One Stiletto in the Grave (Reapers in Heels)

by Jason Krumbine

  “You know,” Brooke says. “If you were a true sister, you’d stay here and help me.”

  “Help you pick up a man?”

  “Well, men,” Brooke says. “I’m not selfish. We can get you one, too.”

  “Except for one thing,” Avery says.

  “What?”

  “I have a wonderful boyfriend waiting for me back at my place.”

  Brooke thinks it over for a second. “I don’t know that I’d call Jack wonderful. Adequate perhaps, but not wonderful.”

  “Why would you speak that way about my man?” Avery asks.

  “Because it’s the truth.” Brooke helps herself to her fruity drink. “Are you familiar with the term ‘milquetoast’.”

  “Are you? Because that doesn’t describe Jack.”

  “I like my men with a little more bite,” Brooke says.

  “And I like mine with a lot more emotional maturity,” Avery replies. “There’s more to a relationship than just sex.”

  “I absolutely agree with you,” Brooke says. “Which is why I’m not in a relationship.”

  Avery shakes her head. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” She starts for the door and then stops abruptly.

  Avery turns back around, hunching over next to her sister.

  “Oh, boy,” she says.

  “What?” Brooke asks.

  “You’re never going to believe who just walked in,” Avery says.

  Brooke starts to turn around but Avery stops her.

  “It’s Alan.”

  Brooke’s face falls. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Has it been six months already?”

  “I think so. How does he find us?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here,” Brooke suggests.

  “Hello, girls!” says a nasally voice from the front of the bar.

  “So much for that theory,” Avery whispers.

  Alan Gold was a wiry man fond of cheap suits and bad hairpieces.

  He drapes his arms around the sisters. “How are my favorite reapers in heels this fine evening?”

  Avery and Brooke shudder at his touch; it makes them feel dirty and nauseated. They shrug off his embrace.

  “Please don’t talk to us,” Avery says.

  Alan looks crestfallen. “What did I do?”

  Brooke whirls around on her stool. “I’ll tell you what you did, you little weasel.”

  Avery puts a hand on her sister’s shoulder and spins her back facing the bar.

  “Alan,” Avery says calmly, “you probably should go.”

  “I don’t understand,” he says, looking genuinely confused.

  “Our father didn’t like you,” Avery says.

  “Well, you are not your father, God rest his soul, are you now, girls?” Alan says. “No need to hang on to past grudges.”

  Brooke turns herself back around. “First, you little rat faced weasel, you stole from our Dad, Alan. You stole money from him, you stole souls from him and you stole his car. Second, you try to harass us into giving you the same kind of approval our father gave you. It’s like clockwork. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Avery, She’s much better with time. Every six months you come slinking around. I don’t know how you find us or why you never harass us at our office, but you find us everywhere else and make a lame attempt to clear your good name with us and weasel your way back into our good graces. Third,” she reaches out and smacks his cheek up, knocking his gaze from her chest back to her eyes, “you’re a creep.”

  Alan takes a step back, holding up his hands. “Now, let’s just clear something up here. Your father, God rest his soul, gave me that car.”

  Brooke gapes at him. “Really?” she asks. “That’s the point you want to argue?”

  “Girls, it’s been years,” Alan starts.

  Brooke cuts him off. “Last time I checked, there’s no statute of limitations on not liking sleazebags who tried to screw over our father.”

  Alan looks to Avery for some kind of support.

  Avery points to her sister. “What she said.”

  Alan sighs and makes an exaggerated effort to smooth out the wrinkles in his cheap suit. But it’s an effort in futility. Cheap suits come permanently wrinkled.

  “Well, I’m sorry you girls feel that way,” he says. “I came here out of professional courtesy.”

  Brooke snorts loudly. “Those are two words you’ve been misusing your entire life. I’m gonna get you a dictionary for Christmas.”

  Alan ignores the jab. “There’s a new reaper outfit moving into town.”

  Avery raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what the appropriate response for that would be, Alan. Why would we care about a new reaper outfit?”

  “Oh, this isn’t a new organization,” Alan says, clearly taking some pride in knowing more than Avery does. “It’s just new to our little town. They’re an extension of a branch from out West,” he smiles. It comes off creepy. “I hear they’ve got some real shakers and movers on board. I also hear they’re looking to expand with some local talent,” he scratches the back of his head. “I just thought I’d give you a heads up.”

  “Alan?” Avery says.

  “Yes?”

  “The day we need a handout from you is the day I don’t need my morning coffee. And Alan, I always need my morning coffee,” Avery finishes.

  Alan’s jaw moves as he grinds his teeth. “As you do,” he says and leaves the bar.

  The sisters look at each other.

  “Well?”

  Brooke turns her attention back her fruity drink. “Good-bye and good riddance.”

  Avery watches the front of the bar for a moment longer.

  “Wonder who the new outfit is?”

  An undisclosed number of fruity drinks later, along with one or two shots thrown in for good measure, Brooke’s stomping her way up the stairs of her three-story apartment building where the rent was just cheap enough that the tenants could have enough money leftover to support their other habits.

