Noir Fiction by Amy Grech
Graphic Sex Warning
“Let’s play a game, Charlie,” Heather Moore whispered, her breath hot and quick in his ear. She kissed him roughly in her husband’s bed with no regrets. Charlie Dent kept Brad’s side warm whenever he went out of town and his wife craved carnal affection.
He held her tight and twirled her curly strawberry blonde hair in his fingers. “Sounds like fun. What do you have in mind?”
“You’ll see…” Heather reached over, opened the nightstand—her purple iPhone 12 mini rattled when she yanked the drawer open—and grabbed Brad’s shiny, steel blue .38 Snub Nose Smith & Wesson Revolver that matched her eyes his spare, tucked away for safekeeping and handed him the gun. Charlie took it without the slightest hesitation.
“Do you know how to play Russian roulette?” She ran her fingers playfully across Charlie’s hairy chest and he shivered.
“I haven’t got a clue.” He leaned over and kissed her perky breasts. “Show me. I’m eager to learn.”
“Not until you shoot your load,” Heather said, winking.
“If you insist.” He set the snub-nose revolver down on the nightstand and lay back prone on the bed.
Heather took his growing erection slowly into her mouth, swirling the head and shaft with her tongue. She cupped his balls in her hand. He grabbed her hair and tugged, urging her on. Heather felt his balls tighten when he came, sweet and warm in her mouth.
Charlie sat up, kissed her deeply and reached for the gun an unbearable heft in his hand struggled to hold it level.
She licked her lips. “We’ll take turns. You go first. Give the wheel a whirl. There are six chambers and only one bullet. I love those odds. Don’t you?”
“You bet. There’s nothing more exhilarating than the element of surprise. Wouldn’t you agree?” He gave it a twirl while she watched enthusiastically.
“Absolutely.” Heather clapped her hands. “Now, put the gun to your head and hold it steady while I pull the trigger. Don’t blink—one false move and I might be the last woman you ever see—you’d better savor the moment.”
“Anything for you, sweets.” Charlie drank Heather in while he honored her request. The cold, steel muzzle pinched his skin; he blinked when the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, sending a blast of compressed air straight to his temple. He sighed and handed back the gun. “Your turn. This is if you’re feeling brave.”
“Hell, yeah.” Heather licked her lips and gave the wheel a good spin with the tip of her manicured red nail. The second it stopped, she placed the gun to her head smack dab between her eyes for dramatic effect Charlie placed his hand on top of hers and together they grappled for dominance. The weapon discharged during the tussle catching him off guard he cursed when he realized what he’d done. When the bullet pierced Heather’s forehead and burrowed into her skull, her steel blue eyes widened, full of pain and wonder. She landed flat on her back with a soft thud. Blood gushed; a rush crimson surged onto the pristine white sheets. Swift vengeance.
Charlie gawked at Heather’s ruined face her blood and brains splattered on the bedroom wall—a murderous mosaic. The .38’s explosion echoed shrilly in his head. His hand still clutched the snub-nose revolver tightly. He screamed, tossed the smoking gun on the bed, collected his clothes, and hightailed it home.
***
Standing with his legs spread and his feet planted firmly on the smooth concrete floor of his garage, Brad Moore pressed the eerily familiar cold muzzle of his .38 Snub Nose Smith & Wesson Revolver against Charlie Dent’s forehead and grinned, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth that resembled Chiclets.
His stance, typical for a cop and expert marksman, set Charlie on edge.
“Do you know what I’ve got here, Charlie?” He cocked the gun; a nerve-wracking click echoed loudly in the small space. From the door behind him—open just a crack—a black cat wearing a bright red collar with a dented, silver bell and a tarnished name tag that spelled TROUBLE suddenly appeared and rubbed her head against Brad’s well-worn jeans, purring loudly. He launched into an uncontrollable sneezing fit that lasted a good five minutes. Brad finally caught his breath, grabbed a wad of crumpled, slightly used tissues from the left front pocket of his jeans and blew his nose with his free hand. He shoved the sopping wad back into his pocket and brushed a tuft of loose black fur off his leg. “Goddamnit, Trouble…get back in the house and stay there. You insufferable bitch.” He scooped up Heather’s cat, tossed her into the kitchen and slammed the door shut. Midnight hissed and scratched from the other side.
Charlie watched the commotion with the cat then studied the weapon and couldn’t help but think of Heather’s untimely demise. “It looks like a gun,” he said matter-of- factly, calmly, not at all the way that a man staring Death in the face ought to reply. Goose bumps appeared on his smooth, tan skin, revealing his fragile state of mind. He fought a wave of nausea, hot and vile, aggravated by the strong stench of gun oil—a nauseating tang of gasoline-soaked bananas that stung his nostrils.
