Contract Killer Stirs the Pot

The wind whipped around me at this elevation, and I forced thoughts of a potential fall and subsequent splatter out of my mind. At that moment, I did not envy Batman. This was not a stunt I wanted to attempt more than once. I sucked in an intake of breath, hoping it wouldn't be my last, felt the muscles in my legs tense and then leapt.

My heart was in my throat as I flew through the night, my hair caught in a blast of wind, the flaps of my tux bellowing behind me. Then the banister of the opposite balcony was under me, and my arms wrapped around it, and my feet slammed into concrete. A sharp, blunt pain jerked at my shoulder as the force of my jump connected with the unforgiving dexterity of the architecture.

I held my breath. I had no doubt that Dread Tower windows would be both soundproof and bulletproof, but bad luck had a way of following me. When no one raced to the window with weapon in hand, I felt safe enough to pull myself over the side and into the balcony. Using as much caution as I could muster, I peeked into the edge of the closest window.

And there she was: The Black Ghost. She stood in front of a seated Dread, and he was talking to her, tapping the head of his silver cane. The Ghost nodded at whatever was being said. I felt a dull, dark throbbing ache slink into my gut.

She wore a black business suit, something that would have stuck out like a sore thumb in the party amongst the skirts and dresses and diamonds. Not to mention, she looked even more incredible than I had remembered. Her long, black hair flowed and spooled at her shoulders. Her profile was eloquent, perfect. I couldn't figure out how I had missed her. Unless... she had never been at the party.

If she had been in the study all along, hidden, listening to everything Dread and I had said... it made a kind of sense. I didn't know how Dread was playing this, but things did not look to be in my favor. I rubbed my lips and tried to figure out what to make of the meeting between the Ghost and Dread. There had to be a way I could use this information to my advantage.

Then the Ghost turned towards the window and saw me.

Our eyes locked; time froze. Then her hand was at her side and up, and the glass in front of me suddenly cracked with spider webs. A gun was in her hand, and she had fired it at me. This time, luck seemed to be on my side. I had been right: the glass was bulletproof.

Then the bay windows swung open with a creak. The Ghost had blown off the latch.

"Jesus fuck," I said in a doomed voice. The gun in the Ghost's hand barked to life.

Then the doors to the study flew open, and the Tuxedo Brothers appeared in the frame. The gorillas were already reaching into the coats of their tuxedos and revealing their concealed guns. It seemed that everyone had come to this party armed but me.

Simeon Dread jerked up and out of his chair and shouted, "Assassins! Trying to kill me!"

"Jesus fuck!" I cried again (this time with more urgency) and dove into the room. I stumbled behind the bar. Bullets popped bottles of booze on shelves behind me. A rain of bourbon and whiskey splashed around me: an alcoholic's fantasy given life. As the top of the bar cut off my vision, I saw that the Ghost had turned around with a look of angry betrayal on her face to exchange fire with the Tuxedo Brothers.

Fumes from the spilt bottles burned my nostrils. I grabbed a few bottles, tossed them over the top of the bar. They smashed to the floor, relatively quiet amongst the staccato eruptions of gunfire. I remembered that a small lamp was perched on one end, and I crawled over to where I saw the cord leading up and disappearing over the edge. I remembered the shelves and books and chair: plenty of flammable objects. I reached up, felt the body of the lamp in my palm and tossed it.

Bullets peppered the wall above me. I heard the bulb of the lamp pop, an electric fizzle, and then flames roared to life.

"Shit!" one of the Tuxedo Brothers cried. This was my cue.

I flung myself from behind the bar and towards the voice. I caught either Johnny or Jimmy in a football tackle. His gun went flying into the fire. Out of the corner of my eye as we went sprawling, I saw the other twin chasing the Ghost through the study door, his gun spewing bullets. The crowd beyond exploded in panicked screams. There was no sign of Dread.

"Terrorists!" someone yelled.

Then we crashed into a bookshelf and thick volumes dropped onto our prone bodies. The Tuxedo Brother grunted as a copy of "War and Peace" bounced off his skull. Flames licked their way up around us. The fire was spreading more quickly than I had hoped, probably too quickly.