  She wobbles a little with each step. The alcohol is settling in. Brooke’s going home alone, but not for lack of trying. Her advances made on the man with large hands turned out to be for naught. Sadly, Large Hands was there with another man. Brooke retreated back to her end of the bar to pick out a new victim, but by then she had moved onto the shots, so her judgment wasn’t the best.

  She thinks of calling Steven the bartender. The company of him and his tongue would be the perfect end to the evening. She licks her lips as she fishes out her cellphone.

  As she passes through the third floor she stomps a little louder, hoping to wake up the landlord. The old buzzard nagged her earlier that day about the rent, waking her from a deep sleep in the middle of the morning. Brooke figures it’s only fair she return the favor.

  She can’t remember Steven’s number. She scrolls through the recent calls list but none of them look like a bartender's phone number. She was reasonably sure it started with a 2, but she drew a blank after that.

  With a disappointed sigh, she flips the phone closed and shoves it back into her pocket.

  “Just me and the shower head tonight,” she says aloud, resuming her walk.

  After trekking up the three flights of stairs she reaches her apartment, 3E. It takes her a minute to fish her keys out. Too many pockets on this jacket. No wonder her father was always losing stuff.

  Although, the alcohol probably wasn’t helping matters, either.

  She manages to find her keys and unlock the door.

  It creaks loudly as it opens. Brooke steps inside and suddenly there’s a very large hand wrapping around her throat.

  four

  At first, there’s only sheer terror.

  The apartment’s pitch black. The hand around her throat yanks her inside, twisting her around. The door slams closed and it’s just Brooke and her attacker. Her heart’s racing with fear and her blood is rushing in her ears. Brooke’s face is pressing against the door, her attacker behind her. Another hand grips her waist as the one
around her throat squeezes a little harder.

  “‘Ello, luv,” a voice whispers into her ear. It’s a thick, cockney accent.

  The terror melts away.

  Brooke pulls the hand off her throat and pushes him back. She turns on the light.

  The apartment’s small, cramped really. It’s a studio with a bed in one corner and a bathroom in another. There’s a kitchenette but it never gets used.

  “What. The. Hell!?” Brook snaps.

  The man standing there is tall, with a shaved head that shouldn’t be shaved. It’s blocky, with right angles where there should be no right angles. He’s skinny, too skinny really. He likes to bath in cheap cologne and wear even cheaper gold chains. The pink polo he’s wearing is poorly fitted; it’s made for a larger man and seems to swallow him whole. The man’s name is Stanley Morris.

  “Yor not answering yor phone, luv,” he says, giving her a crooked smile. He holds his hands out. “How else am I supposed to get ‘old of you?”

  Brooke leans against the door, running a hand through her hair as she tries to slow her racing heart down. “I’m not answering my phone because I changed my number.”

  Stanley gives her a frowny-face. “Now why would you go and do a thing like that?”

  “Because I got tired of your calls.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have taken my money, luv,” Stanley says. He walks up to her. He’s a good half a head taller than her. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, how do you fit all those shoes in that tiny closet?”

  “It’s bigger on the inside,” she says flippantly.

  “Hopefully not too big.” He glances at the closet door. “I suppose if it came down to it I could just take all those shoes and sell them myself. I should be able to get some of my money back.”

  “Oh?” Brooke asks innocently. “Is that all this was about, money?”

  “Wot?” He reaches out, grabbing her by the waist and pulls her towards him. The cologne is stinging her nose a little. “Did you fink I came here to try and win you back?”

  She looks up at him, tilting her head to the side. She decided a long time ago that it was the accent. He didn’t look like much, but that accent sent tingles through her body. “So you’re saying you only want me for my money?”

  He smiles again. “Luv, I won’t lie, I want yor money, but that’s not the only fing I want from you.” His grip on her waist tightens possessively He holds her against him and she can feel him hardening below the waist.

  “Oh?” she says in response to his body.

  “‘Course, you could just give me my money and I’d be on my merry little way,” Stanley says.

  “Yes I could, except for the fact I don’t have any of your money,” she replies.

  “Well, isn’t that just a shame.”

  “Is it?”

  “It sounds like it should be.”

  Brooke looks at him with a faux seriousness. “I should warn you, I might be a little drunk.”

  “Well, then, sounds like we’ve got ourselves a party,” Stanley replies.

  Brooke chews playfully on her lower lip. “I like the sound of that.”

  Stanley kisses her, pushing her back up against the door. The door rattles a little on its hinges. His hands sneak up her shirt. Brooke’s briefly startled at how cool his hands feel against her skin as they make their way up to her breasts. They weren’t this cool when her body was flooded with terror before.

  Her heart is racing again, pounding in her chest, but not from fear this time. Her breasts heave with each breath, threatening to pop out and into Stanley’s waiting hands.

  Brooke grips his shoulders and jumps a little, wrapping her legs around his waist. Stanley pushes himself against her, like he’s going to grind his way through the layers of clothes that separate them.

  Brooke’s drunk and horny. Sn ex-boyfriend, even one who’s a loan shark that she owes several thousand to, its just what the doctor ordered. She reaches down with her left hand and manages to undo his belt buckle. Her fingers fumble for a moment with the zipper, but it’s just a moment and then she gets what she’s looking for. Brooke feels Stanley’s body tense up as she grabs him down there. She gives him a hard squeeze and he growls into her mouth.

