Supernatural Noir

“What do we do?”

I almost grin at the question, but everything hurts too much. Instead, I nod toward the first motel room. “See if it’ll open.”

“But—”

“Just check, baby. Please.”

Her teeth work that lip again, her eyes shifting toward the motel room, and then she shoulders open her door and climbs out. As she walks toward the door, pale denim sheathing legs I know all too well, I grab the flask from the dash and swallow a belt. The bourbon rips down my throat and sends warmth through my insides, drowning some of the pain. Not nearly enough, but some.

Shelly reaches the door—a number three hanging crooked on it—and tries the handle. It jiggles but won’t turn. The door to room two gives her the same deal. When she turns back to the car, her face looks panicked for a second, but then it goes hard, and I can see the resolve deep in those brown eyes. She stalks back to the car, and I know what she’s coming to get even before she opens my door and reaches over my lap. Her eyes don’t so much as tick my way as she opens the glove compartment and snatches the .38 snub nose from inside. She pops the cylinder, and I see four bullets inside. With ruthless efficiency, she slaps the pistol shut again, and then she stomps away, leaving my door wide open.

My vision dims as I watch her walk to the office, her fingers tight around the pistol and her entire body tick-ticking back and forth with each step. The fire in my belly’s getting colder, and I know that’s not a good thing. How she can walk like that in her condition beats the hell out of me.

Maybe I can just slip away, just be cold by the time Shelly returns. Then she can keep ru

Two cracking shots snap me out of my daze. I jump, and a new jolt of pure goddamn torture kicks another scream out of me. Flashbulbs pop in my eyes. They don’t clear until Shelly tosses the gun at my feet and puts a warm palm on my face.

“Look, baby,” she says. She jangles a room key.

I force a smile. The pain makes it hard, but the whiskey helps. “Did good, babe.” I try to ignore the flecks of blood on her cheek. They almost match her lipstick.

“I love you.”

“Come here.” She pushes toward me, and I grab the back of her head, mash her warm lips to mine.

“Let’s get you inside,” she says, and then she slips an arm under my shoulder and lifts.

The world goes electric hot as she gets me on my feet. I feel another rip and press hard against my gut. Don’t want anything slipping through and slapping the concrete. Shelly gets her weight under me. She feels so small, but she supports this idiot better than any crutch.

As she walks me toward the room, telling me to watch the curb, I lift my head and look west. The sky looms black. Most folks would say it looks like a bank of fat storm clouds, but I know better. It’s something much worse—even from here, I can see the fire inside it—and it’s my fault.

Least I did it for love.

——

“Babe, you’re go

Shelly chuckles a little—giggling doesn’t suit her—and leans her head back, sending black curls to break like angry waves against her pale shoulders. She wriggles on top of me, sending tiny jolts of pleasure from my lap through my entire body, and my hands find her hips, make her grind a little slower so I don’t explode then and there.

We sit in a darkened corner of the club, draped in shadows, out of reach of the black lights and televisions tuned to sports, like any guy in here is watching something other than the latest dancer to take the stage.

“That sounds fu

“A little.” Her voice makes me picture honey, pouring slow and smooth.

“Why’s that?”

She leans in close. Her breasts press against me, and her hot breath finds my ear. She smells like soap, not the cheap, stinging perfume all the other dancers use. Somehow, I manage not to shudder.

“Because hearts don’t break, baby,” she says. “They scrape against the inside of your chest until they blister. Then they pop and leak and blister all over again until they get tired and give up.” She arches her back and sets her hips going harder.

“Speaking of popping, better slow it down.”

A pout appears on her red lips. Then, it breaks into a wicked grin. “Don’t you want me to get you off?”

“Not my game.”

Shelly—she says that’s her real name, that she only goes by Ivy onstage—slides back until she’s sitting on my knee. She arches one smooth leg the color of milk and plants her foot dangerously close to my crotch. I’m trailing my eyes from her shin down to her ankle when both her hands close around me and squeeze.

“This feel like a game, baby?”

No, it doesn’t. It feels amazing, and my cock jumps in response. She slides her hands up, down, working me through my jeans, and my entire body feels alive. My eyes slip shut, and my breath comes in ragged bursts. If it’s a game, it’s the best one I’ve ever played.

Pressure builds. My vision crackles red. I hear Shelly chuckle again, and I grab her wrists in my hands, move them to my shoulders.

“Babe, I didn’t show up for a rub and tug.”

She jerks away, and the look on her face makes me think I really wounded her. I figure it’s a practiced expression. A woman like her can use a look like that better than guys back in the yard can use a shiv. You never see it coming; you’re just bleeding all of a sudden.

The wounded look goes razor hostile. Another good trick. “If you’re not worth my time—”

I grab her hips and pull her close, press her hard against the bulge in my lap. She squirms, her lips slipping from a firm line to a smile, and a sigh breezes out of her.

My eyes lock with hers. “Maybe I just want a little company.”

She presses her weight down on me. Her chest rises and falls, a black bra mashing her breasts into a shelf of flesh.

“If I’m worth your while or not is for you to decide, babe. I just know I ain’t paying for your hand.”

“You know how to use it?”

“Yeah.”

She climbs off of me and starts to walk away. I reach for my drink, sure she’s decided to move onto another worm she can hook, when she looks over her shoulder.

“C’mon.”

——

She drives a beat-up Mercury, but it looks real nice with her stretched across the hood behind the club. The night’s sticky hot, but Shelly doesn’t care. Everything’s given way to animal lust, me included. I try to be gentle, tender, but her eyes keep finding mine. She arches her back and digs her nails into my naked chest, and it’s like a whip across a thoroughbred’s flank. My groans become grunts. Her moans become screams.

When it’s done—when Shelly stretches her arms over her head and a smile fills her face—I button myself up and stand there with my hands in my pockets like some schoolkid. Shelly climbs off the hood and touches her hand to my face, kisses me.

“Amazing,” she says. “You better come back for me.”

I nod. She can tell I’m not lying. By now, she’s probably used to hooking guys like this. Give them the first one free, and then make them pay hand over fist. I know the game by heart, but her hand on my face feels so soft, so cool. I can almost feel the hook enter my skin, and I don’t think I care.

Maybe Shelly can see my thoughts tumbling around, because she pulls me close to her and plants a hard kiss on my mouth.

“You ain’t paying me a thing, baby. This is just you and me.”

My heart accelerates, and I can feel it start to scrape.

——

The days and nights blur, twist, and combine. Shelly burns everything down and builds it back up again. Her skin becomes my home, her touch the electric spark that keeps my pulse racing. Our time together is spent in a world of teeth and lips and sweat. Whiskey and cigarettes. Our eyes lock as our bodies buck against each other, only slipping shut when our passion explodes.