Brad nodded; a maniacal grin plastered on his face. “It’s that and so much more.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows, biding his time. “Could you be more specific and why are you pointing it at me?” He shifted, trying to get comfortable in a rickety, wooden chair, a bygone keepsake from happier times. Coarse ropes pinched the tender flesh of his ankles and wrists, making them throb dully. His waist had been tied to the back of the chair.
Brad laughed long and loud. “You know exactly why. Don’t play dumb with me.”
He sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t got a clue.”
A shot in the dark.
“Tell me…have you seen Heather recently?” Brad pulled the gun away long enough to polish it with his expensive button-down shirt while Charlie watched.
Charlie rolled his hazel eyes. He took a deep breath and said, “This is a small town—you never know who you might run into.”
“Wrong answer.” Brad jammed the gun against his opponent’s forehead; sweat ran down Charlie’s face in sticky torrents as he shrieked.
“Go ahead and scream. No one can hear you except me. I had my garage soundproofed so we won’t hear Jacob and his band when they jam. The neighbors tell me my son and his crew really know how to rock. Guess I’ll have to take their word for it—I never hear a peep.”
Charlie immediately stopped screaming.
“See this wheel? Round and round she goes; where she stops, nobody knows.” Brad gave it a spin; it clicked loudly and reeled before coming to a halt. “Fate can be a harsh mistress…”
He stared at the shiny, steel blue revolver, fascinated by its finality.
“Six chambers, one bullet. Looks like the odds are in your favor.” Brad held the sleek gun in his open palm for his captive audience to inspect from afar, which he reluctantly did. “The bullet’s in there, all right, but the question is where?”
Charlie studied the cold concrete beneath his feet, searching for a way out of his perilous predicament. Nothing could get him out of this bind. Unless…he glanced up at the ceiling and spied the red emergency cord—dangling like a ripcord—Charlie could use it to open the garage door manually from the inside—that is, if he can loosen the ties that bind him before his captor noticed.
Point-blank, Brad posed a question: “Did you get off playing with my gun, Charlie?” He admired his weapon of choice, compact yet potent enough to get the job done.
“We both know I shot my load,” Charlie said with a shrug.
“It’s a real kick¾better than sex, get some action whenever you want¾absolute power in the palm of your hand.” Brad tightened his grip; the gun wavered. “Heather’s dead. Your prints were all over the gun, hers too. What the fuck, Charlie?!”
“I’m really sorry.” He started at his feet, admonished. “It was just an innocent game—Heather’s idea. I swear¾I just played along.”
“My iPhone proves otherwise.” Brad paced back and forth.
“What in the world are you talking about?” Charlie rocked from side to side in the hot seat and felt his restraints give under the strain.
“Are you a gambling man, Charlie?”
“It’s not my thing—such a nasty habit. The stakes are too high, and I hate to lose.”
Brad laughed again, louder this time, not noticing his mark’s agitated movements. “Then why did you sleep with my wife? Did you feel lucky, willing to risk it all for a good fuck?”
“What? I—” He stopped moving and sat bolt upright.
“Don’t be shy. Clearly you weren’t with Heather.” He paused and let the facts sink in. “Now that I have your undivided attention…you know I’m a Web Programmer, right? It was pretty easy for me to install FlexiSPY on my wife’s phone that enabled me to activate the camera anytime to keep track of Heather’s whereabouts. I saw the whole thing play out on my iPhone from my I.T. conference in Vegas yesterday.”
“I call bullshit—you’re bluffing,” Charlie countered, with his best poker face.
“I caught you red-handed.” Brad pulled a Pacific Blue iPhone 12 Pro from the back pocket of his jeans, opens it with Face ID, and launches the monitoring app seamlessly. “See for yourself.”
Wary, his adversary leaned forward for a closer look and scrutinized the impossibly shiny immaculate screen. As Charlie watched, his eyes teared, blurring his vision. He struggled to focus on damning footage his rendezvous, with Heather as it played out, ending abruptly with a bang! “I’m an impulsive guy. I acted on a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time: Love.”
“Wrong, I think you mean lust¾there’s a big difference. You were definitely thinking with the wrong head when you bedded Heather, my friend.” He pointed the gun at Charlie’s crotch and pocketed his phone. He expected Brad to pull the trigger, depriving him of his manhood with a single blow; Brad couldn’t, no, wouldn’t do that¾he wanted to make Charlie squirm. “Heather may have loved you in college, but her tastes are refined now. Why do you think she married me?”
“Because you’re a sure bet, safe and secure.”
Brad glared at Charlie. “That’s cold.”
“It’s true,” Charlie said matter-of-factly. “Heather craved excitement and I knew how to pique her interest.”
Brad balled his free hand into a fist and raised the gun level with Charlie’s face. “You weren’t the first guy I caught in bed with Heather. My wife had a wandering eye, you see. I turned a blind eye to her previous transgressions, but I know you—we go way back—that changes everything.”
Charlie stared at Brad, grappling with harsh reality.
