, apparently.”
“It also means you could be facing up to ten years. Like it or not, we’re in this together now, you understand?”
Samantha glared at him in the darkness of the car.
“Course, if you don’t have any record… but I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first… We gotta get outta Dodge. No two ways about it. Then we gotta see if there’s been either hide or hare heard out of Mr. Randall Cox, Esquire. Shit… come to think of it, your sister—”
“My cousin,” Samantha corrected him.
“Sister, cousin… whoever. Seems like ol’ Reg and Dim put a bit of a scare into her. Should probably tell him to ease up. No need in gettin’ her all riled up for no reason.”
“Now, you’re having second thoughts? You just shot two men back there—”
“In self defense.”
“After you kidnapped someone over a fucking drug deal—”
“Look… Things weren’t supposed to work out like this. These things… sometimes these things happen.”
“These things happen?”
“Right, Life ain’t always so predictable. In the meantime, I think we both could use a drink, don’t you? Open the glove compartment and fetch me that bottle there, will you?”
Samantha sighed, and unlatched the hatch with no small display of disdain. Every square inch of her 5’ 7” frame was spiked with a disgust that set her teeth on edge. Disgust at the violence she had just witnessed, jumping out not from lurid Technicolor screens but in the very viscera of close range; disgust at this maniac who was now pushing close to 80 mph with a smug and impervious jeer on his face; disgust at Randy who had landed her into this mess in the first place. And disgust at herself for her sense of stagnation and self-loathing that allowed her to stay with the callous son of a bitch in the first place.
She could have taken the rectangular bottle of bourbon, heavy and pensive in her quivering fist and smashed it square over the skull of this wildly grinning lunatic. She should have. In this circumstance, just about anyone would have. But she didn’t. Dictated by gravity she had no say in whatsoever, she unscrewed the cap and took a strong pull. The taste burned her parched mouth, sending tendrils of sheer electricity to her overworked synapses. She passed the still open bottle to the waiting hands of the driver, who was somehow able to navigate a curve, drink and switch the radio station at dangerously high speed simultaneously with his eyes closed. Samantha looked him almost in amazement, and shook her head, staring out the window into the starless night whipping past them, illuminated only by the spare highlight beam or distantly blinking neon sign several hundred yards in th
e distance.
The voice yelled and testified on the radio. “Brothers and sisters, they say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But, God isn’t looking for flattery, brothers and sisters. He’s looking for us to be like Him. What is He looking for?”
“Yes, what is he looking for?” repeated the driver, to himself. He turned to Samantha. “You a believer?” His question was neither accusatory nor threatening, but open and curious.
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you a believer? In the Almighty, who sent his only begotten son to die for us, who was crucified, and on the third day resurrected—”
“I’m… well aware. What does that have any bearing on—”
“It doesn’t.” He took another pull off the bottle of whiskey. “Just trying to make small talk. Frankly, I don’t give a damn one way or another. See it as a code, I guess you could say, both in terms of a structure that gives meaning to some people’s lives and a mystery to be unraveled. It ain’t for everyone. Hell, it ain’t even for me. Get the feeling that it probably ain’t for you, either. But sometimes, I think—”
Samantha took the bottle from him. “Frankly, I think you should shut the hell up and drive.”
The stranger burst out laughing. “Y’know, honey… you ain’t all that bad of a sort. Mind if I ask you something a little personal?”
Samantha took another slug, and felt it settle in her stomach, a glow spreading out over her.
“No.”
“No, you don’t mind or no, you do?”
“Just… no.”
“Meaning what?”
“Whatever you’re going to ask me, the answer is no.”
They drove along in stony silence. Ten minutes passed; then twenty. It could have been an hour; it could have been a day. A week, for all it mattered. Samantha felt as if the night was going to swallow her whole.
ROMANCE: THREESOME : Billionaire Brothers' Party (MFM Menage Romance) (New Adult Contemporary Threesome Short Stories) Page 99