My knee went up and caught the gorilla in the groin, and then his head ducked down and drove into my chest. I went barreling backward. He came at me like a charging rhino and caught me with his shoulder in my ribs. I thought I heard something crack, and we were outside, the night air whipping around us, much cooler than the fiery heat of the study and yet red hot pain scorched through my chest.

I swung him, using the gorilla's own momentum against him as we went flailing onto the balcony and then he was over the side, and I heard a single, garbled cry as he was swallowed by the night.

"Booked you a flight to hell, fucker. One way," I said and spat. Then his baseball mitt of a hand came over the banister, and his head rose into view. He must have caught hold of the balcony before dropping to death. More bad luck.

"Looks like you changed your reservation," I groaned.

Not one to push it, I turned and ran. It's one thing to take on a guy bigger than you. It's something else when you're about 95% certain you've got a broken rib and no weapon. I leapt through the hungry flames of the study and was through the door and in the midst of the screaming crowd the next moment. The fire alarm blared in my ears. Water spigots from the ceiling erupted with sprays of manufactured rain.

I stepped over the bullet torn body of the other Tuxedo Brother. Blood pooled like a crimson halo around his head. Apparently, the Black Ghost had fared better against her adversary than I.

***

I used the stairs, jumping them more than using them, and then hopped into the service elevator a few floors down. The flock of freaked out party goers more or less assisted my flight, but I knew the surviving Tuxedo Brother would be on my tail, pissed off even more once he saw his dead twin.

It was no secret that the party guests were all parked on the same level. When the elevator opened, I saw the surviving Tuxedo brother across the garage, twisting some poor schmuck around to see if he was me. I ducked behind a concrete partition, wondering how the hell I was going to get to my car without being spotted.

"You ok?" a female voice inquired behind me. I turned towards the voice and was met by an attractive, young redhead with pouting lips and wide emerald eyes. A short green dress matched her eyes and clung to a set of elegant curves.

I said the first thing that came to mind: "I'll give you four hundred dollars if you blow me."

This was not the typical way I greeted women, but I didn't have much time for charm and small talk. This was not the opportune moment for, "Do you come here often?" I needed someone who get spirit me the hell out of Dread Tower with all my internal organs intact, and I've found sexual perversity is much more acceptable to the female mind than the fact people want you dead.

The woman's sharp eyes narrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin red line. I figured she was about to reach into her purse and spray me with Mace, but instead, she grabbed my wrist with thin fingers and pulled me towards a row of cars.

"C'mon," she said and led me to a gray Mercedes. She pulled a set of keys out of her purse, and with an electronic beep, the car doors unlocked. I opened the passenger door and climbed in; the woman in the green dress slid behind the wheel. I looked out the windshield to check on the lone Tuxedo's position. He was headed our way, but he hadn't spotted me. His perfectly square head turned from side to side, squinting at every guy that went by and scanning them for my likeness.

"So, you got this four hundred dollars?" the woman said. I turned and saw her looking at me expectantly; she held one hand out towards me.

"Uh, yeah," I said and fished out my wallet. I passed her four Benjamins. They disappeared down the front of her dress. Lucky Ben, he was always a ladies' man.

"Unzip," she ordered, licking her lips. I did so and checked for the Tuxedo again. He'd covered about half the distance towards us. I hoped to God that this worked. I figured Sheila would forgive me a rogue blowjob if it meant survival versus getting my brain bashed in by an angry gorilla in Armani.

The redhead fished me out with a certain sense of enthusiasm. I couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't the first time she had done something like this. I felt myself becoming hard in her nimble fingers. I silently asked Sheila for forgiveness.

Then I was in her mouth, and my hands went over my face. I'd like to say that I didn't enjoy the redhead's stroking sucks and the roll of her tongue on my shaft, but why would I lie to you? My breaths were hot and trembling against my palms. I looked through the cage of my fingers, and the last Tuxedo Brother stood outside the Mercedes and looked straight at me.

I imagined what he saw: a man with hands over his face, obviously to keep himself from crying out or looking ridiculous in the throes of intense pleasure while a mop of red hair bobbed up and down in his lap. The Tuxedo Brother sneered in disgust and moved away from the car. I blew a sigh of relief.

