Hammering his skull. Like a Jehovah Witness’s
zealous fist assailing an unanswered wooden door. Drew peeled opened bleary eyes
to an even more unwelcome sight: a grisly pair of shotgun barrels primly pointed
at his chest.
not the first time Drew had surfaced from the
Land of Nod—and discovered himself aroused with a loaded gun that wasn’t his.
(Though he much preferred stiff nipples brushing hard against his chest.) But
if his luck held true to form this wouldn’t be his last—
lookin’ to get killed, Mister?”
I’m just lookin’ to find a Starbucks.”
got a real long walk ahead of you then—closest one
around here is sixty miles east.
if you had yourself an iPhone you’d know that.”
the shotgun to her shoulder, she strode right
out the barn.
his gear and beer (empties littering the hay),
teetering Drew followed, shielding swollen eyes against the early-morning sun.
Staring at her ass easily made him seasick. But no pain, no gain—and Drew
enjoyed the view.
place you’ve got here,” he hollered, clawing
straw from his hair.
five-million-two it’s yours—no more skulking in the
I’m the kick-ass realtor who holds the exclusive
listing on this private kick-ass place.”
explained the pencil skirt—and the three-inch pump
stilettos. He’d glimpsed a lovely canyon of yawning freckled cleavage. But that
slender finger on the trigger had commanded his full attention.
a for sale sign in sight. And you’re the first person
I’ve seen all week. The owners living elsewhere and just decide to sell?”
fished a nearby flowerbox. And flipped a key to Drew.
Who, much to her surprise, snatched the silver Yale in stride. Though he
fumbled with the lock before the deadbolt finally snicked. Then they stepped
into the kitchen—where the Keurig caught his eye.
I wouldn’t do for hot coffee and a shower—”
leaned the shotgun by the entry and left the back
door open, key still in the lock. “Hot coffee, hot shower—you probably want hot
I have to walk sixty miles to get that, too?”
how bad you want it. Or what you’re willing to settle for.”
now, I’d settle for coffee.”
yourself—you’re good at it: cups are in the
cupboard above the stove; everything else is on the counter.”
snagged a Boise State Broncos mug, selected a Dark
Roast from the Sampler pack, snapped the K-cup in place, and idly tapped Start.
like your work, Drew. It inspired me.” Smirking she
waggled an iPhone, her back propped against the fridge; those fine long-legs
crossed above the ankles. “Did a magazine hire you for this here job—or are you
Drew stared at his Facebook
Profile. Jesus, how
long had she
been in the barn rifling his gear? “Both. Photojournalism’s a ruthless field.
Even worse than a frenzied band of Bargain Basement shoppers—all hopped on
crystal meth when Black Friday rolls around. I learned early: save your best
photos for yourself—everyone wants quality, but no one wants to pay.
male Greater Sage Grouse are truly magnificent birds
few people ever see. They’re secretive creatures. And outside mating season,
they live in isolation. But late February to April, they gather to court.
Watching these birds perform their rituals always leaves me breathless.”
did you know these birds were here?”
shrugged. “I network.”
did you get here?”
set the empty mug in the sink. “Hired a ride from
the airport.” His propensity for DUIs had left him bereft of a license. And
sixty nasty days in jail had curbed his propensity to drive without one.
shower’s down that hall, to your left,” she
shuffled off. Pleased with his good fortune, he took
his time in the pulsing steam. And returned to the kitchen, snuggly wrapped in
a towel, his right-extended-arm gripping balled-up grungy clothes.
need your help, Drew.”
waved a half-liter-bottle of Absolut. “Open this,
considered his clothes—and tossed them out the door.
the open vodka, she swallowed a tentative sip,
and gave him a tentative kiss. Passing back the bottle, she plunked her ass on
the kitchen table: and delving her blue blazer—suddenly produced his
want it rough, Drew. Starting with my clothes. I want
you to shred them. I want you to leave me … breathless.”
hinky housewife shit was nothing new to Drew.
Slugging Absolut, he calmly reclaimed his knife. But bit back the
growing urge to whistle while he worked.
the knife and vodka on the counter by the Keurig,
horny Drew leaned forward to twist a tender nipple. “Now this is what I call
prime real estate. Your husband’s a lucky man—”
talking!” she ordered. And slapped him in
the face: long, artificial nails strafing cheek and neck. Drew’s reflexive backhand
smashed her in the mouth—extracting blood-for-blood. All thoughts of foreplay
vanquished, he ripped away the towel and plunged his cock between her legs—her
pussy even drier than arid desert sage. And just about as cold as far-flung
it, Drew, take what you want. Take it, take it,
slammed a fist into her ribs: a blow that left her
soon passed out on the floor. But eventually opened
bloodshot eyes to a familiar unwelcome sight: a pair of goddamn shotgun
barrels—pointed primly at his chest.
Drew. You left your jailbird
fingerprints everywhere. Your DNA’s under my nails. And your mess lies in the
barn. So when the cops find your corpse splattered around this kitchen, they
will naturally conclude I shot you in self-defense. Once they’re out of my
hair, I will sue the idiots who hired you for endangering my life. I imagine
they’ll offer me several million to keep my case out of court.
you enjoyed your unlawful stay. And our kick-ass
romp in the hay.”
that primo real estate in all its naked glory. But
the last thing Drew laid eyes on was that single slender finger.
that finger left him breathless—
A hack musician and photographer, Mick wanders the United
States in search of the perfect pizza. He’s turned his hands to writing
fiction—and dabbling in poetry. The kind folks at Near to the Knuckle and
Horror Sleaze Trash have sullied their pages with his stories. While Black
Petals and Better Than Starbucks have generously published his poetry. Want to
say, “Hello?” You can visit him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/mick.rose.56808