“Round and round, she goes. Where she stops, nobody knows!” Brad spun the .38’s cylinder. “Care to guess where the bullet is?”
“I’d rather not, but something tells me I don’t have a choice.” Charlie’s eyes locked on the proverbial wheel until it stopped.
The gun loomed inches from his face, compact and menacing. “You’re not a coward, are you, Charlie?”
“N-n-n-o-o-o.” He blinked, swallowed hard.
“Funny, you don’t sound too sure of yourself, and you look terrified.” Brad tossed the gun rapidly between his right hand and his left, like a live grenade. “Are you afraid to die?”
“Isn’t everybody?” Charlie’s eyes darted wildly around the remarkably tidy garage, finally setting on Brad.
He shrugged and let the .38 rest in the palm of his left hand. “I suppose, but I’m not the one staring down the barrel of a gun.”
“Let’s forget I fucked Heather, okay? Pretend it never happened. Just between you and me…for old times’ sake,” Charlie pleaded, feigning sincerity.
“Sorry, Charlie. Your half-hearted apology can’t bring Heather back. What’s done is done.” Brad spun the cylinder once more for good measure. “It’s time to pay. I mean play.”
Charlie shifted; the rope frayed at his core first then spiraled downward from his arms to his legs.
Brad fondled the revolver’s wheel, too preoccupied to notice Charlie’s regained mobility. “Roulette is the name of the game. A wheel is spun. The players put their chips down on a number. If the ball lands in the slot that contains their number, they claim the jackpot; if it doesn’t, they lose everything. It’s all or nothing—there’s no middle ground. Understand?”
“Let the chips fall where they may.” Charlie shook uncontrollably.
Brad tightened his grip on the gun until his knuckles turned white. “This isn’t Vegas. Your life is on the line; you can’t afford to lose. It’s time to try your luck, Charlie. All bets are off.” This time, he shoved the revolver’s cold muzzle against Charlie’s clammy forehead and caressed the trigger lovingly with his finger. “Is Lady Luck on your side? Only one way to know for sure.”
“Here’s hoping.” Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, steeled himself for the inevitable. In his mind appeared an image: Heather, spread eagle, naked across the bed—a pinpoint precision bullet hole smack-dab between her wide, unblinking eyes.
Brad pulled the trigger. The weapon kicked, and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber—a hallow slap—sending a blast of compressed air straight to his captive’s temple.
Charlie flinched; his eyes snapped open. “Looks like I’m luckier than I thought,” he muttered, his voice icy calm, utterly devoid of emotion.
“Too bad Heather isn’t here to see this. I think she would have enjoyed the show! Don’t you?” Brad twirled the gun between his fingers like a seasoned outlaw.
Charlie licked his parched lips. “It’s hard to say.”
“Are you telling me you don’t know what my wife likes even though you fucked her?” He folded his arms.
“That’s right.” His voice cracked under the strain.
Brad scratched his head. “Right about what? That you slept with my wife or that you don’t know how to please her?
“Both, I suppose,” Charlie leered at him. “Don’t you want to give it a whirl? That way we’ve both got a fair shot.”
“No fucking way.” Ever the perfectionist, Brad wiped a smudge off the gun’s barrel with his shirt. “How about you take a turn for each time you slept with Heather?”
“There aren’t enough bullets for that,” he smirked.
“Cocky motherfucker. That’s exactly how this is going to play out. Two down, four to go,” Brad said. He pointed the .38 at his captor and…sneezed uncontrollably. Without giving it much thought, his hands flew up to cover his nose, in a futile attempt to quash the assault on his sinuses. The snub-nose revolver fell, bounced off Charlie’s foot; the trigger—hit at just the right angle discharged—the lone round made a beeline for Brad’s forehead. His gray, bloodshot eyes widened. A pinpoint precision hole pooling crimson formed between them. He hit the cold concrete in a wet splat.
Charlie leapt up from the chair—the ties that bound him fell away like a house of cards. “What are the odds?” he mused. He stepped over Brad’s wrecked body, reached for the red emergency cord, and gave it a good yank, it disengaged with an abrupt bang! Charlie flinched, saw the spent .38 and relaxed. He walked over to the white, aluminum garage door speckled red and lifted the handle at the base. It groaned on its track. Charlie stepped outside into the blinding sunlight and hightailed it home…again.
Bio: Amy Grech has sold over 100 stories to various anthologies and magazines including: A New York State of Fright, Apex Magazine, Even in the Grave, Gorefest, Hell’s Heart, Hell’s Highway, Hell’s Mall, Microverses, Punk Noir Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, Tales from the Canyons of the Damned, Yellow Mama, and many others. Alien Buddha Press published her poetry chapbook, A Shadow of Your Former Self.
She is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association and the International Thriller Writers who lives in Forest Hills, Queens. She can be found at https://twitter.com/amy_grechX, or at her website, HERE.
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