The redhead must have mistaken the sigh for one of pleasure, and she said, "You likey?"

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, can you get us out of here?" I proposed. Her eyes widened. My stiff penis prodded her cheek, leaving a wet smear.

"It'll cost you another hundred to stick it in me," she said.

"Whatever gets me out of this building."

***

Outside, the Dread Tower shrinking behind me, I felt the sense of impending doom lift like the passing shadow of a cloud over the sun. I had survived yet another encounter with the Black Ghost, not to mention Simeon Dread and his underlings. Yet, I had come away with more questions than answers. My life, if anything, was murkier than before. A few lines from "Airplane" crossed my mind: "The fog is getting thicker. And Leon is getting larrrrger."

"You can drop me off anywhere," I told the redhead.

"Whoa, whoa," she said in a petulant tone, "You can't just go. You owe me a fuck."

I didn't know how to respond. Four hundred of my hard earned dollars currently resided in the vicinity of this woman's milky breasts, and she wasn't satisfied. What can I say? Once they get a taste, they want the whole thing.

God, I must come off like an arrogant fucker in these things.

"The way I see it, I saved your ass back there. Don't pretend that Frankenstein's monster in the tux wasn't after you. I saw the way you looked at him," she continued. I really examined at the woman for the first time. She was slim with very white skin and a smatter of reddish freckles dotting the brow of her nose. Her breasts pushed against the fabric of her dress. She turned, saw me looking at her, and I flicked my gaze away, quickly.

"You've got a good imagination. Truth is, I started thinking about my wife," I said.

"So you couldn't blow your load down my throat because you thought of your wife? That is a sad state of affairs, my friend." A funny but cute smile curved the corners of her mouth.

"Yeah," I said.

"Here's my place. You're coming with me, or maybe I'll just have to follow you home and tell your wife what you think about with your dick in other women's mouths," the redhead said and laughed, bright and full. Something about her made me like her despite the situation. She seemed inhibited, rebellious, and true. I know it's weird to describe a person as "true," but that's how she came off. Considering my line of work, I understood how few aspects of life seemed to ring "true." I had a feeling this woman could see right through my lies.

"Fine," I told her. "I'll come up."

Her apartment was an exercise in minimalism. Everything was an unsoiled white: the single couch and table, a tall metal lamp in one corner, the furry carpet. White curtains hung like shrouds over the windows. It was like a Klan member's wet dream.

"Yeah, I know. Bland as hell. I'm not here often. Really just to sleep and fuck strangers," the woman told me and yanked my arms, pulling me towards the couch. Her red hair bounced in fiery contrast to the colorless surroundings. She swung around and threw her mouth over mine, and I accepted her affections with a surprised noise, a kind of yelp morphed into a low moan. Her lips were soft and cool like pulling a familiar sheet over you when you settle down on a hot winter night. I enjoyed the kiss more than I should have.

My mind thought 'Sheila', and my mouth said, "My wife."

"Fuck her," the woman said with an amused giggle. "No, better yet, fuck ME."

So, I did. What can I say? I'm a sucker for redheads. Our mouths locked on to one another's, and we tumbled to the couch. Our hands tore at each others clothes. Hers worked at my belt, mine at her shoulder straps. Her dress slithered down her slim body and puddled around her feet on the floor. A red bra contained pert breasts straining against lacy fabric. I noticed the four faces of Benjamin Franklin giving me a sly smile, sticking out of the top of the bra. I unhooked it, and it (along with the Bens) flittered next to the dress. Her hands dipped into my pants, and my pants slid down my legs. Suddenly I felt myself free and hard, warm fingers encircling me and giving sweet, gentle strokes.

The redhead on top of me, I sunk into the deep cushions of the couch. Pillows like clouds surrounded my head. My hands became explorers traversing curving hills and hot valleys. I tried not to think of Sheila, tried to push her out of my head, and tell myself that I was doing this not because I wanted the redhead's smooth, ivory skin sliding over mine but because I needed to do everything in my power to give this redhead what she wanted so she'd leave me alone after a harmless (hot), meaningless (exciting) fling (sport fuck with a stranger).