  Stanley drops his hands from her breasts to her ass, clutching her tightly against the door.

  The way the door is rattling the neighbors were sure to notice.

  His lips tear themselves away from hers and start trailing down her throat. Brooke runs her other hand across his smooth head, but she keeps her grip on him below the waist; it’s a precious treasure she’s found and she’s loathe to part with it. Tingles of lust course through her body and a moan escapes her.

  “I hate you,” she says in a throaty whisper.

  Stanley smiles, kissing the hollow of her neck and pulsing in her grip. “I know, luv, I know.”

  five

  Mornings in Century City are a beautiful thing. With the rise of the sun each day comes the promise of something wonderful. The promise is slowly worn away as the day progress, but it gets renewed every morning at sunrise.

  Sunrise Cafe is located three blocks from Avery’s apartment. She tries to start everyday from here with a cup of coffee. It’s the best spot in the city to catch the sunrise.

  Avery’s sitting out at one of the tables when a handsome man sits down across from her.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he says. He’s got a smooth smile and dark blue eyes. A jawline and short brown hair round out the picture, giving him that classic rugged look. His name is Thane Grym. Like Avery and Brooke, he’s a grim reaper. A very handsome grim reaper.

  Avery frowns, avoiding his gaze. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?” Thane asks innocently.

  “You do this every time.”

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies innocently. “Your hair’s a little shorter. Did you get it cut? I like it.”

  “That,” Avery says, pointing at him. “You’re flirting with me. I have a boyfriend. You need to stop.”

  Thane sits back in mock offense. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m simply being pleasant and polite.”

  “Pleasant and polite? You?” Avery repeats with more of a dubious tone.

  Thane places his right hand over his heart and holds up his left hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re flirting with me.”

  “Nonsense. This is how I greet everyone.” Thane nods at the fifty year old business man leaving the cafe. “You’re beautiful today, sir. Truly stunning.”

  The business man gives Thane a worried look and hurries past them.

  Thane turns back to Avery. “See, you’re not special.”

  “Oh, so now you’re just mean to me?” Avery folds her arms.

  “Okay, clearly this not a battle I’m going to win.” Thane gives in.

  “Ever,” Avery adds. “You’re never going to win it.”

  “Because you have a boyfriend.”

  “I have a wonderful boyfriend,” she says, leaning across the table. “You know what he did last night?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. You know why? Because you’re not him.”

  Thane shrugs. “I can’t help it. You’re a beautiful woman. You give me a stirring in my loins.”

  Avery bursts into laughter. “Did you actually just say that?”

  A light blush appears in Thane’s cheeks. “Alright, let’s not make me look too ridiculous here.”

  She starts to calm down. “Have you been reading romance novels in your spare time?”

  “Yes,” he says. “That’s what I’ve taken up. Reading romance novels. I figure that’s the way to your heart.”

  Avery smiles. She can’t help yourself. “Thane, seriously, you have to stop. I have a boyfriend.”

  “For now,” Thane says.

  “For the last two years.”

  “And with any luck, he won’t stick around.”

&nb
sp; “Two years, Thane.”

  “And when he’s gone,” Thane continues. “I’ll be there. Waiting for you.”

  “That’s kind of creepy.”

  “You say that, while you have a boyfriend. When Jack’s gone, it’ll be sweet and romantic.”

  Avery finishes her coffee. “What brings you to my morning routine, Thane?” she says, bringing the topic to a close.

  “A little birdie said you’re hard up for work,” Thane says.

  “Oh? What bird is this?”

  “It’s actually Russell,” Thane says, referring to Century City’s representative for the Council of Reapers. “Apparently, you pissed him off and now he’s not going to give you any work for the next couple of weeks.”

  “He said this to you?”

  “More or less,” Thane says. “He used more colorful language. What exactly did you do him?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Avery says, a sour look on her face. “Brooke, however, slept with his nephew two weeks ago. His virgin nephew who was supposed to be going into the clergy. Now he’s not.”

  “Oh,” Thane says.

  “Yeah. Oh.” Avery sighs. “This sucks.”

  “Yes and no.” Thane drops a manila envelope on the table.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s one job too many for me,” Thane says.

  Avery looks up from the envelope. “You’re giving me a handout.”

  “No, I’m admitting when my workload is too big,” Thane corrects. “Besides, I don’t want it.”

  “What’s today’s date?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to mark it on the calendar: the day Thane Grym turns down work,” Avery says.

  “Well,” Thane says. “You know, once you get the yacht everything else is just gravy.”

  “Uh-huh.” Avery picks up the envelope and opens it.

  “Two men died last night,” he says, as she pulls out the paperwork.

  Three forms and three matching handcuffs fall out. Avery looks at him. “Are you having trouble counting? You said two guys died last night. There’s three names here.”

  “Nope. Burton Gentry, Jim Hollway and Larry Faraco. Gentry and Hollway are dead and absent from the afterlife.”

  “Again, that’s only two,” Avery points out. “What about Larry Faraco?”