At some point, sometime in the midst of the sixty-nine position, I managed to put thoughts of Sheila and all related guilt on the back burner. With the redhead's warm, dewy slit in my face, my mouth slick and sweet with her juices, I could help but become one with the moment and leave the rest of the world to itself. My cock was encased with her mouth; her tongue lapped at and licked my pulsing shaft, producing electric twinges of pleasure that raced through my body. Cushions bounced around me; I sank deeper into the couch.

I prodded her insides with my finger, kept her clit held between my lips and flicked it, circled, then flicked it more with my tongue. Soon, I felt her tiny figure tense in response.

She spat me out and groaned, "Ah, God!"

I couldn't help but smile as I continued my pleasurable assault of her. Then she cried out in orgasm, and she began to twitch and buck on top of me, pressing her pussy harder into my face, my fingers sinking deeper into her. She cried out louder.

When she seemed to be finished, she swung around so that her face met mine, and then we were kissing. She kissed me as though she were starved for kisses, consuming them, feeding off of our combined lust.

Can you truly love someone in a moment? Or do you just love the moment? For an instant, I felt as though I loved this woman. She was my god, and her desire for me and our lovemaking swept me up in a feeling that I don't know how to describe except as love. It was an ultimate high, and that is a place commonly reserved for love. Yet I knew next to nothing about this woman. Perhaps, this is why so many men and women confuse sex with love.

"I taste so good," she said when her mouth came away from mine. I smiled up at her, her lipstick smeared on our mouths. We looked like kids drinking cherry Kool-aide.

"Jesus, you're hot," I told her. She nodded. Reddish hair dangled over her brow.

"I know." And then she took a hold of me and put me in her. I gasped, and she moaned. We started kissing again and worked towards a comfortable rhythm, her thighs clapping against mine.

I grabbed her hips, my fingers sinking deep into her flesh. Her breasts bounced up and down, pink nipples hard and protruding like rubber caps. Her stomach was flat and toned; my mouth watered as I watched her abs flex as she gyrated. The sheen of her sweat shimmered on ivory skin. My cracked rib was long forgotten.

Time slid away like running water through my fingers. I did my best to keep it cupped in my hands and enjoy its taste, but it drained away all too quickly.

I flipped my lover over and impaled her. Her legs wrapped around me, her heels digging into my buttocks.

"God, yes," I said, and the feeling of going in and out of her annihilated all rational thought. The redhead's pussy was tight, warm, and slick: the holy trinity. I leaned over and kissed her, and I wrapped my arms around her. Holding her close, our lips locked, I felt the redhead buck up into me, meeting my fuck with her own.

"Slow down," I said into her mouth. I felt her lips curl into a smile.

"It's ok, you can cum in me," she whispered.

"What?"

"It's ok, I can't... oh, god. Oh, god."

She kissed me hard. Our lips smashed, my own pressed deep into my teeth, painfully. Her pussy seemed to squeeze me, and I knew I would have to take her advice. There was no holding back now. Her feet squirmed; her heels prodded my ass with soft kicks. I drove into her. She pushed into me.

"Yes, yes, yes!" she cried. We came together or as close together as a couple can. I gritted my teeth and felt my seed unleash into her. It seemed to go on for an eternity, a shooting explosion from my groin, and then it was suddenly over. I gasped for breath and rolled off the couch, plopping to the floor. My cock was still hard; covered and shiny with fluid, it trembled, smearing my stomach with wet warmth.

"Sweet Jesus," the woman said from her perch on the couch. I couldn't have agreed with the sentiment more. I closed my eyes. I took in a deep breath. I wanted to stretch out the moment while it lasted; I wanted to savor it and the sweet feeling of release.

I opened my eyes and asked, "Who are you?"

The woman's pretty face appeared over the side of the couch. Her eyes twinkled. She stretched out a welcoming hand.

"Cynthia Skye, investigative reporter."

My heart stopped. I recognized the name. Cindy Skye was the premier crime reporter at the Times, and I had just given her more than a good look at every inch of me.

I took her hand, my mouth going dry.

"Pleased to meet you."

~the end~